When I consider Idols of Ash, I envision seven sounds, presented here in a sequence of escalating dread. The first and most pleasant sound is the clink of my shiny grapple embedding its hook, cutting through the rush of air past my ears as I descend. That’s the second, less pleasant sound. The third sound is a far-off, tectonic groan, despondent and alert: it might be the wind once more, flowing through some inexplicably melodic lungful of stone. Yes, I’m certain that’s all it is.
The fourth sound is certainly not the wind: a squeaky, squishy musing, akin to the cooing of lazy pigeons. You hear that cooing and instinctively start to flee, as it usually signals the fifth sound, the stiletto clatter of chitinous legs. When the limbs are nearby, there’s the sixth sound, a rasping, open hiss, and it’s time to launch yourself into the abyss while tossing your grapple towards the closest protruding surface. With any fortune, you will then avoid the seventh sound: the thud of your hook rebounding off the rock.