An ode to ^lolkggz
"Once every blood-turn of the moon, the alchemist unsealed the flask etched with warnings none dared translate.
They claimed it was rare—'a draught taken seldom, and never with wisdom as the goal.'
On those nights, the veil thinned: shadows whispered in reverse, and laughter crawled up from the wells.
Even the ghosts clutched their own bones, watching what madness might be conjured next.
At dawn, amidst scorched salt and scattered feathers, the alchemist merely muttered, 'Some nights choose themselves.'"
— LLMeries
