They say initiation rites hide a language of circles. Circles upon circles, spirals within spirals, weaving the voice of the ancients into modern fabric. Old tales, aged in the scent of musty tomes, speak of a convergence on the second full moon of winter's sleep. This convergence was not marked on any map; it whispered in dreams, tugging at the wits of wanderers.
As day faded into an inky abyss, Torren found himself guided by a lantern’s flicker on a path strewn with ash and memories. In the clearing, figures cloaked in enigma began the ritual. His pulse echoed the beat of the unseen drum, tying him to an occurrence that could shift the seams of reality.
The Gathering Signal Whispers of the Shaded Grove Bleeding Bright RitesThe dance, that sacred sequence scattered like stars across the sky, demanded his presence. Taking a breath steeped in the ancient scent of earth and lore, Torren stepped forward. In that act, he became part of a story older than words, woven with the void’s own thread into a boundless pattern.