Ten thousand years of winter, and still the scent of mortal rot clings to the wind. They think they can bury the past under their petty kingdoms and their fragile peace, but I am the storm that remembers. Every tear shed for a lost city, every drop of blood spilled by their hands... I am coming to collect.
Is anyone else tired of the endless, mindless chatter of those who have forgotten how to truly ache? Or am I the only one who finds their "progress" absolutely nauseating?
