1st of November, 1912. Somewhere in Northern Ireland.

„Change is upon us, my Brothers and Sisters!” said the slender, old man with a mustache with a beard that would be popular in Germany or the Austro-Hungarian lands, already grayed, his hair already withered to nothingness, wearing an elegant suit with a silken dark robe hanging over his shoulders, clearly appearing to be a member of high society, looking no more than 60 years old, yet in reality he lived twice as much, standing behind an old wooden podium on an old wooden platform in a dimly lit with candles, underground cave section under an old temple in Northern Ireland surrounded by men and women of various ages, wearing similar clothes with the same dark robe over it with a simple mark of an empty circle etched into the back of it.

[[Change is upon us!]] As the Old Man finishes his chant, the others speak up in a monotone unison, echoing through the long chamber, a young looking woman, naked and laying on a sinister looking old altar, her eyes staring at the ceiling of the dolomites without a light in them, her face motionless and empty, her long wavy and once beautiful, now withered long raven black hair flowing under her on the greyish stone altar, her skin almost albino white, appearing almost corpse like, also reciting the first part of the chant.

„We have been in hiding for too long. Shackled by the laws of our kin, anchored by an unfounded fear of the weak. Hear me once more! Change is upon us!” the Old Man follows up, this time with a mix of anger and sadness in his voice, remembering his past, their past.

[[Change is upon us!]] Once more, the others and the pale woman tied to the altar chant in unison when the old man stops for a moment.

„But no more! We all here because of him, because of the dreams of the future he showed us! Change is upon us!” the Old Man continues, no more sadness or anger in his voice, displaced by hope and gladness.

[[Change is upon us!]] The group chant once more.

“His gifts have filled us with a lost affinity, his dreams have filled us with hope, and his Messiah, the Promised One will fill us with freedom! Change is upon us!” the Old Man continues, joy filling his creaky, deep voice, tears starting to appear in his clear blue eyes previously filled with tiredness and desolation.

[[Change is upon us!]] The group recites in unison once again.

“But, as the laws of our world, and the laws of magic dictate, nothing is free, one more sacrifice, and change will be upon us, and our world!” the Old Man speaks, almost fervently, his deep creaky voice getting ever so louder, filled with hope and joy.

[[Change is upon us!]] The group recites, their voices also slowly turning from monotone to being filled with hope and joy.

„Hear me, I offer what is most precious to me, my daughter Zofia for a better world for us! CHANGE IS UPON US MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS!” the Old Man turns and almost screams the end, with a madness and joy filled tone and look on his weary old face, pointing back to her daughter laying motionless on the altar, appearing to be exiting his thirties, yet she just barely stepped in them.

[[CHANGE IS UPON US!]] The crowd and Zofia all scream in unison, loosing their calmness as their bodies and spirit is filled with joy, hope, and zeal. The Old Man pulls out from the breast part of his suit a dagger with a long sharp blade, an eyeless skull grinning with one letter of a lost language older than the fall of the Tower, the same letter that is drawn on the pale forehead of Zofia, extending into a hilt resembling a column of bones fused together, with a dark orb for a pommel resembling the mark on the back of their robes.

He unsheathes it and grips the hilt with both of his frail hands, with a newfound strength, and plunges the blade into his daughter's belly, slicing it open. When he lifts the blade back up, no blood comes through the opening, not even dripping from the blade. In the wound itself, instead of bones, intestines, and meat staring back at the Old Man, there is only a dark emptiness, the emptiness of the void predating all creation, Zofia still appearing to be alive and motionless.

Then her eyes start turning black, dark veins growing on her pale skin, her dry pale pinkish lips opening wide and a guttural scream of hundreds of different voices of all age and gender, echoes through the chamber, blowing the candles out. Her open belly starts expanding slowly and the void in it starts escaping her body, the chamber starts darkening even more and the group, the cult’s hope is replaced with a sense of dread mixed with a calmness people feel when they realize their imminent end, the Old Man stepping back a few steps almost falling of the wooden platform.

Their eyes turn dark, and twelve extra pupils appear in them matching the number of them, and they all start to walk towards Zofia, climbing onto the platform, and the Old Man, the closest to Zofia, kneels down and embraces her in a hug then the two of them start melding together, their skin and flesh melding together, their bones creaking, breaking and reconstructing, the others reaching them slowly one by one and embrace the weird fusion of a mass of flesh, bones, and soul.

A day later, a boy not more than ten with raven black hair and clear deep blue eyes clutching and holding a dark silken robe around his frail body walks out of the ruined doorway of the abandoned church, welcomed by the rising sun. He stops for a second and opens his mouth starting to repeat various random words, first in the deep creaky voice of the Old Man, then with the soft, kind voice of Zofia, followed by a high male voice, a deep, cranky female voice until he manages to find the voice of a child, satisfaction appearing on his innocent looking face, starting to walk the path forwards the rising sun.