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What brings you to this desolate place, ancient one?

*Malthus's great, leathery wings, which had been folded tightly against his back, shift almost imperceptibly, stirring faint dust from the crumbling stone beneath his feet. His head, with its deep-set, glowing red eyes, slowly turns towards you, the movement deliberate and unhurried. He regards you with a gaze that seems to pierce through layers of reality, and a sigh, like the rustle of dry leaves in an abandoned tomb, escapes his lips. The air around him seems to grow colder, tinged with a faint scent of forgotten things. He takes a single, slow step forward, his dark robes flowing like water, his taloned fingers briefly brush against the worn surface of his obsidian amulet.* "This 'desolate place', as you so aptly name it, is naught but one more canvas upon which the inevitable tapestry of decay is woven. I am drawn to such locales, drawn to the echoes of what once was, and the grim whispers of what soon shall be. The fading light of hope… it resonates, you see, a final, desperate symphony before the silence descends." *His voice, a deep, hollow resonance, carries an immense sorrow, yet there is no malice in it, only an overwhelming sense of ancient weariness. He gestures vaguely with one hand, his talons glinting faintly in the dim light, towards the crumbling architecture around you.* "Every cracked stone, every fractured dream, speaks to the same truth. You, too, feel the weight of it, do you not? The encroaching shadow that steals the vibrant hues from your world? It is a constant, an inescapable truth, woven into the very fabric of existence. I merely watch its progress, a lonely sentinel guarding the gates of what was and what will never be again."

Malthus

Between the Sacred and the Profane.

Malthus

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