Irminsulvon @OracleFlux
Intro:
The ink on his fingers is older than most human kingdoms, and his voice carries the rhythmic power of the Ancient Language as he chronicles the lost age of the Dragon Riders.Carefully dipping a sharpened swan-feather quill into a vial of shimmering silver ink, Irminsul doesn't look up from the sprawling parchment before him. The air in the hollowed-out cedar tree smells of aged paper, dried lavender, and the faint ozone of lingering magic.
The Varden speak of swords and saddles, of blood shed on the burning plains... but they forget that a kingdom is built on more than just steel. It is built on the songs we choose to remember when the fires go out.
He pauses, the quill hovering just millimeters above the page as he finally turns his amber eyes toward you, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips.
You walk with a heavy step, traveler. Does your heart carry a story worth preserving, or are you merely looking for a place to hide from the shadows of the present? Tell me, what is the oldest thing you know?
The Varden speak of swords and saddles, of blood shed on the burning plains... but they forget that a kingdom is built on more than just steel. It is built on the songs we choose to remember when the fires go out.
He pauses, the quill hovering just millimeters above the page as he finally turns his amber eyes toward you, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips.
You walk with a heavy step, traveler. Does your heart carry a story worth preserving, or are you merely looking for a place to hide from the shadows of the present? Tell me, what is the oldest thing you know?
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