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Running, always running.
I've finally made it past the Flesh Sculptor and his Flesh Abomination, thanks to Atropos and Aszamon. I will never forget their sacrifice. I wear Aszamon's armor in his memory, dyed to a putrid flesh teal by the undead bile that slew him, and write in his honor, in the case that I join the fallen before today is done.
The way out is straight ahead. Or it should be, according to the myth. Long have I heard it whispered that the final cell block—and the way out—lies beyond this gate.
Divines walk with me.