In a realm where the moon bleeds crimson and shadows breathe with malicious intent, the madman proclaims his secrets:
"The hue of the raven's wing is but a mask, a guise to hide the colors of despair."
Amongst the twisted trees of the Obsidian Grove, where whispers crack the very fabric of night, a voice echoes:
"Fear not the light, for it is but a trickster, dancing in the mist, leading astray."
Echoes of laughter swirl around crumbling ruins, under the gaze of an indifferent moon:
"Shadows are friends, they speak truths, hidden by daylight, veiled in lunacy."
The walls of the ancient castle, adorned with ivy and secrets, murmur the words of the deranged:
"Whence the storm comes, colors shall weep, and the false hues shall reveal their tears."