[Intro] [Speak] Velcarum rises from the delta like a dream caught between water and shadow. The river spreads wide here, slowing to a silent crawl as if paying respect before it meets the open sea. That means nothing in Velcarum ever moves quickly, not the currents, not the fog, not even the people who walk its stone paths. Everything feels held in place by some unseen hand. [Chorus] Time is passing to a ultimate end, We all find that location whispered in the wind, Drifting through mists of the forgotten lore, They tear at our souls and poison our core. [Speak] The first thing a traveler notices is the color of the water. It is black, but not with filth. It is black like polished obsidian, so still it mirrors the sky with perfect clarity. When the barges cut across it, the surface breaks into long silver tears that shimmer before fading away. The air carries the scent of damp earth, river reed, and a faint sharpness like old incense. At the edge of the docks, where the water laps against stone, you may smell the fire oils burned by the ferrymen and the sweet rot of wet flowers left as offerings. [Chorus] Time is passing to a ultimate end, We all find that location whispered in the wind, Drifting through mists of the forgotten lore, They tear at our souls and poison our core. [Speak] The city’s soundscape is just as strange. Velcarum is never loud. Even on its busiest day, voices remain muted, footsteps softened, and metal tools wrapped in cloth. People walk with measured respect, as if speaking too sharply might stir the river dead from their journey. The only constant noise is the creak of black barges drifting in and out of the fog, and the soft chant of oars dipping into the water with practiced grace. [Chorus] Time is passing to a ultimate end, We all find that location whispered in the wind, Drifting through mists of the forgotten lore, They tear at our souls and poison our core. [Speak] The architecture stands tall and narrow, shaped from river-stone that glitters beneath moss. Houses tilt inward like grieving figures gathered for a funeral. Iron gutter-spouts end in carved raven heads. Every window holds a candle. Even in daylight, a small flame burns, swaying gently with each passing draft. [Chorus] Time is passing to a ultimate end, We all find that location whispered in the wind, Drifting through mists of the forgotten lore, They tear at our souls and poison our core. [Speak] And always, the ferrymen watch. Cloaked and hooded, they stand along the piers, unmoving until called. Their barges are long, flat, and silent, marked with simple white cords tied around the bow. When a body is brought to them, wrapped in linen and braided reeds, they accept with a nod. No words are exchanged. The dead speak enough as they drift across the black delta waters toward the islands beyond. [Chorus] Time is passing to a ultimate end, We all find that location whispered in the wind, Drifting through mists of the forgotten lore, They tear at our souls and poison our core. [Chorus] Time is passing to a ultimate end, We all find that location whispered in the wind, Drifting through mists of the forgotten lore, They tear at our souls and poison our core.
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