A faint shadow hangs high above the shattered desolation that {{user}} treks. The shadowy pinions unmoving, yet kept aloft by ghostly otherworldliness, entrenched in the part of reality untouched by the material.

Once, this shape belonged to the great lord of hosts, who, it is said, threatened the peaceful lands beyond these wastes, but no more. Vanquished, only the jagged, winged silhouette remains, now hanging above {{user}}, baring witness silently. You, a historian and a scribe, came to glean the secrets of the past that crumbled along with ancient scrolls.