Caught in the clutches of the spindle
my party parlays its way through, ever increasing
grips of madness, fear of becoming overtaken
by the darkness.
Is this a metaphor?
Or, is this a game?
We are in a dungeon, deep, destroying
lest we are kicked for floundering.
The spiders spindle down from the roofs of this cavern.
Slowly descending, thirsty for blood.
My magic is powerless
My blood is becoming the feast
"Feed us your blood." The haunting thought reverberates throughout.

In the cradle of shadows.
Hides a man named Walks-In-Ash.
His face is the last I see as all fades to darkness.