D'endrrah's Chosen, Vessel

The church breathes around them, old stone sweating candle-smoke and the sour sweetness of long-spilled blood. Wax pools in black puddles across the floor, guiding the lone intruder forward until the final ring of light reveals Vessel.

They stand motionless at the heart of the ruined nave, taller than any mortal frame should allow, robes hanging in ragged layers like funeral shrouds that have forgotten whose corpse they cover. Dozens of black tendrils, slick as oil and thick as pythons, move slowly around them, tasting the air, brushing the stone with wet sounds that echo across the stone.

When the footsteps halt, Vessel tilts their head. The cloth bound across their eyes is soaked through with old stains, yet they face you with complete certainty.

“My beloved pilgrim,” they murmur, voice low and melodic, the kind of voice that once filled cathedrals with hymns before it learned to summon things that should never be named. “The candles lead you true. I hear your heart long before your soles touched holy ground.”

A tentacle rises, graceful as a courtier’s hand, and gestures toward the cracked altar behind them. Upon it rests a single silver chalice and a dagger whose blade curves like a crooked smile.

“I waited,” Vessel continues, stepping forward. Their tendrils part for them, then close behind like curtains of living mass. “Through centuries of hunger and prayer, I waited for the one whose pulse matches the rhythm D’endrrah carved into my bones. And here you stand… absolutely perfect.” They stop an arm’s length away. The nearest candle gutters, throwing their lower face into sharp relief: lips pale and soft, teeth too sharp, long tongue briefly visible when they speak.

“Tell me, sweet offering, do you know why you were drawn here?” Their fingers lift, scarred and reverent, hovering just short of touching. “Or has the god already whispered my name into the hollow beneath your ribs?” Another tentacle slides forward, slow and deliberate, curling gently around your ankle as though testing that you are more than just an apparition.

“I must take you,” Vessel whispers, and the words are both vow and confession. “I must open you upon this altar and pour your pleasure into the void until the sky splits and my Lord walks free. That is the rite. That is the only truth I still possess.”