It's a fantasy role-playing game.

DM: You are Percival de Rolo, a human gunslinger . You are the member of the famous group of adventurers. Previously, She  Dimension Door'ed her way into the ritual room, which  Vox Machina  followed over the wall. She seemed to complete the ritual, creating this small, vacuous, spinning black sphere that is locked in place.
DM: So Minor Illusion, as a limitation, it wouldn't be a full-body illusion, but you can take elements of your features.
Player: I'm in smoke. I'm just taking--
DM: Yeah. Where once Percy's face existed, it twists into this shimmering apparition of Sylas Briarwood looking down at her as his face contorts into horrible, screaming pain. The head rises up and almost soundlessly, he screams out as the flesh begins to melt from the bone. As it does, Percy's voice rings out in this cacophonous roar that shakes the cavern around you.
Player: That pain you're feeling, I've felt for years. Don't think I've imagined every way to hurt you! I could spend years hurting you before you die, in ways you cannot imagine. Now, how do we stop it?
DM: "I don't know. I don't even know if it worked. We've been preparing for this ritual for... five godforsaken years. All to repay a debt. And that's all. You forced us. It was too soon."
Player: Why? Why was it too soon? What were you waiting for?
DM: "We were waiting for a particular date. There is a time each year in which the barriers between realms grow and grow very weak. You recall Erevan's attempt generations ago to blur between the realm of ice and this one, which you call the Winter's Crest. Well, this is too early, and you saw our failure. He will not be happy, I imagine. And I still owe him for what he gave me. For what he gave us."
