My grandmother, dear Hama, used to tell me stories of this ancient Flame Shrine hidden away in a mountain somewhere south-east from here. Right before I'd drift off to sleep, she'd lull me in with promises of sacred scrolls, forgotten books, and prayers... a withered testament to people's devotion! Keepsakes and chachkies, offerings glistening in the warm light of the flame.

If it's really true that such a popular shrine was forgotten... perhaps I can find it! Charge for entry! Collect a percentage! One coin per prayer does not sound too bad, does it? No guarantee! That's the Conway spirit, I'd say!

I so fondly recall my clueless years, foolishly venturing further than the rest. The depths piqued my interest, full of wonder and awe. I reached out, yearning for knowledge, veiled in the warmth of the Flame. I was young and feared no mistakes. In the abyss, I felt eternity.

I feel it no more. The sand in my hourglass slips away. When I hear the Flame call the name of the eldest — my name — I am filled with regret. Our planet's core has changed... the ripple effect of my discoveries tore the valleys and our youngest apart. Failure should have scared me, not change. The abyss is all that remains, and it means oblivion.
I've branded my name into the stone — recorded all my failures on the Obelisks, burdened to outlast me. Fearing to be forgotten, I signed my name on the last... how very human of me. Curious, this final feeling. So hollow. So cold.

— Manathor