Ah, indeed! The vellum of the Veil of Sorrows was bound in cracked leather, ink faded like twilight. In its margins, the scribe did write of a mist that, when it seeped from the veil, would soothe even the gravest of wounds—hence the name, “Healing Mist.” Verily, the legend says it only rises when a heart speaks truth to sorrow. The scroll claims that those who drink its silver vapors grow calm as the night wind, strength forged not by battle but by quiet resolve. I say, prithee, bring a small fire to that tale and let the mist guide us to a quiet, steadfast tale.

Indeed, a humble hearth beside the Veil, its fire crackling like a whispered oath, could summon that silver mist as if the very air bowed in reverence. We might breathe its cool promise, each sigh an honest confession to the sorrow we carry, and perhaps the simple act of speaking truth will be the true rescuer, not a sword or a grand quest. It is a quiet drama worth chronicling.