In the year when clocks held no dominion over the wanderlust of souls, a scribe dwelled at the fringes
of understood epochs. His quill danced upon sheets of velum, recording whispers from aeons embalmed
in the mist of memory.
These pages speak not of where one must go, but where one could never leave; a meditation on roots
burrowing into the soil of existence. Beneath this transient veil of reality lies the secret of the
unsung melody, echoing the cry of ancient mariners.
If knowledge is the light, than shackles of linear time are shadows upon shadows—a lament once
sung by the Elders, inscribed in languages long unspoken by tongues of steel and silicon.
Seek The Unseen Vaults to understand the paradox of becoming, or travel back to The Riddle of the Threads to untie the knots of what was once.
Immortal amongst the dust of fallen empires, the scribe's ink breathes. Memory caught in the loop of an ouroboric dance.