The Ascent of the Brocken
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The wind howls through the rocky labyrinths of the Hartz Mountains. It is Walpurgis Night, the grand festival of witches and spirits. You, Faust, climb the rugged path, your heart heavy despite the supernatural energy surging around you.
Mephistopheles strides beside you, seemingly immune to the cold. "Dost thou not wish a broomstick-steed's assistance?" he mocks. "The way we take, our goal is yet some distance."
Strange lights—Will-o'-the-Wisps—flicker in the darkness, and the roots of trees seem to twist like serpents to entrap your feet. The air is thick with the shrieks of owls and the distant chanting of witches gathering at the summit.