⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠋⣉⡙⠛⣉⣉⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠸⣿⣿⣾⣿⡿⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⡘⠻⣿⠟⣡⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠿⢿⣿⣶⣤⣼⠟⠻⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢡⣶⣦⡌⠻⡿⢁⣾⣷⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡄⢻⣿⣿⣦⡀⢸⣿⡏⣸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⠙⢿⣿⣿⣆⠙⢠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⡌⠻⣿⣿⣷⣄⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢡⣴⣤⡘⢿⣿⣿⣧⡈⢿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⢋⣁⠘⢿⣿⣿⣆⠙⣿⣿⣷⡀⢻⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⠿⠀⣿⣿⣷⣄⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⠈⣿⣿
⣿⡟⢠⣶⣤⡈⠻⣿⣿⣷⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠏⣰⣿⣿
⣿⣿⡈⢿⣿⣿⣶⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠋⣰⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣷⣄⠙⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠟⣡⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣦⣉⠛⠛⠛⢛⣉⣴⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿

here's a free -rep on your profile from some random steam user

Take me and strum me like the chords of an ancient, hand-crafted lyre, tuned by the breath of stars and polished by the whispers of the moon. Caress each note with the careful precision of a sorcerer wielding spells of harmony, for some notes ring truer than others, yet each carries its own allure, a taste of forbidden resonance. But before the gales steal the breath from my sails and cast me adrift in realms unknown, indulge me—let me ask you this riddle:

What fingers wield mastery over sound itself? Some say the fingers of an angel, plucking notes from the heavens like dew from the dawn, strumming golden harps woven from light. Others speak of a nomadic bard, fingers dancing across a mandolin like a lover’s embrace, summoning tales of wonder from the ether. Some, more cautious, envision the sinuous movements of a snake charmer’s hands, coaxing serpents to sway to melodies ancient and strange.

But the truth lies not in these realms of beauty and awe. No—it’s far darker, twisted like roots that burrow deep into earth, hidden in shadow. The truest fingers belong to those who know the cost of silence, who understand that to touch the strings of destiny itself is to dance with the sinister. These fingers do not merely play; they puppeteer fate, pulling threads unseen. Once you’ve played that final note, once you’ve conquered the melody, beware—the game ends. And beyond that silence, lies only the vast and echoing void.