Finally, after another lengthy run, Albedo and Ember arrived at the Weeping Catacombs. Its entrance was nothing more than a split in the earth, a wound at the base of a ridge.
Black glass teeth framed it like a gaping maw, and from the darkness within bled a smell so thick with iron it coated his tongue. The bloody scent was so intense, it was like an ocean of pure blood stood before them.
Albedo swung down from the saddle. Havoc and Ruin sat heavy at his hips, runes dim now, as though conserving themselves for what lay ahead.
The extremely windy environment of the Ridge didn't follow them in when they entered, as if the entrance cut them off from the world entirely, sending them into a completely separate direction.
Once he moved forward, he touched the first wall inside as a test. It felt extremely warm and damp, and when he drew his hand back, his glove was covered in slick and red.
