A slain creature, lying dead at your feet, suddenly turns its head towards you and speak in a language

that you have never heard before, but understand perfectly:

My candles tell a tale,

Undead form and blossom,

Find their abode and knock,

Release you from your jail.

It then returns to its original position, dead.

A plane within a plane,

A tool steadily corrupted,

Stirring and waking the dead,

The tool to cut your chain.

To make you whole,

Go to the north,

The Eye you seek,

Atone your soul.