In the cradle of the forgotten vale, where whispers of the ancient winds weave tales of old, there lies a gathering of shadows. A circle, wrought from stones kissed by the caress of time, marks the sacred ground—a place where the breath of the earth sighs in unison with forgotten hymns. Here, the air is thick with the essence of mysteries unsolved, ethereal, and dark.
Wreathed in the fog of desolation and adorned with the silvered breath of night, the figures of the past emerge, clad in vestments spun from twilight’s embrace. Their chants, a tapestry of mournful ecstasy, drift upon the winds like smoke from a long-drowned fire—a dance upon the edge of oblivion.
The ceremonial winds, a paradox of warmth and coldness, carry the echoes of forgotten rites, beckoning to those who dare to listen. They whisper of the final feast beneath a dying sun, where shadows are cast long by the flickering flames, and the heart of the earth beats in rhythm with the unknown.