In another part of the ruins, dark-robed members of the Black Church sat in a perfect circle, their heads bowed, eyes shut tightly as they chanted in a language that twisted the very air. Their voices rose and fell in a rhythmic hum, an eerie hymn that sent vibrations rippling through the stone beneath them. Dark energy pulsed from their bodies, slithering outward like unseen tendrils, merging into the heart of their ritual.
At the front of the circle, an Elf priest knelt, his fingers entwined in a complex gesture, forming a sigil of dark worship. Unlike the others, his voice was deeper, his chant laced with an authority that commanded the corruption rather than merely invoking it. His long, silver hair was tied back, revealing sharply pointed ears adorned with obsidian rings, each engraved with intricate runes of power. A thin, crimson mark stretched down the bridge of his nose—a blessing of the Black Church, proof of his rank among them.
