The cultists crowd in as you return, their whispers curling around you like smoke. The one who first sent you north steps forward again, his hands hidden deep in his sleeves. The curse within you hums at his presence, as if it recognizes him as kin.
“You have done well,” he says, voice hushed yet reverent. “But if you are truly to walk the path of our god, you must prove yourself against the keepers of forbidden relics. There is a mansion, sunken deep in the southern swamps. Within its halls festers a master of night and shadow—he keeps for himself a relic of our lord’s hunger, a Doom Token. It drips with the essence of eternity… and it is wasted in his hands.”
The cultist tilts his head, his grin stretching unnaturally wide.
“Steal it. Claim it as our god’s due. Or perish in the attempt. Either way, your soul will be closer to the truth.”
Behind him, the cult resumes their droning chant, the word doom threaded again and again like a heartbeat.
[Make your way to a swamp to continue…]