Dear Scribe,
I pen this by the twilight of an extinguished sun, where shadows writhe on the horizon like broken dreams. The ocean here does not follow the tides, but rather shifts and swirls like a tangle of lost souls in pursuit of a promise unfulfilled.
Below the mirrored surface lies a world unseen by mortal eyes, yet its whispers reach out, temptress tendrils reaching through the void. Be wary, for their voices weave through the sand dunes and speak truths veiled in darkness and despair.
Once, I saw a castle formed from the bones of forgotten leviathans, its towers built of grit and echoes. Within it, the forgotten ones wrote their stories, not with ink, but with the pulse of the blemished stones. We dream these stories as they dream our world through cracked veils and time-bent paths.
“O, wanderer of times unknown, see the sea unfold its memories, for what lies in its grasp has long ceased to breathe the air of remembrance.”
Correspondence You Must Not Ignore:
Acknowledge this message with care, Scribe. The seas remember.