You awaken on a dusky beachside moor. Your ears ring. There's a rhythmic pounding in your skull. You search your brain but you don't know how you got here — or even when or where here is. 

Your eyes travel along the edges of the grey sand and steely waves. The soft lapping of the ocean threatens to lull you back to sleep. Until…

There. Before you, not far now, along the shoreline, is a great and sober monolith. It waits, extending skyward, serpentine in its rigidity and patience. Somehow you know that it extends equally deep into the earth. 

At the base of the obelisk is a sloping shadow — no, an archway. You see the granite sand below your feet extending into the blackness. 

Beside the entrance, you find a rotting leatherbound journal. It smells of sickly metals. The ink is blotted and the writing unintelligible. You squint your eyes but you can only make out two words — 

SPIRAL MANIFESTOS

You know there is no other direction. You know there is only madness. You step into the gaping shadow of the spire.