Always begin where the sun falters, drawing lines onto the skin of the earth. I recall the whispering mountains of Tremolo, their shadow casting spells I cannot describe— the mist parting to reveal echoes of forgotten chants.
Ink spills across the parchment at the touch of a wandering thought, like the seasonal rivers of Greshtine during their flood— a dance upon paper. Maps are a mirror, they say, of the mind folding in upon itself...
The realm known as Bellowmere flinches at twilight; each star a watchful eye, each horizon an unfurling promise. To chart the course through Bellowmere is to embrace the void, a dance of shadows and light.