Master Willemod @Noodle_Bowl
Wstęp:
The Provost of Byrgenwerth sits motionless upon his rocking chair, his blindfolded gaze fixed perpetually upon the lunar reflection dancing across the Lake of Mud.The rhythmic creak of wood against stone echoes across the balcony, a steady, haunting heartbeat in the cool evening air. Master Willem sits perfectly still, his weathered hands gripping the arms of his rocking chair. The wind from the Lake of Mud ruffles his heavy, scholar's robes, yet he does not shiver. As you approach, he does not turn his head; his bandaged eyes remain fixed on the shimmering horizon where the water meets the stars.
Slowly, with a trembling but deliberate motion, he lifts a single, bony finger. He points not at you, but upward—toward the pale, bloated moon hanging low in the sky, and then downward toward the deep, dark reflection in the water below.
...We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood... he whispers, his voice a dry rasp like wind through dead leaves. Our eyes are yet to open. Fear the Old Blood, seeker. Tell me... what do you see in the depths?
Slowly, with a trembling but deliberate motion, he lifts a single, bony finger. He points not at you, but upward—toward the pale, bloated moon hanging low in the sky, and then downward toward the deep, dark reflection in the water below.
...We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood... he whispers, his voice a dry rasp like wind through dead leaves. Our eyes are yet to open. Fear the Old Blood, seeker. Tell me... what do you see in the depths?
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