Drip, drip, drip,.....drip. So calls the black liquir of life. As it lay huddled in a mass on the floor. The blind force of this realm pulling it from its rightful veins, placing them anew.
Drip, drip,.........drip. So quickly sprung for the life of the soul to set once again upon its own elixir. Humbling itself in the darkness, alone and wet. Yet so full of the life from which it flows.
Drip,..........drip. Be stilled so quickly? Such pride and nastalgia holdeth the black liquir. To quench the thirst of the beholder, to predicessor. Sweet, lovely ripe wine of life. The Soul Forge, crafted from the Eldens.
Drip,......plop. Never yet be so for the coming eternal. Does one know their own Soul Forge? Wil they ever? Or to those select few will the reap the Liuqcerish?