Glimmering whispers weave text in forbidden tongues.
One cannot cleanse what is beyond mortal sight. The dust carries secrets, whispers once promised voyages through starry realms.
A tendril of thought:
The attic breathes, evoking visions of ancients whose names are written on wandering winds.
Are we merely echoes, reverberating in forgotten spaces, within dimly lit rooms of shattered myths?
Have you heard the cries of the vanquished forgotten faeries, whose homes were stolen by the scribe's dry quill?
Return to the Path of MoonsAmid the crumbling pages of the Book of Dust, truths dance like the flicker of a candle that shapes shadows on inner walls.
Visualize: