Thousands of miles away, an elderly man trudges through ice and snow. The wind whips his white hair and thin cloak wildly. His frail hands hold a huge, moldering tome. He loving caresses the decorative binding before opening it slowly. On a page opposite a picture of a flayed man is a map, festooned with arcane symbols.
“Yes… we are close. Soon we will wake her. This time it will be done right. Nothing can corrupt men of pure hearts.”
Behind the old man, a wild gleam in tortured face, are dozens of darkly cowled figures standing silently. Unseen by the elderly man, a tentacle flicks out from where on face is hidden by hooded shadow.