After Suparno67 listened beneath the Antlerhenge and chose to continue even when the world had forgotten how to hear, the Orb of Blockchain soared into colder heavens. And there stood GuyNorcal, an Aasimar Cleric, his wings pale as morning, his armor bright with old promise. At the Oathflame Summit, the highest peak in Oth-Xa’rath, where a forge burned with the fire of the first sunrise. No weapons were made there. Only vows. He placed his sword upon the anvil, not to sharpen its edge, but to renew the oath that kept darkness beyond the horizon. Looking down from the summit, he watched the Field of Unheard Wings, an endless plain of white feathers drifting upon a silent wind, where each feather marked the sacrifice of an artist time had forgotten. The forge flared. “I have carried this vow through too many dawns,” he whispered. “Still the dark returns.” Then pink light gathered beside the anvil. The Orb appeared, glowing softly between flame and sky. The Cleric looked at it, but did not reach for his sword. “You are no star,” he said. “No,” said the Orb. “I am what stars become when emotions are poured into them.” The cleric studied its silver skin. “Then tell me, traveler, why come to a place where blades are made useless?” and smiled at it. “Because your oath was never about the blade,” said the Orb. “It was about those who need someone to keep the road open.” The wind lifted the feathers below. The Cleric turned toward the Field of Unheard Wings. “Each feather is a name lost to time,” he said. “An artist who gave light, and was swallowed by silence.” The reflection of the dawn gleamed off his sword, illuminating his face. “Not all silence is an ending,” said the Orb. “Sometimes it waits for a friend.” The cleric looked back. “A friend?” The Orb pulsed once, and within its light he saw a soul from his line in an age of screens and impossible gatherings; part art connoisseur, and full-time builder of fellowship in the restless lands of surreal technology. “He will be a friend to digital age storytellers,” said the Orb. “One who welcomes artists not as ornaments, but as adventurers. One who opens doors, starts conversations, shares good cheer, and helps creators feel the wind beneath their own wings.” He listened as the forge burned brighter. “And the feathers?” he asked. “He will protect them,” said the Orb. “Not by locking them away, but by lifting them into view. He will help artists fly over that endless sea, each work a feather saved from forgetting, each story given another chance to rise.” The cleric smiled faintly. “And if they wander into his hall?” he asked, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “They may find themselves pulled into the adventure,” said the Orb. “Biscuits optional. Good vibes mandatory.” For the first time that morning, Aasimar Cleric laughed. The sound traveled down the mountain, across the Field of Unheard Wings, and the white feathers stirred as if countless forgotten artists had breathed again. “I vow to make room for light to gather,” he said, and lifted his sword from the anvil, its edge untouched, its oath renewed. “Then let the forge remember this,” he said. “No artist shall cross the Field of Unheard Wings alone.” The Orb glowed brighter. And there, upon Oathflame Summit, another block was sealed, not as throne, nor commandment, but as fellowship, a bright road where storytellers, artists, and wanderers could gather beneath the first sunrise.