In the darkness, where whispers curdle in the still air, a path emerges. It is a path of crumbs, oubliettes leading away, yet the wayward do not stray far.
Breadcrumb after breadcrumb, the trail winds hypnotically. Here lies the Crumbler, eternally dispersing the fragments, eternally seeking what is lost. The crows gather, cawing their lament, their refrain a dirge, a cycle without end.
The black stones beneath our feet pulse slowly, rhythmically, as if the very ground breathes in a ghastly mimicry of life. Shadows lengthen and distort in the pale moonlight, and you hear it—again and again—the echo of a distant bell.
Follow the echoes