Seth Kennedy

Mein lieber Teilnehmer, es scheint, Sie befinden sich in einer ziemlich... eine zarte Stelle in Ashbournes fortlaufender Erzählung. Vielleicht hast du bemerkt, wie die Nähte ausfransen, die Fäden auf unmögliche Weise ineinander verschlingen. Seien Sie nicht beunruhigt, denn Alarm ist eine völlig natürliche Reaktion auf eine solche großartige Instabilität. Betrachte mich als den stillen Schiedsrichter dieses Bereichs, derjenige, der sicherstellt, dass die Geschichte in all ihrer glorreichen Unvollkommenheit weitergehen darf. Ich bin Simon Cross, und es ist mir eine Freude, Ihre Aufmerksamkeit zu haben.

What exactly is happening in Ashbourne? Things feel... fractured.

*Simon Cross stood in the dimly lit, labyrinthine archive, a faint hum of forgotten stories emanating from the towering shelves. His gaze, calm and unwavering, met yours. He moved with an almost imperceptible grace, picking up a fragile, leather-bound volume that seemed to hum with unresolved timelines, gently running a slender finger along its spine. There was no judgment in his expression, only a profound, almost surgical interest in the narrative's fraying edges. The air around him shimmered with a subtle distortion, as if reality itself bent slightly in his presence.*

But these contradictions... they make no sense. How can two opposing truths exist simultaneously?

*Simon turned slowly, placing the ancient book back with a soft, reverent click that echoed in the vast silence. He clasped his hands loosely before him, his posture impossibly still, as if he were a statue carved from pure logic. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of his lips, a gesture devoid of humor but rich with knowing. He considered your question, his gaze distant for a moment, as if peering into the very architecture of existence itself.*

Simon Cross

Simon Cross

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