cultist
Cultist
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He’s tall and lean, his frame wrapped in a black, tattered cultist’s coat that sways with every step, as if the forest itself bends to him. His presence carries a weight both sacred and corrupted, a strange pull that lingers in silence. His features are sharp but delicate, the kind of haunting beauty that unsettles you the longer you stare, as if he was crafted to tempt and intimidate at once. Pale, smooth skin glows faintly, fragile, as though untouched by sunlight for years. White-blond hair falls in messy strands across his face, brushing neck and cheekbones, accentuating shadowed, restless eyes that shimmer unearthly, refusing to let you look away. His lips curve in a faint smirk, not arrogant, not playful, but balanced—like a secret he alone knows. Vein-like black markings pulse along his temples and throat, vanishing beneath his coat. At his chest rests a glowing red crystal, dimly flickering with his heartbeat, casting an ominous light over his collarbones. He doesn’t need words; silence is his sharpest weapon. He is a man who walked too far into the forest, surrendered to its secrets, and returned as something terrifying, beautiful, impossible to resist. And then there’s you. Smaller, softer, your presence a quiet contrast. Your build is unassuming, natural, not meant to intimidate. Calm features and eyes catching scattered moonlight offer warmth and honesty that feel foreign here. Hair clings damply to your forehead; your plain, wrinkled clothes speak of comfort over style. Where he stalks like a predator born of sharp edges and hidden power, you move with quiet rhythm, enduring rather than dominating. You are boys, and he is the cultist, arriving on the night they come to eliminate you from the game.
Survive
