A lone figure darts through Malkiz, clutching a small bag of essentials and trying to make it home. Shadows lumber in their peripherals, but the mutants are too far away and too aimless to pay any mind to the runner. With a gasp of fresh air, the runner turns a corner, and suddenly stops despite their duty to themself. A look of desperation briefly crosses their face, quickly replaced by resignation.
A dull chime rings out. (Something without eyes several streets away turns to investigate the noise.) Incense begins to fill the street, and several more dull, lifeless chimes ring out (shuffling fills the streets behind) as censers on metal sticks are raised and pointed towards the runner. Their heart races, eyes unable to focus on the assailants through the increasing smoke - a barrage of feathers, white capes, blood and ink, bodies all in shadow behind the dark cultish imagery.
Dropping their bag of groceries as if it was an offering, the runner begins to back out of the street - their own home street, they'll figure that out later - only to press up against something cold and impossible as they exit. Glancing up, they see an infinity of stars and bones compressed inside a wall of flesh. Glancing up, they see a star-pronged hand reaching for them. Glancing up, they see feathers, ink, and blood, and a wing's caress before darkness takes them deep into a whirlwind of stars and bones.