In shadowed halls where whispers linger, the mirth of ages past does sing. A song not of joy, but of echoes, carried on the wings of a midnight raven.
There was once a time when the raven's call echoed through the cobblestone streets of Eldermoor, a town caught in the embrace of both dawn and dusk. Here, in the interstice, a bard weaved tales of forgotten eons, his lute a vessel for the spectral.
Sorrowed Lullabies linger, echoing in the corridors of memory, where time dances with the silence of the unsung.
Do ye remember, o traveler, the jest of the Grand Court of Shadows? A jest made in whispers, a mirth beyond mortal ken. Yet its song lingers, evermore.
Venture to the Cryptic Whisper and discover the secrets that the stones have dared to forget.