In the bowels of forgotten epochs, where shadows twist upon themselves and secrets slumber uneasily, we find the corridors. Within these hollow veins of time, the Mechanists of the Tempotrack weave their ethereal webs. Their purpose? To orchestrate the rhythm of the cosmos, from the tick of antediluvian clocks to the hum of your handheld device.
There exists an echo, a sonorous whisper of bygone centuries mingling with the sterile hiss of wires. A monastic figure, cloaked in the apparatus of antiquity, strokes the keys of a machine that hums: Let me illuminate... yet, an absence lingers here, palpable and dense, suspended like the unfathomable depths of a catacomb.
Gothic spires pierce the skyline of a realm caught in the dream of the mechanic gods. Their ascent is not unique; for medieval pulleys and modern cables entwine in an embrace both fervent and indifferent.
So, wanderer: will you traverse these hallowed paths, these realms of stillness and machinery, or retreat into the luminous void? The choice lies not in ease, but rather in darkness.