(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

"It is my duty to preserve and protect, but never to partake, for a forgotten
memory remembered vanishes from my collection, and is lost forever in the
minds of men."
"But why not share your collection?" Epetrius asks, shocked, "All that
knowledge at your fingertips... what use is it moldering in some library?"
Keeper-of-Forgotten-Thoughts shakes his head, "The minds of men are
imperfect. A memory in a mind is battered with time. With age the thought
warps and rots like old wood: weathered and bent from without, chewed
and moldering from within. Oh many have tried to preserve such things...
but the written word decays, errors are introduced when what remains is
transcribed or translated. Even your sensory stones can only preserve the
essence of the memory, never the soul.
"No, it is better for such things to remain lost. Once a memory is forgotten,
it cannot be assailed by the edges of time. Only then is it forever pristine."
"But you said you'd share the last of the telling," Oudilin murmurs.
The Keeper nods, "In the past months I have watched, as little by little parts
of my collection fled from me with each journal of The Nameless One
collected and their knowledge revived. Scraps of thought that were once
gone now vanished. True my collection of the tale had always been
incomplete, for there are a few select scholars that know alternate details of
The Nameless One's journey, perhaps passed down secondhand or third, or
through a long string of lips and quills. Yet much of the tale once lay in
relative opacity, those details housed safely in my cupboards."
He pulls a vial from his robes, a long glass phylactery spiraled with a metal
serpent whose jaws clutch the lid. White-green smoke swirls throughout it,
and in the pale light cast by the glow you think you can see movement. Yes...
smoky shapes that writhe in the air.
"These final memories of the journal are all that remain. It was once a thing
of desperate making, that final journal... a diary scribed from shadowstuff
and lamentations, written in tears and bound with sorrow. A thing terrible
and beautiful, and the only sage who read it had been so struck by its
horrors that he destroyed the thing. This before gouging out his eyes and
casting himself into the sea, where the knowledge drowned and made its
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