The room fell into a deep and weighted silence, leaving only the voice of the old man, Obsidar, to echo softly like a fading hymn of times of yore. His tones carried in their weight the gravity of wisdom, each word steeped in the richness of age and the scars of experience.
The breaths of everyone in that room, their eyes upon him, their hearts paused-but not really-as if to take the toll of history he was going to narrate. Dances of shadows wove upon the wall their restless forms mimicked by the restlessness hung in the air while the old man stood erect, solemn, a monument weathered by time itself.
"This event happened in the early times of civilization, a hundred years after the death of the Ancestor," Obsidar began, his voice heavy, every word etched by the passage of time. "Strange beings showed up-things no bigger than stone missiles. Their existence was a mystery, as clear as crystal yet shrouded in mystery. Evidently, they were two different races.
