This Story is a node on the World Tree, and is shared with Noah McLain, Hjeron O’Sidhe
The paths of the Commonwealth start to make more sense for me as I navigate my way to the Shamballa festival for the first time. On the way, I find a picture of a wolf that looks exactly like North, and recognize it as the essence of him, meeting me on the Quest.
I remember these moments deeply. I was moving, being able to understand a map of the surface plane for the first time, trying to find my way through the forests en route to the towne of Nelson across the border into the free colonies of Canada.
Once again, the sigil of the Phoenix comes to me, falling from a pack of oracle cards I had acquired at the local new age store. As it did, I felt that sensation, that of the burning within, it’s movement rumbling and stirring along the threads of my nervous system.
I intersect Carl Bridge on the Path as I pass through the City of Portals. Here, we speak about following the maps of the World. As I have always been, I am thankful for the Earth energy that moves through him as in the underlands of the Mythica, I sense myself absorbing, gaining access to that elusive quality of groundedness such that I may at last read an Earth map and divine it’s meaning with constancy.
It is so fascinating. I’d never been able to truly grasp the maps of the surface plane before. Flush with innocent interest, I try to map my way through the forest, off the main roads, towards the realm of Shamballa.
It is continually stunning to me how humans are capable of littering all over the planet. Each time I see the trash, a senses of responsibility fills me. I am led to pick it up, to feel the expansiveness of the deva’s breath.
With the kind woodsmans help in navigating my way out of the rough trails of the forest, I stop at a local deli for a bite to eat. As I do, my intuition draws my head leftwards, and I see a painting, one that looks as if It could have been a portrait of my beloved North.
Interpreting this as a sign upon the Quest of his presence, I purchase the painting, putting it up on the dashboard as a radiant glyph.
The realm of Shamballa has a different texture than the other flickerings I have encountered in the states. There is a quality of wilderness that is unsoiled here that I have always enjoyed. A scent in the musk of Canada’s people that I find appealing.
Magi of the Mythmaker
Temple of the Rose
The stone magic is so far from my sense of self, it is often difficult to hold in my mindseye. Yet here the threads are woven true, radiant and held in resonance by a centralized sphere of rose quartz.
Such is the works of the temple-maker, Copper Chris, who had shaped my elvish armour at the base of Mt. Elphinstone, and his temples were strong things. Made of clarified geomancy in grids of elegance and fine.
The Right Use of Power
I’m annoyed with being asked to be quiet. And angry at myself for judging the girl who spoke to me. I feel I must atone. In the subtle planes, the reflections of my thoughts, the judgment, the inner frustration, hammer from the inside-out, my awareness of their presence amplified by the potion.
I realize I must go to the Water, aligning with the aina to cleanse the subtlety of my being and free myself from the inner assault.
Ladies of Elphinstone
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