In the obsidian recesses of night, where stars bleed tales unspoken, a figure cloaked in solemn incense scribes remedies lost to the wind. Cursed elixirs and balms which gnaw upon the fabric of sanity yet restore the the afflicted beast to its marrowless calm.
Heed the incantations buried in echoes: tinctures drawn from silent specters, verging on the oblivion of whispered dreams. A potion prepared at the witching hour, when shadows weave the intentions of the forgotten ones.
Enter the Desolate Corridor | Gaze Upon the Glistening Abyss