Theobald Surn was once appointed Keeper of the Epoch Wall, responsible for erasing obsolete histories from collective memory. He took the role seriously. Too seriously.
To forget something properly, he believed, you must first become it.
Over time, his face absorbed entire civilizations. Each wrinkle holds a failed war, each pore a lost belief. His nose was the final casualty, reshaped by forgotten consequences.
He now drifts between borderlands of memory, muttering treaties that were never signed. He rarely speaks in the present tense.
No one remembers appointing him.