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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.
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