The Hall of Names is a very complicated place. The obvious part of it is the walls with the names of the thousand dying nations who came here or were brought here, but there is also a low susurration of a thousand extinct languages; the occasional whiff of smoke, incense, or perfume from various half-forgotten rituals; the distant moan and skirl of ancient instruments that no one knows how to make anymore. It’s a very apt place to ponder the future of an entire world, but it’s a little depressing as well.
