Unspoken Wake

Описание: The Story of Jeevan, Part 1
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The wind whispers through the ruins of my village, a mocking echo of the prayers that failed us. When the plague came, the gods turned deaf. The clerics’ chants and the shamans’ visions were swallowed by the miasma; one by one, they joined the pyres on the village green - a grim testament to divine impotence.

Only I, Jeevan, remained. I am no miracle of grace, but a tinker whose spirit was forged in the stubborn resilience of Gnomish blood. In the silence left by the gods' retreat, a new oath bloomed within me. I will not seek the arcane for riches, but to wield it as a tool to overcome death and to shield against the darkness that devoured my world.

With a heart of burning embers, I have turned my back on the smoldering remnants of my past. I seek Alexandria, the great library where answers are whispered in ancient scrolls. I walk toward its light, ready to forge a path for healing a world the gods have forsaken.

Yet, I am never truly alone. The smoke of the funeral pyres clings to my shadow, weaving a wake of those I left behind. I feel them, the Unspoken, tugging at my robes, their silent pleas shivering through my bones. My heart screams to reach into the mist and offer comfort, but my hands are empty of the power they require. To return now would be to join them. I must keep my gaze on the horizon, carrying their sorrow as penance until I unlock the secrets of life and death.
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Part 2:    • Shadow of Fear  
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[Intro]

[Verse 1 - The Plague]
The red-silt paths of Konkan turn to gray,
Where incense smoke and mantras went astray.
The gods grew deaf, the temple bells are still,
While shadows climbed the silence of the hill.
No prayer could halt the creeping, dark decay,
The clerics fell where they had knelt to pray.

[Verse 2 - The Tinker]
The tinker’s son, with grease upon his hand,
The only spark left in a blackened land.
Jeevan, his name, the "Breath of Living" sound,
A pulse of life where only ghosts are found.
Not by the grace of heaven, but the gear -
A pulse of brass that ticks despite the fear.

[Verse 3 - The Oath of the Arcane]
When temples emptied and the prayers were spent,
He forged an oath from grief and discontent.
No holy blessing, but a craftsman’s art,
To weld the world and shield its breaking heart.
Not seeking power, nor the riches of a king,
But magic used as tool and clockwork spring.

[Chorus A - The Failed Comfort]
Oh, the Unspoken follow in his stride,
A gray-hued wake with nowhere left to hide.
They pull the hem of travel-beaten cloth,
Like ghosts of silk, like embers and the moth.
He reaches back to grant them final rest,
But finds no power in his mortal chest.

[Verse 4 - The Unspooling of Time]
But sorrow curdles as the seasons turn,
Beneath the suns that bleach and stars that burn.
The creeping hours have sharpened grief to fear,
As time unwinds the gears he held so dear.
The months have ground his pity into dread,
A rusted chain that binds him to the dead.

[Verse 5 -The Beacon of the West]
He turned his back on ash and blackened bone,
To face the peaks and empires yet unknown.
Through mountain pass where bitter winds would bite,
He sought the scrolls that whisper in the light.
A lighthouse built of wisdom, not of stone,
To heal a world the gods had left alone.

[Chorus B - The Restless Tide]
Oh, the Unspoken stir within his stride,
A rising tide with nowhere left to hide.
They claw the hem of travel-beaten cloth,
Like frantic wings of some dying moth.
He walks the West, but turns his head in dread,
Powerless against the restless dead.

[Verse 6 - The Arrival]
The Indus flows behind his weary back,
As Alexandria rises, white and black.
He seeks the tower, the scrolls of ancient light,
The "Plague-Touched" son who walks out of the night.
Within the halls where silent answers dwell,
To break the grip of death’s unyielding spell.

[Bridge]
His heart screams "Turn!" to comfort every ghost,
To reach into the mist of those he loved the most.
But empty hands can’t grant a spirit rest,
And terror blooms where pity was a guest.
A penance paid in miles, a debt in every breath,
He runs from ghosts to find the keys of death.

[Chorus B - Repeat]
Oh, the Unspoken stir within his stride,
A rising tide with nowhere left to hide.
They claw the hem of travel-beaten cloth,
Like frantic wings of some dying moth.
He walks the West, but turns his head in dread,
Powerless against the restless dead.

[Outro]
A pulse of brass...
A breath of bone...
He enters the halls...
But never alone.
The gears are worn...
The smoke is thick...
The Breath of Living...
A fading tick.

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