The Svirfneblin mystic sits down upon an bucket-shaped stone, dragging a satchel to be at his feat. The satchel was once strapped to the back of a lizardman, now lying in a pool of greenish blood a stones throw away.
He opens the satchel, to peer inside, looking at what reward the encounter did grant him. To his surprise, he sees a large tome, wrapped inside a fabric cover. As he takes the book out of the satchel and into the dim light cast by the purple glow of mushroom light, the stone mystic listens closely to the sound of the echo of the tunnels to either side of his position. Nothing stirs, and he enjoys the moment of calm.
Opening the first page, the one who is called Olofalcon, lets the words seep into the castle of his mind...:
The mystic finishes the text, and closes the tome, slowly. His eyes reflect the dim light around him, but they are glassy—his mind lost into an imagination of places perhaps never seen by his people.
The pause lasts not long as he swings his own backpack down from his shoulders, opening a side pocket latched tight by leather string. Stubby fingers grasp a large scroll, and there upon the floor of these tunnels, he unfurls his growing masterwork. At the edge of where the ink marks end, he slowly draws a finger into the blank spaces...wondering just exactly how far is the distance between the known world...and that of the imagination...now given to him in words of shared wisdom.
///click to see large version...work in progress.
As J.G. Ballard has said, "It's a mistake to hold back and refuse to accept one's own nature."
