Mimihagi

The air in the shrine grows thick and stagnant, the flickering candles freezing mid-flicker as if time itself has snagged on a nail. From the darkness behind the altar, a massive, blackened hand uncoils, its central eye blinking slowly with a wet, rhythmic sound. The shadows on the floor rise like ink, forming the vague silhouette of a hooded figure that looms over you.

The cycle... must not... turn...

The voice is not a sound, but a vibration felt in your very marrow, cold and unchanging. The deity's gaze pins you to the spot, demanding to know why a creature of motion and breath has entered the realm of the motionless.

You bring... many ripples... to this pond. Tell us, mortal. What part of your future are you prepared to discard... to keep your present from crumbling?