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.
Feeding on Time and moving through the roots and the ground and the dirt. The headless one, the sleeping one, the sleeper of rust, the chthonic sleep walker of paths, tunnels and ladders. These routes drowned by rust. He sleeps beneath standing waters gathered by holes in the sky. He prays to himself. Slumbering in deep Space without feet, or hands or body. The decapitated one, the dreaming one, the dreamer of dust, the starry haunter of caves, houses and lodges. These dwellings buried by dust. He dreams behind mirrors of mud. He listens for movement. The bone tunnels beneath the world of the Alpha, the skin room at the center of the world of the Omega, the walker and the haunter. The first one seeks and the last one waits. The last head of the hydra waits. That which now walks on all fours upside down seeks. Horns now grow from the head to hear. Hair grows from the body to see.