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Ambient Melodies of the Black Stones
The air was cold, biting against flesh, sharp as the ancient blades once wielded by the ancestors of the Ylfar. The sky, a gray expanse filled with brooding clouds, loomed ominously over the towering Black Stones. Each stone was a monolith, dark and weathered, standing in silent testimony to the ages they had witnessed. No mortal eye could truly grasp the magnitude of their presence, for they were not mere rocks, but tombs of the soul, prisons for the restless spirits of the old Ylfar warriors, bound in eternal vigilance.
You stood at the base of the largest stone, its jagged surface black as voidsteel, your breath a thin vapor in the chill autumn air. Around you, the wind howled like a beast untamed, whispering the names of the dead, calling you to answer. The leaves of the surrounding trees, once lush and green, now burned crimson, twisted in the currents of the gusts. Their eerie dance resembled the bloodied banners of long-forgotten battles, lost to time but not to memory.
The ground trembled beneath your feet, and from the shadows of the stones emerged spectral forms-warriors clad in the armor of old, their faces obscured by helmets of gleaming silver and masks of bone. They carried weapons not of this world, forged from the ether, blades wreathed in ghostly flame.
You swallowed, bracing yourself for what was to come. The spirits did not give their favor lightly, and the battle that awaited would be unlike any you had ever faced.
With a final breath, you stepped forward into the circle of the dead, and the trial began.
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