An ancient, long-forgotten land.

Its name obliterated from the annals of history, by the evilest and most malicious force in existence - time itself.

While the world may have forgotten it, the land itself would forever remember.

Whispers of life and society lingered, carried by the wind like songs sung in its soothing embrace, consoling the world with its gentle touch.

The song carried a weight, heavy with sorrow and solitude, for no being would ever listen to its voice.

The sun, once a beacon of warmth, love, and hope, and the moon, a guide to the lost with its soothing light, had forsaken this realm cursed beyond redemption.

Sole companion to this cursed existence, from its inception to impending doom, was the relentless grip of darkness.

Shadows, manifestations of the absence of light, swathed the forgotten world - a mere shadow of its former glory. Bereft of illumination, day and night lost distinction, blurring heaven and earth into an unending void.

Everything became a featureless amalgam, a hollow expanse of emptiness.

Yet amid this barren nothingness, defying all logic, a glint of radiance arose - a light upon the mountain range. On the pinnacle stood a solitary hut, where earth and sky converged.

From within the hut's windows, an otherworldly light gazed out into the abyss, magnificent and unsettling. Alas, the light's brilliance could not pierce the enshrouding shadows, too ancient, too deep to yield to mere candle's glow.

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A candle adorned a wooden table, positioned beneath the wings of an open window. Its flame flickered, undulating in the fierce indoor gusts. The wind, at last, discovered a willing confidant in the candle's fire, sharing its myriad stories in hushed tones.

In the dance of the small flame, a form emerged - a shadow, deeper than the eternal abyss, harboring secrets and terrors never meant to escape its frame. Nestled at the center of the table, beside a manuscript, it converged with its origin - a hand.

A quill laid in the hand's embrace, vibrant colors of red, orange, gold, and purple igniting with each stroke. An incandescent aura, an impending tempestuous force, radiated from this quill.

But with the hand's movement, the quill followed in obedience, subject to its master's command.

Every stroke graced the ancient parchment with new lines, imbuing it with the golden-tinged crimson of a long-lost race's blood. This blood, aflame with fury, reluctantly served as ink, trapped for eternity within the confines of the paper.

Upon the hand's final stroke, the world stilled. The wind ceased as if holding its breath, refraining from uttering another word. The flickering candle stood tall, rigid, its nature altered, no longer swaying with life. Darkness, encroaching the mountaintop refuge, retreated, as if recoiling into its depths.

It was as if time itself dared not disturb the moment.

Then...

A sigh resonated... as silent as the inexorable march of time toward the horizons of eternity, and as loud as the lament of a dying world echoing through the void of destiny.

Then, the master of the shadow spoke.

"I see... My future holds death, as did my past," a voice colder than the ocean's depth murmured.

The conqueror of the quill turned his gaze outward, peering into the nothingness. These eyes perceived not the impenetrable cloak of darkness, but the continuum of time-past, present, future-unveiled, immune to fate's veiled machinations.

"Could this realm serve as a fitting tomb?... Since its death birthed a God."

The bearer of long-lost blood alluded to truths and enshrouded lore.

Yet the ensuing words, nearly cataclysmic, would have unfurled the land's apocalypse if not for nature's censoring intervention.

"Isn't that so, ᚦᛉᛖᛗï?"

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