[Spoke] The road to Varnok does not curve. It does not wander. It climbs. [Chorus} Ser Albrecht Thorne gave his heart to Kereth Von Drel Stopped in his tracks to watch her go pale. Devoted to carry her love through life and through death. Stripped of her will and the stopping of her breath. Stone replaces soil beneath your boots, cut into broad steps that rise toward the cliff like an old command never rescinded. The air grows colder with each step. The mist here does not drift. It hangs, held in place as if ordered to remain still. [Spoke] Ahead, the fortress reveals itself. Varnok stands carved into the mountainside, not built upon it. Towers rise straight and narrow, their edges sharp, their windows dark. Walls of gray stone bear no ivy, no rot, no signs of collapse. Time has passed around this place, not through it. [Chorus} Ser Albrecht Thorne gave his heart to Kereth Von Drel Stopped in his tracks to watch her go pale. Devoted to carry her love through life and through death. Stripped of her will and the stopping of her breath. Tattered banners hang from iron poles. Their colors are faded, but the sigil is still clear. A crimson veil crossed by a silver blade. The mark of the Order of the Crimson Veil. The wind moves through the banners and produces a low sound, not a flap, but a breath. It feels like a held sigh. As you draw closer, the ground becomes unnaturally clean. No bones. No fallen leaves. No debris. Even the fog thins, as if it knows better than to linger here. [Chorus} Ser Albrecht Thorne gave his heart to Kereth Von Drel Stopped in his tracks to watch her go pale. Devoted to carry her love through life and through death. Stripped of her will and the stopping of her breath. At the gate, two immense doors stand sealed. Each is reinforced with iron bands etched with oath-script, the runes worn smooth by centuries of purpose. Between them is a narrow opening, just wide enough for one person to pass at a time. [Spoke] The moment you step within the shadow of the gate, the world grows quiet. [Bridge] No birds. No wind. No echoes. [Spoke] Then, from somewhere deep within the fortress, metal moves. Not the scrape of rust. Not the crash of collapse. The measured sound of armor, shifting with intent. A voice carries down the stone corridor, calm and steady. “State your purpose.” The words are not a challenge. They are a requirement. Varnok has acknowledged you.
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