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It is the eighth Overtaking, and the glory of the day has once again vanquished the whispering shadows of the night. To balk the glooming murk is no easy feat, but prismatic fortitude has rightfully endured in present times. Chalk circles of fearfully-arranged offerings to night-time lurkers are swept away, while sun-craving palefolk open windows, lay out on the cobbles and bask in the enrichment of skin and soul.
In Ferferath, a Brooding Sorceress pulls drawn the shutters and scowls - she will not find adjustment to the sunlight and will conspire quietly in hushed discussion to bring about the ninth Overtaking, ushering in more blanketing shade. By hundreds of miles, a quiet forest encampment holds the Meagre Scrounger and his eternal discussive companion, the fair-haired Cheery Huntress. With much grinning, the Cheery Huntress discards her sharpened flint; no campfire nor tygre-torch will be required with beaming heat granted by higher powers of the sky. Her quiver bounces haphazardly in the back of her wagon, shaken by the tumultuous trepidations of a minor earthquake.
Further still, in the plains of the Greater Qualmics, somebody is present. They sit in moss and dirt, wiping their brow of the caked soil as they lifted their face from the ground. Around them is a lush, beautiful forest of the most verdant emerald green, along with a small, overgrown structure of stones - it bears much resemblance to a shelter though with a large window or passage that one could reasonably step through, giving it more of a portal-like impression. Among dirt, this untitled soul is you, only left without distinction by narrative antecedence. To lack a title is unheard, and so it is bestowed onto you here and now by outer influence. A title is no mild affair, however, and thus further inquiry is crucial. Befitting your own seeming befuddlement, it comes necessary to ask: are you of The Seam or of Wound?
>I am fostered from parents of the The Seam - this leeching world. I was born here and have not known anything else.
>I fell screaming from a Wound years ago, as a youngling. Like many, I was snatched from my world by the intrinsic thieving of The Seam.
In Ferferath, a Brooding Sorceress pulls drawn the shutters and scowls - she will not find adjustment to the sunlight and will conspire quietly in hushed discussion to bring about the ninth Overtaking, ushering in more blanketing shade. By hundreds of miles, a quiet forest encampment holds the Meagre Scrounger and his eternal discussive companion, the fair-haired Cheery Huntress. With much grinning, the Cheery Huntress discards her sharpened flint; no campfire nor tygre-torch will be required with beaming heat granted by higher powers of the sky. Her quiver bounces haphazardly in the back of her wagon, shaken by the tumultuous trepidations of a minor earthquake.
Further still, in the plains of the Greater Qualmics, somebody is present. They sit in moss and dirt, wiping their brow of the caked soil as they lifted their face from the ground. Around them is a lush, beautiful forest of the most verdant emerald green, along with a small, overgrown structure of stones - it bears much resemblance to a shelter though with a large window or passage that one could reasonably step through, giving it more of a portal-like impression. Among dirt, this untitled soul is you, only left without distinction by narrative antecedence. To lack a title is unheard, and so it is bestowed onto you here and now by outer influence. A title is no mild affair, however, and thus further inquiry is crucial. Befitting your own seeming befuddlement, it comes necessary to ask: are you of The Seam or of Wound?
>I am fostered from parents of the The Seam - this leeching world. I was born here and have not known anything else.
>I fell screaming from a Wound years ago, as a youngling. Like many, I was snatched from my world by the intrinsic thieving of The Seam.
