A pilgrim asks Master Chian, “If all things are one, how is change universal?”
Chian tells a disciple, “Take that board and hammer a nail in it.” He tells a second disciple, “Remove the nail from that board.” Then he turns to the pilgrim. “Is the board the same?”
“Of course not.”
Showing no reaction, Chian tells the first disciple, “Take a second board and do not hammer a nail into it.” He tells the second disciple, “Do not remove a nail from the board.” Then he looks back at the pilgrim. “And this one?”
No, he is not under the trees.
Hurricane is cooking a fish on the shore.
The 11th of Hawk and 7 days bring the 7th of Wind.
Perhaps Hurricane is there,
swimming after the east-bound island.
5 more days bring the 1st of Wind.
Perhaps he waits below,
watching for ships in a watery place.
Ten days bring the 11th of Threshold.
The two approach Dovecoral’s western gate. Bruin is tall and broad, with a rough face marked by scars. He wears leather armor and carries a grey woolen cloak over one arm. He walks slowly, looking at the marble walls and decorated towers with consideration. Weed is small and energetic, scampering off the path to examine things Bruin cannot see, then running to catch up.
A guard, tall and thin, leans on a spear outside the gate. “I thought you were looking for holly, not ruffians, Weed.”
Weed runs up, pulling Bruin by his calloused hand. “I found a new friend! Holly isn’t very social.”
Arrived at Dovecoral this evening. Large and prosperous. Similar architecture to back home, though more wood and less stone.
Saw a large temple for a sungod of some sort on my way in. Not Awendala, but it’s almost something of home.
Took a walk on the shore of the Dragonomen Bay. They say it’s named after a local legend, but it didn’t give me any answer, draconic or otherwise.
Sky sinks into night.
Wheeling seabirds strive to soar
only to falter.
What hope then for these sore feet
far from their heart-marked shore path?
The sun is too bright. Bruin aches all over. He’s not used to sleeping on rough ground these days. Where is he, anyways? And what happened to the snow?
He sits up and opens his eyes. It is definitely spring, and he’s definitely never seen this hilly countryside before. Even the wildflowers look strange. He tries to think back… He must have been on a scouting mission. But where’s the rest of the crew? Where’s the escape line? And falling into someone else’s dream normally doesn’t hurt this much.
A small girl, maybe 11 or 12, is walking towards him. She stops three paces away, pauses, then asks, “Does it hurt to fall out of the sky? Dad said it didn’t, but I don’t think I believe him.”
Hurn is a thin world. Your world is thick! If you punch the ground, you’ll probably hurt yourself. If you read an elegeic poem, probably nothing will be different! Your world mostly stays put.
Hurn is different. Sure, most of the time when people punch the ground, the ground punches back. But sometimes when someone recites an elegy, they find part way through it’s actually a limerick! It’s a bit disconcerting. And it’s not just a trick played by a monkey god, swapping the poem. It’s a bit of dream seeping through and changing the underlying motivation.
See, in your world, the world is so thick that dreams are quite a ways from reality. There’s a whole world in between! That keeps things pretty orderly.
But in Hurn, the world is so thin, you’re actually closer to dreams than you are to the horizon. It makes cartography interesting, that’s for sure.