Her mild touch has set in and we Cavemen once again adapt to her soothing blanket.

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.



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