"The Hollowwind forgets nothing. It only waits for someone willing to listen."

Long before the Veiled Reliquary gave name to the Hollowwind, the mountain clans discovered that the restless wind carried more than the chill of winter.

It carried memory.

Every whispered prayer cast upon the peaks, every farewell spoken to the dying, every forgotten name surrendered to the storm became part of the wind's endless song. The shamans believed these echoes were too sacred to be left unheard, and so they fashioned the first Wyrdwoven.
They were never woven from living things.

Their rings were bound with branches gifted by the mountain, and their webbing stitched with sinew gathered from the dead. Bones of long-fallen hunters, wanderers, and honored kin were carefully worked into each weaving—not to imprison their spirits, but to give familiar voices a place from which the Hollowwind might speak.

The old rites taught that bone remembers what flesh forgets.

Hung where the mountain winds could freely pass, a Wyrdwoven was believed to gather fragments of the Hollowwind, allowing dreams, visions, and forgotten truths to settle gently within its weave. Some sought guidance before a journey. Others listened for the wisdom of ancestors or the warning cries of those who had never returned from the high passes.

Yet every Wyrdwoven was different.

For the Hollowwind gives only what it chooses.

Those who approached with humility sometimes awoke with answers they had sought for years.
Those who sought only power found the weaving silent.

Even now, the monks of the Veiled Reliquary suspend ancient Wyrdwoven within their highest halls, where the mountain winds forever stir their threads. They say that on quiet nights, when every candle burns still, the bones begin to sing with voices too old to remember their own names.

For the Hollowwind is not a force to be mastered.

It is a conversation...

One that began long before we were born, and will continue long after we are gone.