Pure light engulfs the knowledge of the ancient breed, protects it in a flaming core. Wisdom far beyond my own imagination. I could stare into the fire for hours, seeking answers, a whisper... But I hear none. Despite possessing a voice, it only speaks to those born from the Flame.
A shame, as I believe we could have quite enlightened conversations.
— Balthazar, 508 D.A.
A rather adventurous landing, but I'm quite satisfied otherwise. After all, I found a Flame Shrine.
I postulate that the Ancients leave behind a Spark after they expire. In fact, the spark may be their entire being, their soul — a mystical core, a fragment of the Flame!
Normally, their light joins the Flame and imbues all knowledge collected throughout their lifespan. At times, however, they rest in these shrines instead, atop cliffs or amidst faraway caves... especially recently. To "protect" us, as the people of Orindell would believe. Or to "survey" us, as a Rimgardian would say.
What whispers of wisdom are they hiding?
...Also, how does one get down from here?
— Balthazar, 507 D.A.
These spires stretch to the firmament and deny entry to those who are unworthy. The ancient breed enters, but I never see them leave... I've 2 theories:
1. The Ancient Spires are somehow connected to another, and the silent ones travel between them as they please.
2. The Ancient Spires serve as a burial site, similar to the Flame Shrines. The Ancients store all knowledge of the land in the Flame here when they leave the mortal plane.
One way or another, I cannot enter. When I step on the ornate plate, nothing occurs. What a shame.
— Balthazar, 507 D.A.
Another Elixir Well is built on the backs of workers, slaving away tirelessly to gouge a tunnel into the earth. The plans for this construction are... otherworldly.
The chasm spits fumes with every jab. Thin veils of mist cause headaches and irritate the eyes... at least they haven't caused a lasting sickness yet.
Such destruction and upheaval... All for "the Elixir". I hope this foul air will not spread to Lone Thistle.
— Balthazar, 498 D.A.
It's a formula I do not quite grasp, sophisticated beyond imagination. I'm not surprised to know that the source of this recipe is otherworldly.
Created from the flesh of these tiny, delicate fungi growing deep beneath the earth... It grants power. Yet, when I look at this flask, worry fills my heart. This will never be a cure. This will always be a weapon. Perhaps the Ancients hid this for a reason.
— Balthazar, 500 D.A.