Ink flows, yet never dries, hidden within echoes of a forgotten script. Between each ardent letter lies the sigh of ages, ages whispered beneath cold, trembling forms. No flame dares flicker here in the stony coldness of shadowed halls. Root of Secrets rots, and no glance over the shoulder reveals what should never have set foot alongside the living.
Once, there were stories, fanciful tales grown upon stone and dust of sepulchers, revolving, round and round in restless spirals of ink – shadowed decay whispers, spinning lines unwritten. Do not pause at the Wailing Walls, for the echoes know you already by your solemn name.