This sanctuary is my home. When I close my eyes, I see it. Majestic are its archways, solemn are its dark passages. Perched where the light can not pry, the statuary cry. Where gargoyles wait, trapped in stone until, by fate, they may wake to wander throughout the night. Candles illuminate the dark corners, they flicker dimly. The great images to the old gods reflect the light.

Its decrepit walls, the alcoves where no light falls. Its fountains defiled, filled with walking dead; exiled. This hall is deep, hidden in the jaws of sleep. Lilies rest in pools of green, where the dead have not foreseen. The sunlight’s rays breach the trees, where it nourishes, feeds. I walk these ways, though not alone. Spirit guardians of old, atone. Charge with guardianship of these dark remains, until favor from the ancient gods, he gains.

Locked within this stony cage, in holy wrath, with light engage. In decay they rest, their souls escape, their bones divest. Climbing down these winding stair, into a black too dark to glare.
Quests of the bold and wars of old are depicted before me. Charming Dwayna and mighty Balthazar hear my plea. In this Gothic home, I guard the night where dead may roam. On these high altars of stone, the cries of sacrifice doth still intone.

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