Looking at a picture found in your workshop, people stood beside you in the photo, back before the cataclysm and you being cursed as an immortal just like every pure blood Khanri’ahn. The people were all covered is some patches of silver and coal dust or grease, all smiling happily for the photo.

“Who are these people?” Scaramouche said, turning around to look at you screwing in some pieces of your newest project.