Whispered inscriptions upon the dusty walls of forgotten realms, where once shadows played upon flickering candle flames. The ink bleeds, a silent scream in the recess of marbled confinement. Unlock the whispers.
Etched in stone, the murmurs of aeons echo in the gateways to the unapologetic night. Echoes. Not spoken, but felt. Step through the dim void.
Gothic arches cradling celestial silences; an emptiness vast as forgotten dreams, persistent like a wraith. Urging to be heard. Trace the ink.