Wheresoever life blooms still in the Lhann’shoay, the ghosts of unsung sagas hold it close.
On the edge of all edges, in the sleet-white scythe that splits the green of the earth from the blueyellow of the sky they dwell, groping for a place beside younger sisters whom Time the Inexorable Sculptor has not yet finished chiseling. They struggle on, fettered to this earth yet hovering wraith-like above it.
Petty and powerful, merry and bitterly vengeful, drifting solitary or entwined so utterly that the keenest can scarcely detect the alloy, they are petrified into cold, indifferent, moulding oblivion.
The same doom is laid upon them all: to perish and be forgotten. Or so Men deem.
Truly, in the fickle memories of men, writ in fleeting words that fade ere they form, they leave only a wistful shadow … but words have power. Words have meaning. Words can save stories.
In the gnarled old hands of the Time that tended them they all return to nestle, guarded there for all eternity beyond the ken of Men, while the vessels from which they were once fashioned are poured soulless into the earth by the ravages of the selfsame Tyrant, sunk into decay and loathsomeness and finally to Nothing.
The souls and stories of the dead endure. Some of them are lived anew, by Time’s sculptures of flesh and blood. Some become the sagas of the Inkshadow people, of that curious limbo-race that is born of dreams and wilts under Reality’s gouging gaze.
All words tell stories, but we cannot read them all.
All stories need words, but we cannot feed them all.