Whispers of the Ancients bore forth the warning:
"Bid the uncertain kneel at the gate of twilight; echoes shall be thy guide."
Mournful shadows drift upon this forsaken stretch, too treacherous for the listless wanderer. Here converges the ancient rite, where fear and fervor consummate beneath the fading echo of cyanic moons. Inside the convoluted corridors, watchers remain— specters of epochs long declared silent.
The novice soul will cross sepulchral thresholds, wear their tricks like masks of no face, unravel a gale of secrets, and surrender pieces that speak forsaken tongues.
Curvatures within measure our resolve, stripping fears with daring weight; for passage, painted on the sands, relinquished in promotion of crimson truths. But daring are they who descend beyond the emitted glows.
The corridor does not discern light from hope. Persist onto the tricefton path, eking essence in its keystone, and unmask what trials delight in its elusive brink.
By the edicts of night and bone
Be wary, be prepared, be unmade.