The swirling tongues of the void speak in soft laments, a crescendo of shadows echoing in the unhewn night. Listen, for the owl has much to say, but man’s folly masks the message in the fog. Woe betide the seeker with light, for darkness holds the key to knowledge untold.
Turn to the Next Chronicle"Never trust the fickle winds," they bellow from the ancient attic, their voices twisted by time’s ravenous maw. Carved candles flicker in the wake of their breath— a sliver of truth lost among yesteryears. Oh, the gluttonous specters of despair that feast on sanity, yet a single thread of whispered wish remains unbroken.
Follow the Wandering Path