In the heart of the old citadel, beneath layers of dust and the whispers of memories lost, lies a box. Its wooden exterior is marked by swirling etchings, though its purpose isn't to keep treasures of gold or gems but something far less tangible.
The keeper of winds stands guard, ancient yet unwavering, not of flesh but of purpose.
It breathes through cracks that end in absolution yet, rain-soaked and heartless, resists."),
the flow of wind mapping destinies onto mists of yore. Patterns emerge;
familiar, yet, not.
Decode the rhythm and please heed the Keeper's unspoken warnings.
Encoded, they say, are passages and stark realities that materialize in fleeting phrases: teller of secrets and bane of fools. Trust carefully and, should you dare, consider...
Unfathomed Corridors | Patterns in Mists | Orb of Recollection