Draven pressed forward, his steps silent amidst the oppressive stillness of the forest. Above, ominous clouds gathered, heralding the impending storm. The sky roared with thunder, as if echoing the turmoil within Draven's heart. As rain cascaded from the heavens, its relentless downpour soaked his black attire, but he paid no mind to the discomfort. Guided by the trail left by his crashed ship, he moved with purpose through the dense foliage. And then, like specters emerging from the shadows, figures cloaked in dark brown robes materialized before him. Their eerie mannequin masks concealed their faces, giving them an otherworldly presence that would terrify most people.
Margoth's sinister laughter filled the air, his appetite for souls evident in his words. "What a glorious day it is for feasting upon souls," he gleefully remarked.
"Quiet," Draven hushed Margoth, his voice laced with caution.
