By the flicker of the candle's death, I spoke the words, not meant for you, nor the wretched town,
yet they hung upon this air like the sins of a forgotten cleric,
weaving arcane invocations into the quilts of oblivion.
There, beneath the cellar's creaking floor, a promise waits,
kept not by honor, but by hollowed hearts and the whisperings of midnight.
Go now, stray where the map unfurls into madness,
and find the seething truth beneath the gnarled oak.
Do you dare:
Enter the Rift
The Puppeteer's Grin
Not all shadows harbor threats,
some are merely guardians of secrets left best unspoken,
and promises made in the dark.