It comes to pass that the Traveller sails to distant islands, shrouded in mist and foreboding. Sky and Sea infuse the senses with deep melancholy. The Guardians of the land stand remote, silent and withdrawn, they assess but give nothing away.
The journey continues, more within than without it seems. The Soul is laid bare, open to the winds and cries of birds. The mountain stands proud, clothed in wildness unapproachable. The traveller gazes day in and day out across the waters. What do they wait for? No answer is forthcoming.
The heavens are in turmoil, glimpsed fleetingly through steel grey and silver pearl. Sky gods race across land and sea, speak with thunderous voice, threaten with elemental power. There is no escape, ‘where do you run?’ they ask commandingly, knowing full well the answer. The Traveller is mute. They have no need of words, for the Soul soaks up…
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