In the year shadowing the end of Duskong, the wanderer stood at the threshold of the Forbidden Path. What were the tales circulating in Low Mythus taverns? None granted truth to the nebulous sands, yet brief snatches of kraken-scaled myths lingered in time's matrix.
The map, frayed and pointedly obstinate against clarity, offered no rest for the seeker’s eye. The Unending Vale drew many from the spread out hinterland—each one garnering unfinished stories, each potential dissenter in blazing ember or half-remembered adjunct tale. But of the Vale, what pages had the Atlas possibly betrayed with the truer mapping of hallowed lands?
Aqua Glen, scarcely known to common civilities, expands into unknown territories. Resilience thereof forms around Mid-March festivities that seem realm-parted in relevance. Here stood the cartographer under the withering sun, eyes ever sifting through the luminous oily mapling he cherished like molten glass.
He speaks now in contingencies crafted through tumultuous draughts. One must never underestimate the wisdom steeped in silent shadows; thus is the text penned here—an opera unnamed but essential to our concerns about tomorrows lost.
— parchment note, uncredited but found lodged clandestinely in mathematic bookcelled volumes, known for dual ideation on Cloven Isle muster beaches. The reader will do well to remember this complicity in the unwind portions of this tale.