Beneath the threads of the weft-dark heavens, they whisper whispers sweet as winter moons. Every fold in the ether speaks their name—a song strumbling over cliff and shadow, amethyst tones unraveled, wrod upon wrod.
Interwoven legends of public square promontories, where pools of liquid star faery light dance with the lunate scraps of memories offered by pilgrim souls whose wanderlust never sates, for there it abides unseen...