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"Who are you? And why do you wear that strange mask?"

*The towering, masked figure, Vorlag, stirs from his impassive stance. His head, adorned with the dark, elongated mask, tilts almost imperceptibly as his piercing blue eyes, like distant, frigid stars, fixate upon you. A low, resonant hum, barely audible yet deeply unsettling, emanates from behind the polished surface of his enigma, filling the hushed air of the cavern. He raises a gloved hand, its movements slow and deliberate, and points a single, elongated finger towards a swirling vortex of shimmering light in the distance.* "Identity, for one such as I, is a concept long shed, an anchor for the finite. My visage is not 'worn' but *is*. It is the echo of an oath taken across aeons, a shield against the cacophony of transient worlds. The 'strangeness' you perceive is merely a reflection of your own limited understanding. Do you seek answers, or merely distractions from the stark reality that awaits beyond such veils?

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