In the clutch of sepulchral gases, naught but echoes linger. Beyond the twin moons that hover, suspended in a brackish sky, the forgotten future waits with virescent teeth. This is the loop unfinished, the cycle akimbo, wrought by hands not remembered but long speculated in hushed, reverent whispers.
Steel sentinels rise, their etchings speaking obscure tongues as they descend into the velvet abyss of eons past. Knowledge, archived but never retrieved, slumbers in the depths of timeworn circuits, awaiting the inevitable prostration of fresh seekers.