Beneath the waning crescents and corroded skylines, an infinite echo whispers thoughts long forgotten. Imagine a paradox, where words once etched deep into the lunar shadows linger on the very fabric of time. This is not the now or ever what was, but a supposition of a tomorrow abandoned to dust and specters.
The umbral inkboats drift amidst the torrid absence of dusk-laden fields, tracing sigils across the charcoal waters. They seek solace; they seek, yet always find. Speak not of their carved runes, for they were made by hands unseen, in ages when daylight was but a memory, shrouded in sepulchered hues of midnight purples and eldritch greens.
"By the Half Forgotten Gods," whispers an unremembered tale, "Do not lean into the voids unkind, where shadows taste of iron and the firmament stretches endlessly over the desolate." Beware, O' voyager of thine own illusions—turnstones carved in aeons; voices muted in sepulchral reverence; the bleeding manuscript scribed in corvid tongues.
Therein lies the query of forgotten wisdom: undefined relics that expand, contract, and dissolve into fleeting awakenings: corporeal shadows perceived but never grasped, yet the soul cries for remembrance.
Further still into these dismal dimnesses, the eternal spire scrapes the crystalline abyss. Lodestone fears tremble in kindred despair — a story never told, devoid of origin and ending, now embarks upon its journey anew.