For father Winter still lurks beside our path, like a death sentence unperformed.

Chapter IV: High Stake Hollow

Pencilstrikes, forced on the descriptive parchment of our pilgrimage. Dry sands stir up dust as our shackled boots bewander a windswept plain. The slit of our pen runs dry, yet the moist throats of our custodians crave to herald the fourth Chapter in a grim recital. And in the darkest hour before the dawn we see eye to eye, Queen of the Council.

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Verse2

Stand close to your nature and respect your inner self.