Titanium winds gnaw at the skeletal remnants of autumn's brittle laughter. The echo whispers:
-
Shadows twist like mischievous phantoms, pretending innocence amid the treetops' secret aerie.
-
Windsong, a nature's hymn played on a ferrule of pipes; mournful, eternal—clockwork,
erratic.
-
Every leaf, a witness; every rustle, a confession of sins forgotten by sapphire skies.
In dreams woven by iron hands and gilded whims, where time does not blink. Down the corridors of the forgotten boroughs, the tales are whispered...
Are you the remedy?
Enter the Sundermist
Once solidified in memory, the clockwork heart murmurs once more. It recalls the era of forgotten fables where tendrils of silk span the realms.