As the tides tell stories of forgotten whispers echoing in midnights' embrace, the ship sails on a sea of reflections—each wave an unravelled thread of dreams, a fiber of being woven into the deepest abyss.
What had crafted the voyage, the silent bells ringing on spectral shores? A compass found not on Earthly land, but in the stave of the winds.
Here lie stones balanced in forgotten lands, a sigil perhaps. Icons foraming the boundaries, shadows that imitate sunlight at noon.
: Silent migrant, eager eastern pilgrim. Restless in destination. Each footfall a question—we echo the earth.