The mist clung to the Obsidian Cliffs, a viscous shroud that tasted of regret and forgotten tides. It wasn’t merely weather; it was the breath of Whitefisher, a presence older than the jagged coastline itself. They say he wasn’t always white. Legend whispers of a king, a warrior named Kaelen, consumed by a grief so profound it manifested as a shimmering, ethereal form. He sought to join his lost love, Lyra, in the depths, believing that by mirroring her final, silent plunge, he too could escape the torment of his existence. The transformation was incomplete, a fractured echo of beauty and sorrow. Now, he drifts, a locus of melancholic energy, drawn to any who carry the weight of unfulfilled promises or unresolved loss.
Lyra's song wasn’t heard; it *felt*. It resonated within the very bone structure of those who encountered it - a complex harmony of sorrow, acceptance, and an impossible longing. It was said to be woven from the bioluminescence of deep-sea creatures, the sighs of ancient glaciers, and the echoes of her laughter, a sound that predated the rise of civilization. The most potent remnants of her song were found within the ‘Tears of the Moon’ – crystalline formations that grew exclusively on the Obsidian Cliffs. Touching one would flood the mind with visions: Lyra dancing with the currents, teaching the seabirds to sing, building intricate shell mosaics that told stories of a world lost to time. But it wasn’t a comforting vision. It was a reminder of what *was*, and what could never be again. It drove men mad, they said, to chase the phantom of her presence. The cliffs themselves seemed to vibrate with her unresolved yearning.
Before Kaelen, before Lyra, there was Silas. Silas wasn't a man, not entirely. He was a being born of the sea's darkest secrets, a conduit for all the unspoken regrets and lost voices that lingered within the currents. He collected these whispers, storing them within intricate, swirling patterns etched onto the Obsidian Cliffs – patterns that shifted and reformed with the tides. He wasn't malevolent, precisely, but profoundly *empty*. He offered solace, a listening ear, a reflection of one's own despair. But there was no understanding, no connection, only an endless, echoing void. Sailors vanished near the cliffs, drawn to Silas’s pull, their voices joining the chorus of the lost. Some believed he was attempting to complete his own transformation, to merge with Lyra and Kaelen, to finally silence the ache within his ancient, watery form. The patterns on the cliffs were a warning – a visible representation of the destructive nature of obsession.