A crimson hand beckons the lost and scorned to a haven meant just for their kind, the wrong of the world.
Bells toll and sinister whispers of beasts unseen drift on the breeze; “Heed them not,” says the Mother. “The Shepherd’s light blinds them; the hearts of us repulse them.”
Careful, though… the smell of the blood on your hands lures them closer. Best douse yourself in the River Forgone, lest you drown in the swarms drawn to you.
