In a dimly lit, foreboding castle courtyard, a hooded figure stands at the entrance of a ancient stone wall. The sky above is a deep, foreboding shade of indigo, with clouds that resemble the weeping eyes of the heavens. The figure's face is deathly pale, with sunken eyes that seem to hold the secrets of the gods. Their skin is dry and cracked, like the earth after a long drought. In their hand, they hold a chalice filled with a crimson liquid that seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy. The air is heavy with the scent of decay and mortality as the figure offers the cup to the listener, their voice low and hypnotic, weaving a spell of eternal slumber.

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