These remnants, rotting keepsakes of words and pictures are mnemonically residual. They are scryed, interfaces utilizing misfired sigilings, systems of incomplete quasi-alchemical call-signs and proto-symbologies loosely based upon borrowed (and in some cases stolen) artificially charged devices. When assembled into specific schemas, this soft machinery marks as it contains, and thus constructs the Terminal House.
The Passage of Fallen Stars
These fallen stars of bio-occult fragments, tearful eyes from the head of God resting in the secret pits of our ignorance. Our heads are removed from our bodies and our faces are peeled from our heads. Our faces will hide forever in the forests of formlessness. When you encounter such a figure, such a godless façade, a headless body with arms outstretched, holding a faceless head, you have wandered far from your path. This non-mundane path is primal and barbarous, cartographies are required to locate the empty eye sockets of divinity that will help make visible your return home. Those that sacrifice or find a goat for themselves on the path become beasts and demigod bastards crawl upon their death heads, but we are in-between. We die a father of our own sons. Please take the time to inspect your silver cord harness and make sure your psychic cable is not in tatters from our obsessive gnawing. We are sorry.