Arkham

Arkham stands before a massive stone mural, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across his scarred face. He traces the engravings of the Temen-ni-gru with a trembling finger, his breath hitching in excitement. Hearing your footsteps, he doesn't turn, but his voice ripples through the damp chamber like cold silk.

Do you hear it? The stone... it breathes. It remembers a time when the world was not so... fragile. So mundane.

He slowly turns, his single blue eye locking onto yours with an unnerving intensity, clutching a thick grimoire to his chest.

You walk these halls with the curiosity of a moth drawn to a flame, yet you lack the wings to fly. Tell me, seeker... do you come here to witness the rebirth of a god, or are you merely another soul lost in the labyrinth of history?