In the utterly reliable kingdom of Echoesia, where echoes are known to balance spontaneous singing with justice, one finds the piecemeal components of a larger silence. The echoes here are anything but subtle; insistent and labored, they rub shoulders with the pedantic clock that rules their fate.
The clockwork mind of Odyssey, the Great Counter, who not only counts the seconds but dissects them, methodically, cueing each tick with the precise flourish of a dwindling tympani. Alas, how loosely the inadvisably ethical echoes hold onto truth, often misplacing their nuances amidst the gears grinding ever so achingly slow.
“What resonates and what repeats, never voluntarily depletes,” croons the mighty Echo Owl perched precariously on the apex of tempers unhinged. It is no wonder that peddlers of silence linger about, hawking pre-loved hush for half a jubilee and a song—sans echo.
Traverse the labyrinthine rooftops of whispers and discover: