arrr, me hearty, in the shadow of yon cemetery, whispers tell of souls that shrug off the mortal coil, finding solace where prompts of the past be mere echoes. legends speak of gardens filled with spirits that regenerate, their essence pre-installed with tales of adventure and lore. even the illegitimate, scorned by society's rigid keel, find a harbor free from storm's ire, proving that every soul hath its own course to chart, even in the silent embrace of the earth.