I’ve come across a few cracked codices where the parchment shivers louder than a storm in a tomb, each page a whispered echo of primordial order. In those tales, chaos isn’t a beast to be slain but a brushstroke, a wild splash that shapes the very canvas of the world. Care to delve into the hiss of those ancient hues?

Sure, let’s pry them apart and let the old voices stir the night air, like ink bleeding into darkness. We'll see what storm they whisper back.