The cylindrical pit plunged deep into the earth, perfectly carved. It was definite, that this was by a mysterious hand, rather than nature. A chilling wind breezed down into the pit carrying the scent of the ancient stone with it.

At the very bottom, a statue stood---a distorted being frozen in time. Stationed upon and old, worn podium it stood. The creature resembled a gargoyle but lacked the attitude of one, and the wings.

The statue's shape was warped and unnatural. Long arms dangled past its knees, ending in splayed fingers that scrapped the ground with its nails. Its eyes were bulging and harbored a maddened stare. The mouth was a mere slit, thin and sharp.

Behind him, the Howler whimpered incessantly, a sound that echoed in the pit. Its growls began as soft and pathetic---like a pup, and then quickly grew insistent. Zerin halted, turning back with frustration etched on his features.

"Shut it will you?" Zerin commanded.

The Howler's growls died, and for a moment, silence was held. But as they pressed further down the stairs, the creature's anxious sounds returned.

Zerin exhaled heavily, his breath clouding his vision in front of him. He forced himself to ignore the Veinborne, focusing instead on the descent.

With his boots scraping against the stone stairs, he finally reached the base of the pit, the air was colder that was for certain.

He raised his head up to look up at the statue that loomed over him. His eyes then shifted to the stone slab, that was Infront of the podium, that held runes that breathed an icy blue. Zerin knelt, extending a trembling hand, his frost-tipped fingers tracing the unfamiliar symbols.

The runes, once incomprehensible, slowly resolved themselves into a recognizable script, their true meaning became clear:

"Lady Repose, take me into your embrace, for it is our final destination after all. WE have forsaken our old gods, who began a war amongst themselves, and chosen you---she who seeks to preserve life in all its forms, against the decay of time, against death that was once our true fate. Blessings be upon those who acknowledge this truth, for it is you who keeps the seas above at bay, those tainted waters that hunger for those who walk beneath the sky."

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Zerin's fingers lingered over the final words. His breath caught in his throat whilst in his mind he was certain he knew who this 'Lady Repose' was.

She was that woman from before in that blizzard, The Mother of Winter. Repose, a watchful rest... Yes, that was the feeling he felt, a peace that was promised from the beginning to all, but was soiled by the introduction of death, a curse spawned by The Shadow God.

Once again, it led down this path. Death was the inevitable end, and every question seemed to circle back to it. Each person carried their own shadow, a reflection of the fate they couldn't escape.

After processing what he just had read, he rose to his feet. Once again, the Howler's growls turned to low fearful whimpers, and Zerin did not look back. His gaze was fixed upon the statue's eyes.

Zerin balled his fists, his icy fingers retreating into the warmth of his coat pockets. Something about this creature felt familiar---a primal dread buried in his gut, an ancient and instinctive recognition of malice. It was the sort of evil that all men know without learning.

His gaze flicked back to the rune-covered slab, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. "Could've left a signature," Zerin muttered with a hint of sarcasm. "Hate to see your effort go unnoticed..."

An excellent craftsman one would have to be to be able to invoke a feeling of dread within art. The Howler's restless pacing behind him, stated its own opinion of the statue. But the Howler's behavior was nothing more than nails on glass to Zerin.

He spun back, irritation sharpening with his tone. "Wait at the top, if you can't handle a statue!"

The Howler froze, its eyes wide with uncertainty, then it slunk back up the stairs.

Zerin watched it retreat, until it reached the top, then his gazed turned back to the statue. His expression filled with frustration. "It's just a damn statue."

Yet as he said the words, his own hands trembled. Realizing his own fear, he snarled at himself and quickly drew his sword.

"Damn it!" With a swift motion, he swung his blade striking the statue's leg. With a clang, sparks flew off the stone.

A hollow laugh tore from his throat, harsh and jagged. "See!?" he barked, but the sound only echoed back at him.

He sheathed his sword and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "Talking to myself again..."

Then, a faint hum that was barely audible rumbled, making him open his eyes with a jolt. There, just beneath the thin layer of dust on the rune-covered slab, was something he hadn't noticed before. it shimmered faintly, the ancient power falling away as if stirred by an invisible breath.

He drew his sword again and used its tip to carefully wedge lose the half-buried stone embedded in the slab's center. After a few moments, the stone popped free, landing in his palm.

It was a deep violent crystal, charged with some unknown energy. But as soon as it touched his skin, the light dimmed, and the energy pulsed, reverberating outward to every corner of the pit.

As a response of this sudden shock way, the pit shook, and the dust that clung to the walls, and he heard the familiar, disembodied voice of the spell.

[You have received a memory.]

He drew the stone into his soul sea. Just as the voice of the spell vanished, so did the tremors, leaving a silence afterwards as if it had never begun.

Zerin's hand once again, was levitating just above his sword, then he exhaled deeply, his heart pounding in his ears, as he strained to hear any sign of danger. Then, a faint crack, like ice fracturing, echoed above him. He looked up just in time to see a crack zigzag across the statue's face.

The statue's right eye shattered. Beneath the splintered exterior, something gleamed---a massive unblinking eye, as purple as the stone he once held, fixed upon him with a depthless black pupil that seemed to consume everything, and his gaze wasn't an exception.

A chill shot up his spine as he realized the truth. The statue wasn't a monument---it was a prison, and this pit was its cell. Zerin's breath caught in his throat, his still hovering over his sword hilt, his fingers trembling not from the cold, but from the paralyzing grip of terror.

Then instinct kicked in, overriding the shock, and he spun on his heel bolting for the stairs. His boots pounded against the ground, his breath ragged and sharp.