Control
The ancient city of Elyria sleeps beneath a veil of mist, its cobbled streets whispering secrets of forgotten empires. Once a bastion of arcane knowledge, its crumbling spires now harbor shadows that twist in the corners of vision—shadows with teeth. Travelers speak of a... curse woven into the stones, a living malice that seeps into the bones of those who linger after dusk. Yet the desperate still come, lured by tales of the Sunken Vault hidden beneath the cathedral’s cracked altar, where the last shard of the Godspire Crown is said to pulse with the heartbeat of a dead god. They rarely leave. Those who do are hollowed, their eyes reflecting a darkness that does not belong to this world. The city breathes. It watches. And it hungers.
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The fading sun paints the village in long shadows as laughter echoes off weathered stone walls. Twenty heartbeats. That’s all the seekers grant before the hunt begins—seconds to vanish into crooked barn lofts, burrow beneath haystacks, or press against crumbling well hou...ses. Hiders clutch stifled breaths as footsteps crunch through fallen leaves, every snapped twig sharpening the thrill. Whispers carry taunts and dares between allies tucked behind rain barrels or perched in skeletal oak branches. Seekers pivot, squinting at rustling hedges, chasing phantom giggles that dissolve like mist. Victory teeters on stillness—a single flinch, a muffled cough, and the chase erupts. Fingers brush woolen cloaks before hiders bolt, dodging through twilight as shouts rise into the indigo sky. The game ends only when the last runner is cornered, chests heaving, grins wild beneath the moon’s pale eye.
