Within the petrified flesh, a slow steady pulse can still be felt. Though few remember the name of Vatra, those who do wait patiently for her blessings. For the stone endures in silence and even when it breaks, it will one day be reformed.
The flame burns impossibly. Shadows appear to grow and stretch in its cold brilliance. Within one’s grasp, it begins to feel as if a hopeless, endless night will threaten even the brightest day.
This censer is not unlike those once favored by the Children of Infinity. If one peers inside, they may glimpse figures gliding like apparitions through the smoke.
The Children of Infinity embraced paradox. Through death they were reborn. They arose as Sesters and brethers unbound from their flesh. Time itself has no hold on them. And in their freedom they only grew more heedless.
A small shred of flesh extracted by the Biosampler. The rare few who’ve studied this mechanism agree it appears to “ingest” the specimen. But what exactly happens to the extract is a source of great disagreement. Perhaps it's best not to know.
When the sheep first returned to Fainweald many rejoiced. They gave thanks to the herders who shared their bounty. They hardly even noticed when their neighbors began to disappear. Why worry when your belly is full?
Though the author’s name is lost, his words live on. He who held the seeds of infinity in his palm, made a promise. If he could not end what he started, he would find another way. The scripture pledges to cleanse the Revered, but such claims remain untested.
A faded chunk of etched obsidianite. Supposedly, both past and future were writ upon it. In time though, study and inquiry gave way to worship. Discrepancies were overlooked or even dismissed. In the end, it only offered another false hope.
Many would be proud to claim such a trophy. But not all revile these creatures. Some believe they're the children of the most holy union, the converging of the Blessed Mether and Sacred Passenger.
Within ossinite and quenched iron, lies the mark of its creator. A single word etched meticulously in the language of Mammon. “Endure” it reads. And so the golem did, but his creator never expected another creature might inhabit and exploit his masterwork.
In death, the sester withers and vanishes, but her crest remains. Heavy and crystalline, its form resembles a large Tarstone. Is this the fate of all Children of Infinity? Or did the Black Needle have some untold influence over her?
The severed remains of the Unbidden. At first, he was not unlike the Harbinger. And yet, as he matured into a new form, he succumbed to that which he was meant to destroy. The Foul Passenger breached his flesh, reshaping it for his own purposes. What was left of the original child? Who can say?
The crown of Winterglass remains perfectly preserved. While worn, one feels a faint memory stir. A whispered message, "Change is the enemy. It is the small death that leads to the annihilation of infinity."
At first glance, the words inside appear no more than a series of scratches and strikes without reason or purpose. And yet the closer one looks, the more a pattern seems to emerge.
In a tiny scrawl, an inscription has been carved into this key: “Our fair lady is as strong as the oxen, wise as the trees, and brilliant as the sunrise.”
The Mether’s Flesh is a remarkable discovery. For centuries, the kings and queens of Mammon sought it at all costs. The nobility feasted upon the sacred flesh believing it would bestow upon them miraculous gifts. And it did, in a sense, until there was none left.
A limp, shrunken gland. Its flesh flakes away like drifting ash. Drained, it can expel little more than fumes. If inhaled, these vapors may briefly befuddle the senses, conjuring up images of fire and blood that vanish as quickly as they appear.
A dull, empty gland. Though once hard as stone, it's now slick and supple, dripping a cloudy liquid. Those that dare consume it are left deeply disappointed. There is no salvation to be found, only opaque memories from a distant past.
A dim, lifeless gland. Its obsidian flesh pales, the pulse inside either dead or imperceptible. Inside its twin hearts, the Nektar has been emptied, but the venom remains. Those who seek infinity will only find its end within.
A reverberation from the Underglade that mends wounds and knits flesh anew. There is no question that the Harbinger has been bred for a task no mortal could undertake.
