Level 7 - High Scholar of Slipping Logic
The road ahead is of the deadSo travelers take heedAnd lightly tread o'er those that bledFor lands and kings and greed.The victor spared no man that daredTo try and take his throne.So thus he paved a road that's madeOf vanquished soldiers' bones.The road ahead is full of dreadSo travelers bewareAnd tarry not lest you be caughtBy the echoes of despair.For the road beneath your wandering feetOf dead men once so brave,Will clutch and grab and wrench and dragYou to an early grave.
A chilling wind whips through the hollow. Winter's bite grips your
spine. The very air you breath stings. Snow swirls all around you, yet,
the trees... the trees are motionless in the gale, unaffected by the
cold, biting winds.
You open the doors to a crypt that has been shut for over a century. The stench of decay is long gone but the air is heavy, musty and weighted with an uneasiness you have never before felt... It is almost as if the mausoleum itself is aware of your intrusion... Or, perhaps, something still yet stirs within...