A thick, gnarled grimoire rests upon a stone altar, its cover a twisted mass of cracked leather and tarnished metal corners. The pages are brittle, crumbling with the scent of ancient ink and dust. Along the spine, pulsating veins of black and gold seem to be alive, crawling toward the faded sigils etched into the cover. As the autumn wind sweeps through the trees, the leaves swirl in a whirlwind of crimson and amber around the book. The faint whispers of distant spirits echo as you approach. Etched on the cover: “Whispers of the Withered, Echoes of Eternity. ”
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