⠀⠀⠀★ ° . .　　　　.　 ☾ ⠀⠀⠀ 　. * ¸ ⠀.　　　★　° :.　 . •⠀○ ° ⠀　 .　 ☆
*　.　　　　　. 　 ° 　. ⠀● .　𝓦𝓮𝓵𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 　⠀⠀⠀⠀¸. ⠀⠀● .　　★　　 ¸⠀. ¸
　.　 . ⠀⠀ ★⠀　 . *　.　.　　¸ .　　 ° ⠀　¸. ⠀⠀* 　　　　°⠀ ⠀ 　 ⠀.　
⠀⠀　° 　 . • ⠀° 　 *　　.　⠀⠀ ● ¸ 　　　　⠀ ⠀°⠀ . 　　　　.　 °
The weary traveler walks over the crest of the green hill, a color he has not seen for quite some time, then stops. His helmet and armor, although not fully plated, is heavy under the rain. He has endured much to make it this far. The flames of his imbued claymore stay ablaze, he notices, as he tightens his grip on its hilt. His shield was a burden; he left it behind long ago. Two hands were required to properly wield such devastation. His eyes survey what is in front of him. Never before has he seen a castle so magnificent and yet full of sorrow. Gray steel and stone loomed ahead; over ten thousand windows and one thousand steeples. Not one light to be seen. It is clear that death awaits him. Beckons him.

What dreadful king takes command there? What atrocities turned this masterpiece of architecture into pitiful loneliness and despair?

The traveler steps forward, his dark soul yearning, for whatever he may find.