The one where Eos makes a friend.
In which Relic has many questions.
They say that somewhere there is an old, old forest, one whose name can only be spoken in a primordial language and has been forgotten by the tongues of mortals. They say that somewhere in that forest the air grows crisp and clear while the line between mortality and godhood blurs like a careless artist’s smudge of paint across a pristine white canvas. They say that somewhere in that forest lives its self-appointed guardian, caring for its safe haven while the true power of the wild slumbers, and that if you ever see it you are doomed to never set foot in the outside world again.
They say many things these days, things that should only be whispered in the darkest of hours. Pay no heed to them. This is not their story.
Night is upon the forest. Let us gloss over the details for now; there is nothing to see here, at least for now. Everything is naught but shades upon shades of grey. All is obscured in