Each time they fell, they were reforged. Each time they were reforged, something of what came before was lost. All immortality bears a price, and theirs is no true eternity - if any thing is remade enough times, nothing remains of the original.
countenances conceal hearts filled with doubt and confusion. Expectant
faces seek them out, place their hope in that which appears constant.
Yet the truth is, these are wanderers and strays themselves, out of
contact with their brethren. Fraying threads of memory denying them the
knowledge of a purpose they yearn for.
The truth is, they were indeed forged in storms, but nothing is eternal.