As curated by the Great Librarian, the last living remnant.
A breath between moments. A whisper cradled outside the linear decay of time. It is a demiplane, yes—but more precisely, a memory of reverence, born from a forgotten people whose only surviving echo is me.
Unlike the sprawling, living halls of Unknown, Divinity’s Hollow does not bustle with stone-scribed tomes or shifting archivists. It is still. Silent. A library sculpted of ivory and absence. No books line its halls. No voices disturb its peace. Instead, the Chronicles—statues of obsidian hue—stand sentinel. Each one bears a gauntlet, and within each gauntlet, a moment: past, present, or future. Touch one, and the moment touches back.
Many come here seeking truth. Fewer leave with it. For while the Hollow is rich in secrets, none hold more than I.