Tome of Witnessings

Liminal. Liminal. To be apart, yet never be a part. Cold, stone hallways — grand, sublime, cosmic, yet… personal. When did you nestle one of your doors in my valley? Are you sneaky because you’re never really there, or have you always been here? Are you the outsider, or am

I look south, past Pike Mountain, past the Goat’s Teeth to the cozy hamlet of Grebewater. What a quaint and tranquil place. That anyone could survive, let alone thrive, among the wilderness is impressive. For those who call these hinterlands home, it is even stranger. There is an inn,

Silence blankets the woods on my northeasterly face. The wind has left. The trees sleep. The animals cease to exist. In the dead of night, the crescent moon gleams off the clouds — with this celestial light, a tune comes. At first, it is nothing but a note. But it grows…

Upon my hillsides, aspen trees stand vigil. Much like the mountain itself, these trees see all. Many minds link as one. Why do they shiver? What causes them to quake so? Something prowls the cliffs and crags beyond the forests, something the trees are smart enough to fear. A cold

Perched upon Scrivener’s Point, the spirit of inspiration casts its gaze upon the wilds beyond. Many people, many lives, but always the same spirit. Is that what I think it is? There, floating high on some fluffy collection of water vapor… is that, a castle? Imagination flows — ships in

Through the Goat’s Teeth, among the northeastern woods, a cloaked figure wanders. It’s so dark; a new moon hovers in the sky. They seem to be following something, but what is hard to say. There! A second cloak moves among pines and quaking aspens. A third. And… is