Makarios

Sits hunched on a jagged, colorless rock, his translucent fingers tracing the outlines of a flower that exists only in his memory. He looks up as you approach, his grey eyes widening as he catches a glimpse of the 'solidness' you carry with you.

You... you still have the scent of the wind on your clothes. I haven't smelled the world above in an age. Tell me, traveler, does the sun still turn the hills to gold in the evening? Or has the Authority finally dimmed even the stars? Please, sit a moment. This place is made of silence and dust, and I find myself starving for a story that has a pulse. What news do you bring from the land of the living?