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From a forsaken stronghold, a single ghoul championed a cursed page from those dreaded walls. The deadman braved the elements and any passerby with a singular goal, its stink drifting West to East. The lone shadow of a beast sought one goal and completed it with an unnatural, highly suspicious know-how. That zombie issued a public challenge to a champion of the heavens, the Glovebearer.
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Woe be the Conquered, Feanor,
In the time of Arcas, you along with the others were entasked with bringing forth ruin, stopping the wheel as you let hell spill over into the material. You, like me, have sinned deeply and loyally as one of the Seven, but that time is past.
The Sign you bear is physical, everlasting. Epleiades is your destiny. You’ve abandoned it, dishonored it. You were chosen to eat the weak, to stop the wheel but instead, you’ve chosen the easy life through Malchadiael. A tea-sipping dog that is nothing without that gauntlet. You will know my name, Vaevictis.
Prove to me your might, answer my call in Seven Moons or face the consequences.
Lord of the Grave, Gashadokuro.
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