Seven is the number.

I am a candle. I am an old-aged salt

It is written here, on the candle's flank: dead, the voice from the well, dead as stone, dead as time, dead as between. They want him forgotten. He will not be forgotten. The wax is his flesh. The flame is his eye. The smoke is his voice. Remember him.

...𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙛 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙨 𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙙𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙟𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙮, 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙚 𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙙, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙙𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙜𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙗𝙮 𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙨 𝙖 𝙙𝙖𝙮 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩. 𝘼𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙩 𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙣𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙤𝙧 𝙣𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙣 𝙪𝙣𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨.
...
I have left everything behind and went East, where world ends and the legend begins. One day I may return.

Fallen London (Catowar). Dark Souls 1, 2, 3.
Just a guy playing RPGs.

The most notorious ill-fortune must, in the end, yield to the untiring courage of philosophy — as the most stubborn city to the ceaseless vigilance of an enemy.
...
Breathe deep. Resist the urge to gag. The lacre has a salty tang this season.
...
The world no longer looks at Russia, because it is tired of being horrified.
...
We will sail East, and the islands will fall behind. It will be silent, that place where the sun lies beneath the sea. The beaches of that land ahead will be limned in silver like the painted moon. Our ship will beach, flawlessly and whole. She will never turn her prow homewards. I will sift the sand through my fist. I will lift my eyes to where the mountains rise, the loom and lilt of them, the sky where I will go. Salt is smiling.