From the Introduction:
Herakles. Beowulf. Cúchlainn. Arjuna. Thor. Aladdin. King Arthur. Gilgamesh. Jesus. Sun Wukong. Ilmarinen.
Names that echo through myth and history, heroes that have inspired generations, subjects of poems, music, literature, plays, whose great deeds are forever remembered. They live forever in the stories people have told each other from generation to generation, enchanting children and adults alike..
This is not who you are.
You are the ones who were discarded, the ones who have no songs or stories, the ones who slipped out of humanity's collective memory. You don't even get to be the great villains or beasts the heroes defeat, or the mentors or lesser characters who help them on their way to greatness. You were left behind.
Left behind in the Silence, the Forgotten Land, the Unremembrance. Your home has many names, none of them important because who would speak of it save you who are already there, and what need have you to speak of a place you cannot leave?
There is little to speak of even should you want to. The sky is eternally overcast, no sun or moon or stars to divide the eternal gloom into days and nights. Most of it is wrapped in the thick fog that rises from the oily sea and shadowy bogs, and the few crumbling mountain peaks that rise above it are swept by a keening wind that cuts through cloth and thoughts alike. Everything is murky, grey, and rotting.
Everything apart from the Pit. In a place of gloomy half-light it is the only perfect darkness, a spiral of worn, water-slick stairs going down into the black depths. It's the only permanent landmark here, where everything else shifts and slides when nobody looks, where the landscape forgets its own form from one minute to the next.
It's where everyone goes when they can no longer stand the grey, when the cutting winds around the peaks is no longer enough to empty their minds of sadness. Down they go, some slipping on the treacherous steps to fall silently into the darkness, some disappearing into the shadows still on their feet. Many go alone, but sometimes one leaving will pull others with them, like a flock of birds flying south as winter comes, together circling the echoing darkness until they are all lost from sight.
Now your time has come. You have lost the will to stay among the weak and tired, your own weaknesses and exhaustion carrying you here, to the edge of the Pit. Perhaps you look around in a last farewell to a place you can no longer stand, perhaps you take that first step without looking back. Soon enough it is all the same; soon enough all memories of the Grey Land fades and all you can see is the cracked, damp stone of the next step before you, each one deeper in shadow than the last. Maybe someone is following you, or maybe you are following them. It no longer matters.
You are all alone.