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Ancient wyrms who remember when mountains were young. Their breath forges new minerals in the earth, and their dreams shape the weather for leagues around. To see one is to know your place in the cosmos.
Neither bird nor flame, but the memory of both. Each death teaches them something new, and they have died ten thousand times. Their tears heal; their feathers ignite hope in the hopeless.
Guardians of innocent dreamers and lost children. Their horn holds starlight condensed over centuries. They appear only to those who have forgotten how to lie, which is why so few adults ever see them.
Born where eagles dare not fly and lions fear to tread. They guard treasures not of gold, but of secrets—the last words of dying kings, the locations of forgotten libraries, the true names of storms.
The ocean's oldest nightmare, dreaming in depths where light has never reached. Sailors say it doesn't hunt ships—it simply forgets they aren't toys. Its tentacles have mapped coastlines that no longer exist.
Three heads, three minds, one eternal purpose. The left sees your past sins, the right sees your future ones, and the center knows why you've really come. None have passed without permission twice.
Their songs don't lure sailors to death—they lure them to truth. Most men simply cannot survive hearing what they actually are. The kind ones sing lullabies instead, granting peaceful sleep beneath the waves.
King of serpents, whose gaze turns flesh to stone and stone to dust. Gardens of statues mark its passing—former heroes, all. The wise approach walking backwards, guided only by shadow and instinct.