A shadow slips across the land, slowly, so that, to some, it goes unnoticed; the assuming darkness thought to've always been there, and in some cases, this is correct. But to those with eyes to see, this change is noticed, contemplated, and compared to previous times. Patterns emerge. Remembrance of how events played out in the past, of how they are wanted to play out in the future; plans were made and carried out accordingly.
A tap on the shoulder, a glance from the Moon, shivers up the spine as palms blaze with fire. There is only one outcome acceptable.
Key in hand, the threshold is crossed, Gods and Ancestors alike are greeted, petitioned, honored, evoked.
There is only one outcome acceptable.
Throwing the Bones
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