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Grove of the Draoi
The Devout worshippers of Xavier
and Lord Nash
At first glance you see a gnarled
statue, bleak and devoid of color, the subject:
A Great Oak Tree.
Glancing to the left side of the
mighty tree you feel the word Ovate penetrate your mind, and sing whisperingly,
tantalizingly. The Defenders of Tradition, The Missionaries of the Spirit. As
your vision encompasses the right side of the Oak, you feel that voice curl up
inside you and cry out, Bards. The Custodians of the Sacredness of the Word,
The Keepers of Ritual. Glancing at the outside leaves, at the threshold into
the true Cult of Quinalt, you feel the
word Guitaraes swim into your soul. You hold it there, waiting for it to grow
in importance. Tracing that leaf into the branches you again are visited, a
seed planted in your brain pleading with
ecstatic fury. Maghivellwyn, the branch of the Cult. As the equillibrium of the
circle fulfills its delicate dance, your eyes fall to the center of the tree,
that great grey trunk. It stands solid and firm, bleak and humble, dark and
true. The trunk swells the word Llwellyn into your heart, it burns into your
bosom as you cradle your ignorance in defense. The trunk shrieks, quietly, The
Draoi, The Governors, The Caretakers of Philosophy and the Internal lines of
flux. Near the base of the tree, you see a root peaking out of the soil
careening and stretching. Its lazy arms reach into the dark mist, soaking
moisture to supply the whole entity. You
taste the supple mist, and you taste the word Themaoddis, the anchor of the priesthood, the Ordained root of the
tree. Stepping back you see the mighty Oak in whole, The vision of life. That
encapsulating vision tickles your ears with the name Aretha.
The tree, the body, the whole
cycle, the me.
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