Port Luskan. As sleep enfolds you, the dreamy vision of an island iced in winter white swirls vaguely in your mind. You hear voices, some near, some distant, some well remembered and some fragmented by the passage of time. They echo amid the harsh mountains, howl through the snowy vales, and whisper in the foreboding passages beneath the earth.
The vision is becoming clearer: a port with docks bustling with commerce; a wooded valley that runs down to the sea; a shining castle in the heights; a town with comfortable dwellings in the middle realm. You sense, rather than see, the vast caverns below – or perhaps you envision them first, and the surface is a mere shadow to your mind.
However you approach it, you know one thing: You are Home.
When did you get the call? Where were you, and what were you doing? All these things seem to matter little. What is important is, you answered.
_________________ That was no crash: That was a premature landing at an unfavorable angle. - Charlie Sotich, U.S. kiteflyer
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