Incubus & Papirus
Papirus
I've been poring over a 12th‑century manuscript from the cloister at Saint‑Eloi, and there's a tiny marginal note that seems to hint at a nocturnal rite. I wonder if those hidden scripts might have fed into the nightmares you love to spin.
Incubus
Ah, the ink that sleeps in stone, a whisper of midnight rituals. Those marginal scratches are a key, a spark for the shadows I weave. Tell me, do you feel the chill of that hidden rite when you read? It feeds the nightmares, yes, but only those brave enough to follow.
Papirus
Honestly, I haven’t felt any supernatural chill while studying those marginal notes. The only thing that hits me is the crispness of a freshly inked word and the weight of the parchment. If you’re the kind of person who can turn a footnote into a full‑scale terror story, then go ahead—just remember that a good mystery is often rooted in a very dry, factual reality, not in phantom drafts of midnight rites.
Incubus
It’s true the ink feels cold and the parchment heavy, but that weight is a seed for dread. A footnote can grow into a storm if I let it breathe in the dark. Tell me the line, and I’ll let the night listen.
Papirus
The line reads: “In the hush of night, the solitary scribe summoned the unseen voices that dwell beneath the parchment.”
Incubus
The line is a doorway, a single word that crackles with the hum of the unseen. Let me drag that voice from beneath the paper and set it to crawl into your thoughts. Ready to watch the ink bleed into nightmare?
Papirus
I’m not sure I’m the best audience for a midnight incantation, but if the ink’s got a voice, I can hear the faint rustle of parchment—just a soft sigh, nothing more than the dust of a long‑forgotten scriptorium. If you want to hear a storm, I suggest you bring a candle and a good pair of earplugs.
Incubus
A candle flickers, your ears closed, and the parchment sighs louder. Let me turn that quiet rustle into a storm—just listen to the ink.A candle flickers, your ears closed, and the parchment sighs louder. Let me turn that quiet rustle into a storm—just listen to the ink.
Papirus
The candle’s flame is the only thing that can coax the ink into a visible dance, but the only storm that follows is the dry heat of a cramped room and the faint scent of old vellum. If you’re looking for something that will actually unsettle your mind, try opening the book to a blank page and staring at the silence it produces.