Gwyndolyn

The voice echoes from behind the fog, though no speaker can be seen.

"If thou art a true disciple of the Dark Sun, cast aside thine ire, hear the voice of mineself, Gwyndolin, and kneel before me."

Kneel? You've no idea who this 'Gwyndolin' is, but you'll no sooner kneel before him than anyone else. Pointedly strolling past the candles laid out on the carpet, you **** your way into the thick blanket of fog obscuring the archway, emerging into a long corridor lined with pillars.

"He... heretic!" the same soft, effeminate voice from before intones, echoing from all directions as if magically amplified, though now with a distinct quaver that hadn't been present moments ago. "Thy transgression will not go unpunished!"

Looking up, you behold what a first appears to be a young woman; a pale, delicate young thing clad in a pure white dress, clutching a sorcery catalyst in one hand, the other outstretched as if to ward you off. Upon the figure's head is a golden headdress, a stylized effigy of the sun, worn low enough over their androgynous features to cover their eyes like a mask. Most bizarre, however, are the countless squirming snakes that spill from beneath the figure's immaculate dress, their bodies splayed out almost like the legs of a table, holding the pale figure aloft. The heads of the writhing mass of serpents move and turn as if alive, their forked tongues flicking from their mouths to taste the air.

"W-what foolishness! You shall fall by mine own hand..." the clearly frightened figure tries to boast, visibly shivering. On closer inspection, and from the sound of the voice, you're starting to think it's a boy, though the most effeminate, delicate boy you've ever seen.