Though centuries embrace their warm goods, Eloise wanders through blistering stares, her whispers tattooed on the conscience of time. "Remember the festival of forgotten faces," she murmurs, "when seers writhed in unyielding fire?"
Beneath the crumbling watchtower, the Warden speaks with a voice like rust. "Once, we said their names, we beckoned them forth: Liora, Darion, Vesper. Now, only the shadows respond to our calls."
From twisted corridors emerge the disarrayed thoughts of Furlan, "To be remembered, one need only to write in sand. Forever erased, but for tides that linger just out of sight," she contemplates, ink-stained fingers trembling with every admission.
Such archways mask the hallways of yore. Discover patterns that time dares not banish to shadow.
Or walk alongside members of forgotten assemblies, whose names echo in unspoken hierarchies.