In, out, in, out, in, out. The final ordeal had been the most ferocious, leaving deep gouges across her heart. But today, her hands are free. She stands at a crossroads, sunlight fracturing through the leaves. To her left, the path descends into cool shadows. The trees reach out with dark, comforting arms, offering respite from the sun’s harsh glare. Moss cushions the ground, inviting her to step forward. Down that way, the voices of her tormentors’ echo—taunting, slick with arrogance. She is no longer helpless. Revenge is within reach. Yet, another path calls out to her heart.

To the right, the path glimmers in unyielding sunlight—no shadows, no darkness, nowhere to hide. It whispers of hope and hard-won purpose, urging her to shed her pain, her anger, her bitterness. To begin a new adventure. The way is steep, the ground uneven and sharp with scattered stones. This path offers no comfort for her wounds, no outlet for relief for her rage at the cruel treatment, but it does promise growth and new opportunity. It is the road of transformation—arduous, honest, and alive with the possibility of new adventures. It will not be easy, but it holds the promise of becoming something more than her pain.

In, out, in, out, in, out. She glances once more at the shadowed trail. Her heart aches for retribution, for the fierce satisfaction of fighting back. But deep within, she knows: if she sets foot on that downward path, there’s no turning back. Revenge would be thorough and intoxicating, but the price is the loss of this moment—this crossroads where choice still exists. If she instead turns right, she must remain vigilant; one careless step, and she could tumble down, lost to the darkness she longs to leave behind.

The jeers of her attackers rise behind her, sharp as broken glass. She stands still, breath steady, thoughts swirling. She has mapped out countless paths to vengeance—all effective, all consuming. Yet she remains. She waits, gathering strength to loosen her grip on pain. She yearns to choose the ascendant path, to chase new promises and adventures, but the hurt clings stubbornly. So, in, out, in, out, she turns her back on the voices, gathers every fractured part of herself—pain, anger, hope—and steps forward, choosing the difficult path into the light.

Between the Patriot tribe and the Loyalist tribe, a river of blood had flowed for years, staining fields and memories alike. Each side clung to the fierce conviction that their cause was righteous, refusing to yield even a single blade of grass. The very word 'compromise' was poison; 'surrender,' an unthinkable blasphemy.

Tacticians on both sides spun intricate webs of strategy, each brilliant plan promising swift, decisive victory. Yet, every time triumph seemed within reach, their adversaries twisted away, striking back with even greater ferocity. The promise of an ending dangled forever just out of reach, a cruel mirage on a battlefield that refused to be tamed.

A stranger—a soul unclaimed by either side—tumbled into the frenzy. Terrified, he weaved through hails of fire and the chaos of close combat, finally collapsing behind the Loyalist lines. When his heart steadied, he surveyed the scene with outsider’s eyes. Unlike the soldiers, his gaze wandered beyond the lines and the carnage. That was how he noticed them: enormous, shifting shadows looming behind the Patriots’ camp. These were no mere silhouettes cast by men. They hovered far above, moving with an uncanny grace, as if tugging on invisible threads that controlled the warriors below.

The outsider’s trembling finger pointed out the impossible shapes. At first, the soldiers scoffed, but then—one by one—their eyes widened as the shadows resolved before them. Alarmed, the generals summoned a council. The outsider’s voice, unsteady but resolute, urged them to fire not at flesh and blood, but at the monstrous figures that loomed beyond. The eldest general, his face carved by a lifetime of war, dismissed the idea as dangerous folly. To attack such phantoms, leaving themselves exposed, seemed like inviting annihilation.

He was not wrong. The risk was real. Yet the shadows remained—unmistakable, undeniable. Should they persist in this endless, futile slaughter, or gamble everything on a desperate new hope? The council’s silence was thick with dread and doubt.

After hours of bitter argument, the council reached a fragile consensus. They would aim skyward and attack the shadows.

Pooling every last resource, the Loyalists aimed their flaming arrows high, hearts hammering in their chests as they waited for the Patriots’ counterattack. The distance was immense, the shot nearly impossible. But when they loosed their arrows, the sky itself seemed to hold its breath. Against all odds, the arrows found their marks. The shadowy giants shuddered—then crumbled, dissolving into nothingness.

The Patriots, bracing for a final, brutal clash, watched in confusion as the Loyalists’ arrows arced overhead, missing their ranks completely. Their eyes followed the burning shafts skyward—and there, for the first time, they saw the monstrous shadows. As the arrows struck, the dark shapes collapsed, and a suffocating weight lifted from the Patriots’ hearts. The fog of rage and war cleared. Instinctively, they turned and saw similar shadows looming behind the Loyalists. Without a word, they notched their arrows and fired. The shadows dissolved, and with them, the madness of battle faded.

Weapons clattered to the ground, the echo of their fall a strange, hopeful music. Healing would take time—wounds like these run deep—but at last, the war was over.

This slow descent into obscurity seemed inevitable until, in the midst of the fading, one was born with eyes wide open to the unraveling. Unlike others, he could see the silent collapse and vowed to mend what was broken. He carried with him a weathered satchel, brimming with radiant promises and fragile hopes—each one resembling a seed of wildflowers yet to bloom. Moving through the shadowed streets, he scattered these seeds upon all he met, casting them not with judgment but with luminous smiles and words spun from kindness and wisdom. Some seeds found fertile ground and burst into bloom, while others vanished on the winds of indifference.

Gradually, the world around them transformed. The air, once heavy with despair, became crisp and fragrant with the sweetness of hope. Bathed in this newfound clarity, the Argonites began to remember—dim recollections of their dusty beginnings stirred within, whispering that they were crafted to hold something beautiful and transcendent within themselves.

Inspired, more souls followed in his wake, becoming ambassadors of truth, beauty, and goodness. They mirrored his deeds and echoed his luminous words. Soon, wildflowers of hope and wonder blossomed in the lives of the people, pushing back the stench of death and decay. The Argonites, once hollowed by pride, now brimmed with hope and the promise of something wondrous. Life’s purpose swelled, growing vast and radiant—greater than any one individual. Thus, a movement took root, spreading like wildflowers across the land.

The spark that ignites her change is never predictable—a careless word, a stormy mood, a memory best left untouched. When the transformation starts, it’s as unstoppable as a summer wildfire. The fire rages out, all-consuming, until she is spent and empty. And when the smoke clears, it’s always her who bears the worst of the burns—her own scars etched deeper than any she leaves behind.

Why do we not banish her, you might wonder? The answer is simple: we have known her since she was a child—before the scales, before the fire. She is one of us. So we wrap our homes in fireproof cloth, keep flame-resistant armor within arm’s reach, and watch her with equal parts tenderness and fear. To love a dragon is to live at the edge of danger, but we choose her, every time.

The elders tell stories of a time when dragons were born for a noble purpose. In those ancient days, the eldest dragons trained their young in patience and power, teaching them to temper fire with wisdom. Fearless by necessity, they faced monsters that would freeze the bravest heart, defending the world with courage and flame. Innocents were almost never harmed; dragons were the world’s shield as much as its fire.

But times changed. The great evils that once stalked the land vanished into shadow, and with the danger gone, gratitude for dragonkind curdled into suspicion. People saw not their protection, but their power—dangerous, untamed, too much to risk. Dragons, once revered, became objects of fear and rumor. Rare mishaps eclipsed centuries of heroism; people whispered that dragons could not be trusted, that their wildness must be chained or destroyed. The shame campaign was merciless, and dragons began to vanish.

The mighty, noble dragons suffered wounds far worse than any inflicted by monsters: the wounds of distrust and exile. Some withered away, their spirits broken by loneliness. Others donned disguises, hiding their true nature from the world. A tragic few, twisted by pain and rejection, became the very monsters people feared. Their fall fueled the cycle of blame, and so the dragons’ age came to its bitter end.

Dragons are believed extinct—except, of course, for her.

But how can you recognize such a menace? No one truly knows, for the Swindler’s form is ever-shifting—sometimes a colossal, hulking silhouette, sometimes a fleeting shadow on the periphery. Legends say it wails like a storm and reeks of rot, heralding its arrival with an unnatural chill. Where it passes, order unravels, and only havoc remains. Yet, the elders claim, if you cling to the rules—however strange or burdensome—you might just escape the Swindler’s grotesque embrace.

At first, these rules—though not always simple—were manageable, even comforting. They provided a lantern’s glow in life’s labyrinthine corridors, making sense of chaos. But with each passing year, the rules multiplied, morphing into a sprawling web of decrees and demands. The change was so subtle, so insidious, that no one saw the trap being set. By the time anyone noticed, the rules had become a crushing weight, impossible to bear.

In the era known as the Third Age, the Swindler’s legend faded into ridicule. Its monstrous descriptions seemed absurd, and the people—crushed under endless rules—grew weary and indifferent. Faith in the Swindler’s existence dissolved into myth. Rules, once sacred, became mere suggestions. A heavy apathy swept through the hearts of the people, dissolving their sense of order and rightness until even virtue itself became a fable.

Yet the Swindler was never a fairy tale. It persisted, lurking in silence, growing sharper and more cunning as the world became complacent. No longer the brash beast of ancient warnings, it crept with chilling subtlety. The rules—once shields against chaos—became twisted into tools of oppression, their original goodness hollowed out. The Swindler’s true genius was not destruction, but the slow, invisible corruption of all that kept the people safe.

Had anyone listened to the heartbeat of the rules, there would have been evidence that something was wrong. Something had twisted them, added to them, sucked all the virtue out of them. Examine closely the complexion of what you follow. Concerning this population, at this time, the Swindler’s purpose is being fulfilled; it has stepped from the shadows and is exerting all its power. The inhabitants embrace its strange, unnatural ways. It has come to steal, destroy, and kill. And it does its work very well.

Though barbarians scoffed at outsiders’ peculiar ways, they welcomed the mad wanderers who stumbled into their village. Barbarian hospitality was legendary; they offered food, shelter, and wild tales to any outsider foolish—or brave—enough to cross their paths, eager to help travelers on their mysterious journeys.

In time, one such outsider befriended a young barbarian girl, whose curiosity burned hotter than caution. The outsider extended an invitation: visit the neighboring town, a place spoken of only in whispers. To everyone’s astonishment, the young barbarian accepted—and returned not only unharmed, but sporting an odd contraption perched boldly upon her nose, as if it were a badge of honor.

With sparkling eyes, the young barbarian regaled the tribe with her tale. The moment she crossed into the unknown, misfortune seemed to stalk her—she stumbled, tripped, and bruised her shins at every step. Her friend, clever and observant, suggested her eyes might be to blame. Together, they explored a shop filled with strange and marvelous inventions. There, she discovered a magical device: when she placed it upon her nose, the world sharpened into breathtaking clarity. No longer was everything a blur of shapeless shadows—she saw crisp lines, dazzling colors, and a thousand tiny wonders she’d never imagined. The pitfalls and traps of the unknown became obvious, and the world itself seemed to open, bright and welcoming, as if inviting her to explore beyond every horizon.

The tribe listened, rapt, as she painted pictures of a world transformed. Yet when her story ended, skepticism returned. To them, her words were the ravings of a mind unmoored by the dangers of the unknown. They pitied her madness and refused to risk their own sanity with the bizarre device she wore. The world, they insisted, was exactly as they saw it—safe, simple, and unchanged, no matter what one foolish girl claimed.

The Whack-A-Doodle had no home, no money, and probably not even a change of clothes—just a wild glint in his eye and stories that seemed to flicker like fireflies around his worn silhouette. He drifted into towns and villages like a herald of chaos, proclaiming the most outlandish predictions: 'A mist of misery is approaching!' or 'Waves of trouble are heading this direction!'

Needless to say, he was an unwelcome visitor wherever his path led him. Still, nearly everyone who heard his proclamations—whether they admitted it or not, whether out loud or only in the quiet corners of their minds—made some small, secret preparation against the calamities he foretold, just in case his madness concealed a sliver of truth.

Whether by coincidence or by the eerie accuracy of the Whack-A-Doodle’s warnings, trouble inevitably found its way to the towns and villages. No one ever spoke of it, but those who quietly heeded his strange advice always seemed just a bit more ready when the storm finally broke.

Though no one ever welcomed the Whack-A-Doodle or offered gratitude, he neither needed nor sought it. He wandered as the wind moved him, calling out whatever wild prophecy stirred in his heart, content to exist on the fringes—half prophet, half pariah, wholly himself.

Pirate Jack is an old Dwarf—his skin tanned and creased by decades of sun and salt, beard wild as sea foam, and only one sturdy leg to stand upon. Neither the relentless march of years nor the absence of a limb has kept him from earning fame for his audacious rescue missions.

He credits his string of successful rescues to an uncanny steadiness. When tempests lash the ship and monstrous waves crash over the deck, Pirate Jack strides with eerie calm, while his crew tumble and slide like rag dolls in the fists of furious giants.

Pressed about his almost magical balance, Jack grins and taps his barrel chest. His secret, he insists, is all in the core. It’s not about legs or guessing the ocean’s next move—no one can outwit the sea. But build your core strong, and there’s little you can’t weather.

Of course, forging a powerful core is thankless work—there’s no applause for invisible muscles, no admiring glances like those for bulging biceps. The real battle is against old temptations: sloth, indulgence, and the easy way out. But for Jack, core strength is the secret to doing what must be done when the world turns wild.

In his gravelly voice, Jack warns that hesitation in a storm is a death sentence—waves, water, and even lurking sea monsters will seize the unwary. There’s only one mission: save the drowning, no matter the peril.

Do the work of training the core while the weather is fine, so that when the storms come, you will be able and fit. These days are not about easy enjoyment but about thriving and living successful lives. Extraordinary lives are being lived even if no one else notices them.

But his parents saw what he could not: with each passing day, courage and kindness bloomed inside him, shaping him into the valiant little warrior he was meant to be. Someday soon, the imaginary battles he fought in the backyard—defeating villains and saving the day—would become real acts of bravery and compassion in the world. He would stand up for what’s right, bring laughter to the weary, and light up every room with his boundless spirit. For now, though, he remained a little boy with a heart as grand as his dreams, living in the magical in-between of childhood and heroism.

Each night, while the world outside slumbered, his mama tiptoed into his room. She would gently tuck the blankets around him and whisper a silent wish: that her little boy would savor these precious days, for there is magic in being small, curious, and full of wonder. Growing up could wait—after all, being a little boy was already an extraordinary adventure.

Even as fortune smiled on her and her garden flourished, Mags never changed. Some villagers whispered that she gave because she had plenty, that luck favored her for reasons unknown. But the old ones, who remembered the lean winters and Mags’ gentle hands, knew better. It was not blessings that made her generous— Mags was blessed because she was generous.

In the whimsical land of Annulus, a vibrant community of professional plate spinners dazzled onlookers and neighbors alike. These remarkable performers mastered the art of balancing their everyday tasks while effortlessly keeping up to five hefty dinner plates spinning in perpetual motion. To all who witnessed their feats, it seemed that the very limits of human capability could be stretched—one only needed intense focus and relentless dedication to the craft of multitasking.

With caravans adorned in swirling colors, the spinners journeyed from bustling carnivals to golden harvest festivals, captivating crowds with their mesmerizing skills. Occasionally, their performances gave way to lively workshops and animated seminars, where curious onlookers could try their hands at the magical world of plate spinning.

For a time, all was well. Across Annulus, countless people embraced this enchanting skill, discovering new levels of efficiency and grace. But as the years drifted by, plates became lighter and smaller, allowing spinners to shatter old records with astonishing numbers of dishes in the air. Yet, as pride in their accomplishments grew, a creeping sense of restlessness and frenzy replaced the pure joy of spinning. The pursuit of more had begun to overshadow the art itself.

When a spinner, caught up in the fever of achievement, dared to add just one plate too many, disaster struck—the plates cascaded to the ground in a clattering symphony. Plates they had spun since childhood lay shattered. The heartbreak was real, but few paused to reflect. Driven by an aversion to stillness, they hurried to gather even more plates, desperate to escape the unsettling quiet that followed failure. To them, stillness had become as alien as the silence after a storm.

The compulsion to keep spinning soon drowned out reason itself. Chasing the impossible, they clung to the relentless rhythm of mega plate spinning—even as plates tumbled at the slightest breeze or the tiniest pebble in their path. The spectacle grew more frantic, the failures more frequent.

Each crash left a scar, but as the failures multiplied, a numbness crept in, softening the sting but dulling the spirit. Their ancestors, wise and unhurried, spun fewer, weightier plates, embracing both effort and repose. But for this new generation, ‘rest’ became a foreign word, lost beneath the constant clatter of spinning, always spinning.

Though shadows lingered over the spinners of Annulus, hope flickered on the horizon. A quiet revolution—called moderation—began to take root. Its followers longed for rest and joy over endless striving, swimming upstream against the powerful current of popular opinion. Choosing to do less was no simple feat. Yet, through the quiet grace of their example, these pioneers would reveal whether a life of balance could once more take root in Annulus.

He grew up starved of affection, moving through childhood like a ghost, unseen and untouched by warmth.

Whenever misfortune struck, eyes would dart—where was Ichabod? He became the Pixies’ living omen, a bearer of ill fate, shunned and blamed for every accident and disaster. Over time, he absorbed their judgments until he was shaped by them: shoulders hunched, brow knotted with worry, eyes forever downcast to shield himself from the weight of their suspicion and scorn.

Then, one day, Wisdom herself wandered into the town, and the foundation of old beliefs began to tremble. She watched as even the kindest Pixies scapegoated Ichabod, not from malice, but from habit, because that was simply how things had always been. For Wisdom, this was intolerable.

With clear and undeniable reason, she spoke to the Pixies, slicing away their prejudice, until they saw Ichabod for what he was- not the foreteller of misfortune, but a sad, lonely Pixy.

Most of the community intensely regretted their horrible treatment of him. They would change, though it took some longer than others to completely change their way of thinking.

Wisdom spoke gently to Ichabod. At first, her voice was only a distant echo, unable to pierce the fog surrounding his heart. But she persisted, whispering the truth again and again: "Ichabod, you are so much more than a name. You are more than the sum of others’ fears. Darkness can be broken. Joy, peace, and purpose can be yours. You were born for more than sorrow. Your destiny is not sealed—you can choose a new name."

Slowly, Ichabod began to hear Wisdom’s words—not just with his ears, but in the quiet places of his soul. At first, her message was a riddle, but Wisdom, patient as the dawn, kept speaking until one day understanding broke through. With tears streaming down his face, Ichabod finally embraced the truth.

One bright morning, Wisdom gathered the town’s Pixies and declared, “Ichabod is dying.”

A hush fell. The community reflected on the years of sorrow and isolation they had forced upon the boy. Tears glimmered on many cheeks. Then, from behind Wisdom, stepped a figure transformed: no longer stooped, his brow untroubled, he stood tall and unafraid, meeting every gaze with quiet strength. Wisdom declared, “Ichabod has passed away. This is Peter.”

In the evenings, the silence became overwhelmingly uncomfortable prompting Maral to begin shareing her experiences from her journey. When she ran out of stories, she spoke of her childhood in the forest. For a long time, the Sprite did not respond and Maral felt like she was speaking to the wind. Slowly, however, acknowledgments began to come from the Sprite.

As Maral won the Sprite’s trust, she began to speak of her own childhood. Their companionship dulled the dreariness and harshness of the Shifting Sand wasteland. Time began to pass not unpleasantly for the pair.

The Sprite was fascinated by Maral’s fire dwelling experiences. She chose to become vulnerable and shared her sacred secret about the great promise she had received when she was just a child. She had placed all her hopes and determination in this promise and had been chasing it for many years.

Maral had subconsciously assumed many negative things about the Sprite because she had been reclaimed from the sand but as their friendship developed each assumption was proven false. Maral found that the Sprite had been traveling much longer and over greater challenges than she herself had encountered.

Soon the Sprite’s old strength, gained from her many travels, returned to her, allowing her to take the lead. The pace was almost too swift for Maral, but she managed to keep up. The slight Sprite seemed more resilient to the relentless wind.

One quiet night the Sprite spoke about her fall. She tearfully confessed that she had become dejected as time passed and she seemed to be no closer to her promise. The harshness of the wasteland wearied her body and mind until she began to wonder if all her life had been in pursuit of something unattainable.

On the hottest day, she fully accepted that her promise was a myth. She was so low that she had looked out at the sea of sand for a while, then willfully stepped off the path.

She had been lost for years. The sand was wild and terrible. She had seen horrible things in the belly of the abyss. Then, after suffering much, she felt an unexplainable reawakening. Her promise was calling to her.

It was then the Reclaimer’s rope had found her and the battle to return to the path began. The sand had no desire to lose her and fought ferociously to prevent her escape. She had been a passive participant at first, but as soon as she caught sight of the firm path, she completely woke from her stupor and fought as never before.  

Drained, she stopped talking, Maral was silent as well. The story hung heavily before them. Then, Wisdom’s voice came on the wind. She spoke of perspective.

 Deferred hopes, born from unrealistic expectations, make a heart sick. A sick heart will hinder reason. Hold firmly to your promise without adding a timeline will be a difficult but worthwhile endeavor.  You are not responsible- or even able- to force great things to happen on your own. Only do what is before you to do each day. One can do no more and no less to reach their goal. However, the fulfillment of the promise might appear different than expected. You must find peace with that possibility.  Finally, when discontentment arises, hand it over to the peace of assurance knowing if one is faithfully doing all that one can, the promise has already happened.

Maral was confused, “It has already happened? But it hasn’t actually happened.”

The Sprite’s deep sigh drew Maral’s attention. She seemed as if something terribly heavy had been removed from her person. Smiling said as she laid down, “Its perspective.”

Maral wouldn’t understand what this meant for many more years.

“What lie?” Maral asked in a tiny voice.

“That you are not physically capable to cross this terrible wasteland. Once one agrees that they cannot go one step farther, that their limitations are too much, and that what they face is impossible the mirage appears.” He shook his head sadly, “There are no oases in this dry place. One must persevere.”

Maral interrupted, “But why is there no place to rest?”

The stranger sighed, “Because no one would ever leave the place once found. The conditions are so extreme here that none would have the willpower to leave it.”

Maral wondered if she had in fact seen kindness in this stranger’s eyes.

“This place is made to be hard.” Suddenly, his arm shot up and cast the rope that had been resting upon his shoulder out at the horizon. It sailed with magnificent speed but landed upon empty sand. He began to recoil it. Maral realized he had not stopped speaking during this odd action; she forced herself to focus on what he was saying, “You doubted yourself and chased a mirage, but you were not swept away by it. That speaks of great strength and wisdom.”

During her entire experience with this stranger, Maral had been feeling weak and foolish. His words took her shame away but left the humility; she felt taller.

“The Shifting Sand wasteland is difficult but it is not impossible. When you feel you can go no farther, go farther. Prove to your mind and your will that the limitations placed upon you are imagined. Everyone is far more capable than they realize, but most will never discover the deep wells of ability without the harshness of this place. This place demands that you delve deeper into your stores of strength and fortitude than you otherwise would.”

Again, his arm cast the rope into the distance. This time it caught something. Maral couldn’t imagine what he was doing. He began pulling in the taut rope. He continued speaking with only a mild strain to his voice betraying the amount of effort he was expending on his rope.

“It is not easy or comfortable and most will never attempt to cross this. They will never discover their potential depth.” Now for the first time he paused his monologue to completely apply himself to the task at hand.

In these moments, Maral’s mind ran over all he had said. She was surprised to realize that the clinging sand, her torment since she fell, had finally fallen off. She felt free and able to do anything.

She intended to tell him this, but when she looked up, she saw that what he had lassoed was a tall female Sprite. They both were struggling against the sand that appeared to be sucking her down. Maral felt powerless, but then the stranger with a final mighty pull hoisted her up to the firm path.

The Sprite was crying and choking on sand. He disentangled himself from her aggressive hug to offer her some water to wash the sand from her mouth and eyes.

When he spoke to her it was markedly more kind. “You have won little sister,” She cried harder. “You will not fall again. Rest here tonight; tomorrow you will continue your journey.”

The Sprite looked at him, astonished that he would send her away so soon. He only smiled, “There is one here who will walk with you.” He indicated Maral.

Nevertheless, though she was physically in a sad state, her mental condition was much improved. What accounted for this was her habit of straining to hear the words of Wisdom. They didn’t come easily as before this season of wasteland wandering but she worked tirelessly to hear and clung to whatever reached her. With her mind absorbed with this work it left little room for contemplating her uncomfortable environment.

After many days and night of traveling in this manner, she suddenly had the eerie sensation she was not alone. Looking up from her dusty feet she saw a stranger. He was an amazingly odd-looking individual with ragged clothes and a rope. She froze.

She was sure he was as aware of her presence as she was of his, but he did not look at her. His intense gaze was locked on the horizon. Fearfully, she crept past him as quickly and silently as she could manage. However, he never once transferred his attention.

Still, she made good time to get as much distance from him as she could before she returned to her normal pace. She pressed the weird encounter from her mind and returned to her former pattern of listening to Wisdom’s voice.

Though it required all her concentration, Wisdom’s voice was clear and unmistakable. Maral froze as she received Wisdom’s instructions to return and speak with the odd unknown one. Her fear propelled her forward, unwilling to follow the instructions, but no matter how far away she walked from the stranger, she was called to return. Wisdom, it seemed was unyielding on this point.

With a deep sigh, she turned. As she retraced her steps her logic argued with her- this was unwise and dangerous. This mental battle distracted her from the weary acknowledgement that much ground was being retraced. She had lost large amounts of energy and time by delaying her response to Wisdom’s instructions.

It still seemed that all too soon she was near the stranger. Cautiously, she approached him. He was tall and terribly thin, but didn’t have the air of someone hungry or demented. Now that she was really looking at him, she noticed his stature was one of strength and dignity regardless of his unkempt appearance and clothes that spoke of poverty. She was dazzled by the contradictions surrounding this stranger. She was much closer now and her fear had evaporated. She saw his eyes, still locked on the horizon, had intelligence and kindness, though his face looked rough and weather beaten.

She wondered if perhaps she had judged him too harshly. Maybe he was not as unwelcoming as a first glance might suggest, but then he spoke. Remaining motionless he said matter-of-factly , “I see that you fell.”

The history of the Reclaimer is a mostly forgotten story. What is known is that he was not born a Reclaimer. He did many things mostly great, but a few terrible; then one day, almost as a penance for his terrible deed he wandered into the Shifting Sand wasteland and became the Reclaimer.

He is tall, slender, and odd-looking. His face bears intimidating scares and a large crooked nose. His general appearance is unkempt and heavily weather-beaten. His clothes are of no value or fashion. He has lived in this unwelcoming environment for so many years he seems to have become part of it.

He has nothing but a thick, coarse rope. This he holds as he stands tall upon the risen path, always looking out at the timeless, sun-scorched desert.

The few travelers that pass him upon the path scurry by, trying to avoid drawing his attention. He takes no notice of these; his focus is for others, those lost. He sees a speck on the horizon. In one fluid motion he swings his lassoed rope into the air and releases it. The rope soars an unbelievably far distance almost as if it were a living thing, towards the speck.

Occasionally the rope lands in the empty sand; undeterred, he recoils it and waits, alert for the next opportunity. Other times the rope finds its target. He tightens his hold as he begins his long, exhausting work.

His arms and back were strong from years of this continual work. Sweat from his exertion drips into his eyes. Not a moment is spared to wipe his stinging eyes.

The Shifting Sand sensing the threat of losing some property, lays a firmer grasp upon its possession. At this point the speck can be seen clearly, a Truvian.

This is the point which the lassoed one has to decide if he or she will join in the fight with the Reclaimer or give up. Some find the burn of the rope more terrible than the prospect of being lost in the sea of sand. These slip the rope off and are swept away.

Others refused to be lost a moment longer; these struggle against the sand. It is a fierce battle won inch by painful inch, until they have reached the firm ground of the risen path.  

The Reclaimer offers his hand to the exhausted but victorious one. What is needed to recover and restart their journey of living is offered them. Then he returns to his lonely post, scanning the horizon for others. There were so many.

All who live in Truth, if you should find yourself in the Shifting Sand wasteland and come upon such a one as described above don’t be afraid of or think poorly of him. Give him respect and offer the food and resources you can spare. You might one day be a speck on the horizon.

Her heart sank at the magnitude of what lay before her while her mind cried out, Wisdom are you still with me?

I am here. It will not be easy but you can get through this.

Though the body of sand was reported to be constantly moving, it appeared motionless. Maral picked up a small red pebble and tossed it out into the never-ending expanse. Instantly the pebble was carried 100 yards toward the horizon. Then, as if identifying the rock as an inanimate object, it was hurled back in Maral’s direction.

With extreme caution and good dose of trepidation, Maral began her journey. Miserable and lonely, she talked to Wisdom about everything she was experiencing, but found she had to strain to hear Wisdom’s voice.

Nagging thoughts and questions buzzed around her mind- You have lost your way. Why are you doing this? There is no end to this hell. Wisdom has abandoned you.

The voice of Wisdom was with her, but the attention Maral spent on these thoughts- even in getting rid of them- was distracting her from Wisdom’s voice. It faded until it was almost silent while the nagging thoughts grew louder as the days passed.

When she felt she could go no farther, she saw something in the distance. Rippling in the waves of heat was a paradise complete with shade trees and a large pond. Desperate for relief, Maral ran toward it.

It appeared, at first, to be directly in front of her, then shifted slightly to her right. Thinking of nothing but diving into the water, she stepped off the risen path.

As she fell the mirage vanished. She threw herself toward the risen path but her feet landed in the sea of sand. The current yanked at them to drag her away from the path. She scrabbled and clawed at the burning sand forming the side of the path. Terrified her heart and mind focused upon Wisdom and cried for help.

The voice of Wisdom was clear and gave her exact instructions. It was miserable and arduous work, but she followed all of Wisdom’s words without question or hesitation. Finally, she reached the top of the risen path.

After some of her adrenaline ebbed and her breathing returned to normal, she took stock of her situation. Up to this point she had exercised her best efforts to remain as sand free as possible, now she was covered in grime and grit.

Focus on my voice especially when it is not easy to hear, Wisdom said. You can make it through this difficult place. There is still some distance ahead, but it will not last forever. Speak with me, lean upon my strength, and you will not become distracted and fall again.

The WOM visited the Gnomish village in the neighboring forest and found as expected the same blight in the forest. The Gnomes could smell the scent, but were unable to uproot the blight.

The WOM arranged to combine- and then divide- the force of Gnomes and Giants to work effectively in both the fields and the forest. 

Deep in the night, the WOM gathered everyone from their work, “That was very good work you have done today. The same should be applied tomorrow and for a week or more. This nameless blight’s purpose is to kill all living things in the soil. They are always growing and spreading. You must be vigilant in uprooting and burning all of them in a pit far from town.” The WOM looked steadily at the Giants and Gnomes present to allow this news to sink in.

“The wind has sown this. Though you have done nothing to bring this trouble upon yourselves, you will reap the consequence if not handled immediately and thoroughtly.  This blight was once removed from Truth, but, clearly, it has been released. I must leave at once to seek the source. What is before you will take determination and a tremendous amount of work, but I know, together you can do this. Goodnight and goodbye.”

The WOM would not listen to any offers of a bed for the night or concerns about the lateness of the hour or the darkness of the night. He was friendly but firm as he set off at a quick pace.

The WOM was correct; the work to clear the fields and the forests was very difficult. The worst part was that there appeared to be no end of the blight. Soon the quality of work began to grow sloppy. Gnomes found only the most pungent of the seeds, and the Giants began to yank up those with such force the entire root was not excavated. This continued all throughout the planting, tending and growing seasons.

Crops did not grow. The forest began to thin. This should have caused immediate alarm and action but their weariness made them careless. What could have been saved was lost.

For the first time, in as long as anyone could remember, the WOM was on the move. The sight of the Fallen had awakened his sense of stagnation. He had not left his grotto in far too long. He wanted to get a good look at the world and see what she had become.

Ten miles from Kern, the Giant Settlement, the WOM began to smell a disturbing sent. Now, well into the spring planting season, rows upon rows of furrowed, good soil filled the horizon. He would have smiled and breathed deeply of the scent of freshly tilled soil had not that other smell tormented the edge of his memory. What was it?

As he entered Kern, he was pleased to see the Hidden Valley’s flowers blooming in every garden.

Bello, headed back out to the fields after his lunch, spotted him. “WOM!” he yelled and happily ran to him. He hugged the very old man, “How happy I am that you have come to our village! Come and meet my family.” He directed the WOM towards his house. “Mama!” he called.

She graciously welcomed him into her house. Giant hospitality was aggressively generous; a standard Giant size cup of tea and scone were placed before him. As he nobly applied himself to the meal, he listened to the entire story of the desolation the “butterflies” had wreaked upon the Fallen.

After conveying his relief that all had turned out so well, he expressed a desire to see the fields. Bello was only too happy to comply with his request. Entering the first field the WOM asked, “Do you smell that?”

Bello took in a deep, satisfying breath of cultivated soil. He smiled, “I believe you are referring to our oxen fertilizer. I know it can be overwhelming at first, but soon it will be like nothing at all. The year we imported dragon fertilizer, whew that was the year…”

“No” the WOM interrupted, “It smells… tangy.”

“Tangy?” Bello took in another breath. “No, I don’t believe I do.”

The WOM walked with his nose in the air and his eyes shut. Bello followed closely and steadied him every few feet as his stumbled upon his beard or a rock or into a small hole.

Finally, in the middle of a perfectly furrowed row, the WOM squatted down. He explained that this area had not been seeded yet. But the WOM wasn’t listening; he began digging in the ground. “Could you uproot this seed?”

Bello had to get his face every close to the ground to see the tiny black speck. “Sure” Bello pulled at the minuscule object. Surprisingly, the seed did not budge. Little by little the seed was forced to release itself from the ground. It's root was at least a foot long.

“Here,” the WOM produced a leather pouch. Bello wrapped the root into a ball and dropped it into the pouch. “This is what produces that tangy smell. I have no idea how this has come to be here, but it is deadly. It will poison the land.”

“It is so tiny. How much harm can it really do?” Bello asked incredulously.

“More damage than you can imagine. Come, there are more. We have work to do.”

To be continued….

Maral strolled through a beautiful country, enjoying the pleasant weather she had as her traveling companion. The birds sang, the flowers tossed their fragrance all along the path, the warm sun smiled down upon her.

She was content and felt a good purpose drawing her onward toward Babalonia. Wisdom had explained that there she would discover her next step toward her ultimate goal- the Eternal City.

She wished that Wisdom could have accompanied her. Things never stay the same. Maral understood that the essence of Wisdom was still with her but not physically as she had been. Wisdom had told her that this was a new season of maturing. She could hear the voice of Wisdom whenever she listened. She would never be really alone. Maral was not altogether confident in this, but she put on a brave face.

Maral cleared the cobweb of negative thoughts from her mind and enjoyed the lovely day. Without warning everything changed. The sun dimmed, the bird’s song, with all other sounds, muted leaving only the echo of her own breathing. Everything became hazy. Maral stumbled as she tried to figure out what had happened. Timidly, she continued down the path which now felt unfamiliar and mildly ominous.  

All too soon, her state of contentment was replaced with a haunting notion that she was lost. Her body felt drained and worn out. The purpose calling her had dimmed. She wanted to collapse upon the grass and rest. But her heart prodded her onward. What had happened to her?

Only days before in the City of Enlightenment, she had experienced the incredibly powerful event. Just moments before, she had enjoyed the peaceful beauty of nature. Now, all that seemed ages ago and pointless.

Wisdom’s voice came to her faintly, “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

Maral raised one heavy foot, then another, and on and on she trudged. The sluggish plod experience seemed to last for an eternity but actually it had been only a few days before she felt an easing, slight at first, then suddenly everything returned to the way it had been before the unknown difficulty.

The sun broke in upon her dreary thoughts and shattered them. The joyful bird’s song seemed magnified after everything had been dulled. She found she was still on her path.

She looked back and saw a fog hovering just behind her. It lingered for a moment then dissolved.

Wisdom’s voice was clear and strong, “The fog was sent by the East Wind. It is a terrible snare which has trapped many in its body. It comes without warning and settles thickly upon a wayfarer. Its goal is to get them to stop, give up. It achieves this by creating the elements that causes them to feel lost, shiftless, and without purpose. As you continue through the fog, it clings tighter to you, compelling you to give up. But if you refuse to stop, regardless of the difficulty, it is powerless. You did well. Continue on.”