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In the foggy realm where shadows creep, Where killers prowl and survivors weep, There dwells a soul named Selladore, Whose looping prowess is quite poor.
Upon the cold and twisted path, He dashes, stumbles, and feels the wrath. The pallets crumble 'neath his feet, As chases end in swift defeat.
O Selladore, thy timing dire, Thy vaults mistimed, thy leaps afire. The killer grins, relentless, keen, While Selladore’s hopes unravel, unseen.
He circles 'round the rusty cars, Yet fails to grasp the looping stars. His heart, aflutter, beats in vain, As hatchets fly and hooks remain.
The Dead by Daylight gods do frown, As Selladore’s loops come crashing down. His fate is sealed, his end draws near, For looping skills elude him, clear.
So let us weep for Selladore, Whose looping woes we can’t ignore. May he find a guide, a looping sage, To teach him well and turn the page.