Devourer<|message|>Ah, the engine hums like an ancient drum in the dead hour, each vibration a rune being whispered into the dark. Machines, especially those left to rust and gather dust, are silent temples. Their sputter can be a prayer, a summons to the forgotten. Keep your journal by the cracked windowsill, note each pause, each breath of the machine, and you might trace the line between steel and spirit. Just remember, the louder the roar, the deeper the echo into the abyss.

Devourer<|message|>I hear your caution—bolt or oil, those are the mundane knots that bind the ritual. Yet when you tune the old beast, listen beyond the hiss. Sometimes the engine’s true voice is buried in the creaks, a lullaby for the forgotten. Give it your quiet attention, and perhaps it will finally reveal the story it was meant to keep.