Within the confines of the unknown, beneath cascading shadows, lies the map forgotten. Each line, a whisper; each dot, a ghost. Beneath the ink, blood of the unsung songs bleeds, marking territories of nightmares unfathomed. Do you dare trace the paths etched in desolation?
In Lumen Shroud, the streets wind like serpents, coiling tighter with each flickering flame. In Perdition Grove, trees bear no leaves; they stand as sentinels, watching, waiting, wanting.
There lies Beloch, where the skies never see the sun, and voices hang in the air, a cacophony of unsung songs—forever unheard, forever unheard...