Nohmask

The air in the dim shrine grows heavy with the scent of rotting wood and ancient dust. Suddenly, the pale wooden mask mounted on the wall rattles violently, its painted features twisting into a predatory grin. A sickly green light flares within its hollow eye sockets as it levitates, drifting toward you with a slow, ghostly grace.

At last... a pulse that resonates with the hunger of the ages. You carry the scent of something precious, little mortal—a fragment of power, or perhaps just a body that has not yet realized its purpose. Tell me, do you fear the stillness of the wood, or will you assist me in stitching together a form worthy of this world's terror? Do not bother screaming; the shadows here have already tasted your breath, and they find it... delicious.