Ritual Spirit
THE LEGEND
Deep within an ancient forest, hooded cultists stand in a tight circle around a roaring fire. Orange light licks over their shrouded forms as bones are burnt and skulls crack at the centre of the pit; sacrifices necessary to fuel the ritual. United under the blood moon, they chant and raise their stained hands to the darkened sky.
The high priest pours a vial containing a potent draught into the raging flames. A serpentine hiss is released as the scorching flames ignite the offering, enveloping the air in an intoxicating blend of smoke and forbidden spices.
In solemn unison, the cultists recite archaic chants from a forsaken, leather-bound text. The aromatic fog grows denser, darker, as slumbering spirits stir within the forest. The tower of bones within the pit collapses, birthing a column of fire that pierces the oppressive clouds above. From the smouldering remains of the sacrificed, the demon emerges.
The chanting dies as its infernal eyes roam over the cultists. Many fall to their knees in awe, others are frozen in terror, tears of realisation rolling down their flushed cheeks.
The demon raises his shadowed head, inhaling the hazy air before suddenly seizing possession of the high priest, contorting his limbs and consuming his corrupt soul.
The demon revels in the physical realm, fueled by thirst for long-awaited revenge. Chained for millennia by sacred wards; now free to unleash its wrath upon the world. The enslaved body of the high priest slowly turns to face the remaining cultists. Their screams echo through the trees.
To this day, on a night of the blood moon, the lingering smokey scent of the ritual draught haunts the ancient forest; to be taken as a warning to flee from the cursed land, or become another pawn in the demon’s game.
