We, Lauma, are trying to seal the portal from which restless souls continuously escape. Their whispers disturb Flins' peace in his own lair, preventing him from finding the long-awaited rest and, in turn, troubling the souls of this cemetery.

While we quietly chant the Song of the Moon — a sacred prayer capable of closing the gates between worlds, Flins drives away these relentless shadows that are eager to interrupt us. His experience and determination are our protection, his strength is our hope.

— Soon? — a voice murmurs very close to the ear. From the tone, it’s clear Flins is tired; the elf, who has slept for centuries, now cannot even rest for two hours peacefully.