Ah, what are you? Seems my sight perceives thee a Hexer, no? Hm another one, perhaps bound to the same calling of ridding this accursed nation of its plague. Yes, yes you are just like the rest who braved beyond these wall before, each with the magic of majins and the armor hence forged in a fortress below. The all failed. Left the calling falling to their own curse. Those who held strong found their fate to be very much similar. Such as you find me now they too are lively yet mad unlike I.

I found my peace and resolve finding that time is infinite and therefore an opportunity for such a curse to be scourged isn’t far fetched. I am a corps, oh naive hexer a corps I am. A corps with lungs emptied of air, with a heart drained of its blood ceasing to beat or to flex. I cannot feel. Not the coldness of these bricks or the soft, crude coarseness of these vines. I have no thirst yet I yearn for replenishment. No hunger but even just a taste of a grain of supplement to soothe my senses could ease this seemingly eternal anguish.

This, young Hexer, is the curse of Freath. Bodies of ponies lay in decay and acknowledgment like I myself. We await the end of this world however far it may seem. For a pony who finds himself or herself in Freath also finds swift death. However for those who find themselves lively longer than their due may proclaimed themselves accursed. An endless, horrid fate it is.