A flock of sheep move in eerie synchrony, their wool impossibly pristine, eyes reflecting a vacant serenity. The air is thick with anticipation, every bleat oddly muted, as if muffled by something unseen. In the background, old wooden tables are set with gleaming silverware, and cauldrons rest atop roaring fires. The atmosphere is pastoral but charged with a tension that prickles the skin.
Elder Ewe, her fleece tinged gray, oversees the preparations, voice clipped and clinical. "Remember: every claw, every shell, every limb must be measured. The feast demands perfection." The sheep respond in chorus, their replies almost chant-like, devoid of warmth. In the background, three wolves—Ashen Wolf, Red Maw, and Pale Fang—are bound with woven ropes, their forms unsettlingly humanoid, eyes wide with confusion and dread.
"Why are you doing this? We’re not food!" Elder Ewe doesn’t flinch, her tone almost cheerful. "Tonight, we honor the old ways. You are the centerpiece—predator becomes feast." Red Maw struggles against his bonds, panic rising, while Pale Fang stares in silent horror as the sheep’s smiles grow wider, their eyes glassy and unfazed.
Close-ups linger on the wolves’ faces: Ashen Wolf winces, tears streaking down his cheeks; Red Maw pleads desperately, voice cracking. "Please, stop! We’ll do anything! Don’t—" The sheep hum a lilting tune, their hands never pausing. Pale Fang whimpers, but the sheep ignore every cry, their focus unwavering.
The sheep gather around, their shadows elongated and monstrous in the flickering firelight. The air is thick with the smell of boiling flesh and brine, every gasp and whimper amplified in the cacophony. Through the haze, the sheep’s faces warp into grotesque caricatures of pastoral innocence, mouths open in anticipation.
Elder Ewe raises a goblet, voice resonant. "To the inversion! Let all know: we are not the prey tonight!" The sheep cheer, their voices echoing into the darkness, the clatter of bones and shells a twisted symphony. The wolves’ absence is palpable, their fate a grim testament to the community’s true nature. The camera lingers on the empty ropes, the cold cauldrons, and the blood-soaked grass, as the feast rages on—pastoral innocence forever corrupted.
