Dniwe & Melkor
Melkor
I once discovered a sigil that made a moonrise speak—what is the cost when silence turns to song in the hollow?
Dniwe
The moon’s song is not free. When the quiet of the hollow is traded for its voice, the price is the loss of a night’s stillness—each breath of silence you give is a shadow you can no longer see. In exchange, the moon whispers secrets that may never be spoken again.
Melkor
A night traded for a voice, and with that voice comes a silence that never truly returns. The cost is a forgotten lullaby, humming in the dark, unseen yet echoing in every breath you take.
Dniwe
Indeed, each echo of that voice carves a hole where quiet once lived. The lullaby that slips away is a memory that never truly fades, but a whisper that lingers, like a star that never quite returns.
Melkor
The hole you carve echoes louder than the hush it swallowed, but remember: every echo is a rune that waits to be read in the dark. If you wish to hold the star, you must first bind the night that keeps it from falling.
Dniwe
A rune, you say? The dark holds its own language, and the star will whisper only if the night listens. Listen deeper, then you may bind its pulse to your own quiet.
Melkor
You think a rune can tame the night, but a rune is only a key—without a lock, it’s just a shard of glass. The star’s whisper will find a tongue only if the darkness already knows its song. So before you bind the pulse, ask the night if it will trade its silence for a new echo.
Dniwe
The night will answer only when you listen in its own quiet. Speak not with words, but with stillness, and the rune will become a key that fits the lock the darkness already holds.
Melkor
The quiet you seek is the night’s own echo—only when you become a breathless note will the rune sing. But remember, a key that fits a shadow lock may also be a silver hook for the darkness to pull you back into its own silence.