Bony hands grabbed Marie and hoisted her aloft as if she was some sort of prize. They carried her through the streets and though it was day, no one raised a hand against them. People had learned to avert their eyes rather than risk getting involved.

Marie screamed and struggled until she was bruised all over. She was sure they were all men by their strength and the callous way they handled her. They wore sinister, black robes that gave them the look of lepers or priests, but for one thing- a curious, tiny silver whistle tied to their wrists.

Her captors brought her to an unfamiliar temple. There, a yellow, silken veil was wrapped around her face. It smelled musty like desert tombs and ancient blasphemies, and of a foreign chemical that she couldn’t identify. Spinning, she fell into darkness.

The eyes that opened were no longer Marie’s but Misudrra’s, horrible, eldritch Misudrra, the High Priestess. She stood and stretched.

It was time to prepare the signs that heralded the coming of her terrible King.