In the wee hours, the small hours, the creeping and crawling hours, when the stars cower behind heavy clouds, do not go tarry sight of that ruined grave. Zverzhen roams these unhallowed grounds, restless and discontented. He cares not for your flesh, needs not your blood. 'Tis your breath he wants, the blessed air that brings strength to the muscles and clarity to the mind. He will take it by force; do not doubt that he can. Yet, though he sucks it from your lungs to the very last gasp, he wastes it utterly, for it seeps away through ancient, self-inflicted wounds. Run, fool. The sky is dark. The stars have fled. You haven't long till you breathe your last in vain.