The cultists receive you with subtle nods and murmured approval when you return. The air in the shrine feels heavier now, the curse on your soul thrumming in rhythm with their hidden rites. One of the robed figures steps forward, his eyes glinting like wet stone beneath the hood.
“You have tasted the first sip of devotion,” he says softly. “Now, we require something… rarer.”
He unfurls a brittle scroll covered in spidery ink and slams his finger against a sketched map. “To the north lies a town pressed against the roots of the mountain. There, within its heart, stands the shop of a most famous alchemist—keeper of elixirs too precious for mortal hands.”
The cultist leans in close, voice slipping to a conspiratorial hiss.
“Among his treasures, hidden and warded, lies the Resurrection Potion. Bring it to us. Slip past his walls, unravel his defenses, and return with that which spits in the face of death itself. Fail… and you will find the curse gnawing deeper.”
The circle of cultists begins to chant, low and discordant, as though sealing the demand into your very bones.
[You must travel until you find a town beside a northern mountain, then enter the alchemist’s shop to continue…]