Lost Creek Hollow the prayer of the apostle paul

she materializes out of the wrought-iron undergrowth, her gaze lovely and pale. the canaanite bows his head until his chin hovers over the earth, churned and scored by his dance just prior.

river-clan, he breathes with delight. to have piriawis in their name! the great vein of the world that fed and cleansed them, that ferried the wretched and worldly masses to the World of Light! a holy name!

nearly rapturous, he turns to the sterling woman. would you have space for a wanderer?

he did not consider even the possibly of a rejection - to do so would be to doubt that a stone would fall to the ground after being thrown. it would be to doubt tomorrow's sunrise.