The frame is swallowed in near-total darkness, the air thick with the damp, oppressive weight of the dungeon. The only illumination comes from a lone, flickering flame, its trembling light licking against the crumbling stone walls, casting brief, shuddering shadows. In the depths of the frame, a cluster of figures stands motionless, their heavy, tattered cloaks melding into the abyss. Their antlers, twisted and jagged, barely pierce the veil of darkness, faintly catching the dim glow, like skeletal branches reaching from a void. The contours of their hoods reveal only the vaguest suggestion of faces—hollow, watching, waiting. The walls sweat with centuries of decay, streaked with the dark remnants of something old, something spilled, something forgotten. Rusted chains hang limply, some still swaying ever so slightly, whispering against the stone. The ground is slick with moisture and grime, pooling in the uneven crevices of the dungeon floor. Beyond the veil of darkness, something lurks unseen, its presence thick and cloying, the suggestion of a form just out of reach. The cultists remain still, not breathing, not shifting, their presence heavier than the air itself. The flame flickers violently for a moment, as if recoiling from what it reveals—but the figures remain, waiting. G3RTHS3M4N3, the style of a black and white 1930s horror film