Echoes of the Abyss

In the hushed tones of the evening fog, pursue the third turn on the path where moonlit shadows whisper promises in a language known only to time itself. Turn thrice, then lean against the bark of the weeping elm and listen. The air shall part like forgotten dreams revealing what should remain unseen.

The elders speak in hushed whispers about a place on the forgotten road, just beyond the age-old tavern that fell long before its tiles cracked under footsteps untold. Tread lightly, for the cobblestones beneath hold memories of a thousand restless souls.

Among the whispers, you’ll find ink upon dry parchment, a trap set not for the unwary but for the aware. Do not seek the key, for it dissolves in the palm, a phantom of fleeting warmth.

Seek the Fallacy
Adjust to None
The Guardian Always Knows