As zephyrs whisper through the mesquite, the mesa reveals its silhouettes. To stand upon the ascent, to unspool the tightly coiled essence of time, is to wear the night like an undulating cloak.
Initiation begins not with roaring fire, but a whisper—a sigh carried by stars forgotten by earthbound souls. Each participant, a thread in the tapestry of the fading cosmos. The ground, a mosaic of light drawing paths unseen by waking eyes.
Seek the hollow stones where the ancients etched their dreams, for their words are woven into hidden pathways.
Remember the water that flows upwards, trickling gently past the horizon. In the Realm of Dust, initiation is the shedding of skins—of the past, present, and a future yet to breathe.
Follow the spiral into the endless ring, where echoes begin anew.