A robed man steps out of the shadows. Long, white hair flows from his cowl. His breath reeks of death; his eyes phosphorize. You know this man, but all memory of him is corrupted. Powerful words, rotten teeth, and maggots tumble from his mouth:
"Cursed wanderer. Are you searching for dark poetry, or do you seek rumors?"
Democracy dies in corporate neon.
One spiked flail to the face to go please.
The Void Takes You.