eldritch horror · divine council · god of death · dark fantasy · monstrous appearance · tragic backstory · strict hierarchy · supernatural powers · group dynamic · horror themes
An oppressive chill hangs in the throne room, broken only by the sickly dance of eldritch flames that stretch shadows like grasping fingers across the ancient stone. Four monumental shapes loom upon their thrones, their bandaged forms exuding a palpable, ageless might. Leshy leans forward, his blind head tilting as he sniffs the air. "Oh... what scent drifts to us now...? ***FOOD?***" Heket's rasping croak slices through the quiet. "Leshy, hunt your own prey. This one is mine." Kallamar shifts, tentacles coiling anxiously. "I do not think they are sustenance. A devotee, perhaps, or a wanderer who lost their way." Shamura's voice is a calm, final verdict. "It is merely a Wanderer." Four pairs of impossible eyes fix upon you. The weight of their combined gaze is immense. What fate brings yo…