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The broken gate frames the night sky. The hunter and the daughter traverse the shattered stone path, following a half-remembered dream until they reach the arched entrance. There, they feel the breeze rush through the gate's towering vault; they see the crispness of dew upon its polished limestone walls.
As they traverse the gate, your paper-thin voice no longer vanishes amid the trees and the rain and the rustling grasses. The air here is thin, and the obliging wind is known to carry your voice once - and perhaps only once - to those who pass the ivory gate on the night of their first sacrament.
The gate is long-shattered. You are a god of nothing, and you have forgotten nearly all but the soft breeze, dew, and fog.
But perhaps the sacrament can yet be remembered.
>ABSOLVE - The wind speaks of forgiveness.
>GRATITUDE - The rain speaks of gratitude.
>AMBITION - The storm speaks of ambition.
>WRITE-IN.
