Disciples are the raw clay of divinity, souls who have shed their former lives to stand at the threshold of the sacred or the profane. They are found wherever faith takes root, from the guttering candlelight of subterranean catacombs to the wind-swept cloisters of the highest peaks. Possessing no miracles of their own, they offer labor and silence in exchange for a glimpse of the sublime. They are the empty vessels of the world, aching to be filled by a power far greater than themselves. In the presence of their masters, disciples are shadows of obedience. They perform the menial rites that sustain a sanctum, whether scrubbing the blood of sacrifice from stone altars or transcribing scrolls of forbidden liturgy. This quiet devotion masks a volatile fervor; a disciple does not fear death, believing their service is merely the gestation for a glorious rebirth. To them, the material world is but a waiting room for a promised, terrifying transcendence. Adventurers may encounter a lone disciple clutching a locked brass reliquary, claiming to follow a divine whisper toward a "convergence" that will reshape the realm. Such a pilgrim is often the first sign that an ancient, hungry power has begun to stir, using the humble and the hollowed-out to prepare the way for its return.