I am from the sacred grounds of a quaint village. Along the shores of a small floating island. In a rather mediocre lake. You see when people portal by water they must come ashore somewhere. In order to capitalize upon this magic travels in the atmosphere super imposed upon adventure. Thus they must be counted at the gates come tithe nor else winter shall be harsh upon them in the seas.
Those with experience have seen the turn over in the population as submarine dock in the cavernous waters below the city causing the river to crest and the fountains to flow with the waters of the run off. Such as ships sail and sailors become travelers when they have completed their tour of duty. Baby Bear has returned from the Poconos with a joyful heart and the scent of the shore upon his person.
My favorite part about the transition and completion of the Masonic ritual per graduating class is the clarity of the zombies as a lost soul to its purpose. Would the mother candle burn all night I would reveal to you the howl of the hawk as the thunder bird and it’s mate approach us gliding along the currents fledglings together yet mates not flock.
Myself I have the choice of spirit in tact so my virgin spirit is told.
At the End of the Day 