In most times and places, Lowen is gone forever.
I mourn for her. The memory of her swamps and deserts still lingers in my mind. The people that inhabited her shores have long since moved on, but they hover through my dreams. The writings and history that were locked within her vaults have sunk beneath the waves.
The one that crawled out was chained again. Nevertheless, Lowen's star has disappeared. A new cycle for its folk begins.
She is not here. And we are not there. Three stories are being told, and hers is not one of them, though I wish it was. The dreams that presaged her fall are happening again and again and again, and each time we grow more desperate. We are infected. Perhaps there will be salvation in this new land, but perhaps there won't be.
I desire salvation from the tides.
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