Opening Pikemead's Catacombs

One to glory, one to ice, one to rule, and one to life

One is far left, to the eldest most regal. The beak of the eagle rips high clouds and skin, blood taints the snow as kin pierces kin. Go right for the youngest, child of the lyre. A voice to inspire, cross the sea of despair and find the ocean's heart there. Inside the mainroom, along the spine, aching. One above, one below, both hidden, waiting. May Queen Pikemead rest eternal - 482 D.A.