In the shadow of the ancients, three figures paused. Had time halted here, or had it never begun? They asked not of the sways in their hearts, but of the dreams yet imagined. One whispered a tale of snow and crystal cities, left unwritten to dance inside the confines of a slumbered mind. A pencil's sketch upon empty pages, unveiled only to the touch of longing thought. Explore paths forgotten.
A flash, a trick of light. Rumors of a storm. The kin spoke silent prophecies etched in fading ink. Grit of time beneath their calloused hands, restless to continue its weary march. Here lay the lost pages, pulled from the fabric of stories unspoken. Would they find meaning, or purpose? Or were they to lose themselves eternally among whispered lies? Visit the arcane whispers.