The Gates of the Garden. Verdant Prophecies Await.

You lay weeping under ancient trees. Briny tears and the evening dew pour from your lapsed soul. The tattered night is worn, and a new morning will soon come. A loud voice raises you from your voluminous slumber.

The Bard, a maddened prophet, speaks a holy word; a word last heard in Fey gardens and before the fall. ‘You,’ he says, ‘may yet control the starry pole.’

You stand at the shore, and the dawn is upon you. Stars adorn the floor before you, and your hard light shines renewed. You cleave into the mountains of fallen flesh, the crowned hills, and the wet and pearly depths.

They adore the starry pole, and each and every one is baptised in your light. You shepherd them from innocence, and they are ecstatic to experience your bliss.

You now suffer: Visions from a Contrary Prophet

You wake grasping your cock, your feet hurting as if you had ceaselessly walked an endless valley.