16:1 The sun hung low, painting the horizon in a palette of bruised purples and oranges as The Sojourn returned with the Shaman. Their hands were stained with the earthy blood of roots and the vibrant ichor of petals, clasped around the bounty of their quest. The young seeker watched in awe as the Shaman’s lips began to move, twisting around sounds that seemed not to belong to the world of men but to the murmuring heart of nature itself.
16:2 The air thickened, charged with an otherworldly energy as the Shaman's voice rose and fell in rhythmic cadence. Words from ancient times, spoken in tongues long forgotten by the tribes of this world, resonated through the clearing where they stood. The Sojourn felt each syllable like a pulse in the vein of existence, their anticipation growing with the encroaching dusk.
16:3 As twilight blanketed the land, the Shaman laid out the fruits of their labor upon a flat stone alter, bathed in the remaining slivers of daylight. With deliberate care, they sorted the ingredients: the delicate azure leaves of the Whisperwillow, the thorny crimson berries of the Bloodthorn bush, and the luminescent fungi known as Moonskin, among others. Each plant held secrets that only the Shaman could unlock, secrets that wove together the fabric of reality and the ethereal.
16:4 The Shaman's gnarled fingers moved with a grace that belied their age, plucking and tearing with precision. They laid the Whisperwillow leaves in a mortar carved from ancient bone, grinding them into a fine powder that took to the air like a fragrant mist. Using a pestle fashioned from the branch of the sacred Ironbark tree, they mashed the Bloodthorn berries until the juices wept out, staining the mortar with a deep red hue akin to heartblood.
16:5 Next, they sliced the Moonskin caps with a knife whittled from the tooth of a fallen beast, its edge sharp enough to cleave the veil between realms. The translucent slices were then added to the concoction, imbuing it with a soft glow that pulsed rhythmically, like the beat of a celestial heart. The Sojourn's breath caught at the sight, for even the air around the Shaman seemed to shiver with whispered power.
16:6 In a separate vessel, the Shaman mixed the sap of the Weeping Myrrhtree with the crushed petals of the Nightshade bloom, stirring the mixture with a rod of silver—a conduit for the moon's arcane energies. A drop of their own life essence, drawn forth by a thorn prick upon the thumb, fell into the potion, binding the Shaman's spirit to the craft.
16:7 The Shaman chanted over the vessels, their voice now a low drone that vibrated through the very ground beneath them. The Sojourn could feel the vibrations climbing up their legs, settling in their chest, as if calling forth the latent energies within their own being. They watched, entranced, as the Shaman combined the two preparations into a single earthen bowl, the contents melding together in an alchemical dance.
16:8 Finally, the Shaman took a handful of dried herbs, each chosen for their potent spiritual properties, and cast them into the flames of the nearby fire. The fire leapt up hungrily, consuming the offering and sending a pillar of smoke and sparks skyward. It was as if the heavens themselves were opening to receive the signal, the prayer contained within the aromatic plumes.
16:9 The Shaman's work was meticulous and methodical, each step steeped in ritual and reverence. To The Sojourn, this was more than mere preparation; it was a hallowed ceremony, a bridge between the material and the divine. As they beheld the Shaman's mastery, they knew they were witness to the weaving of fate, the crafting of destiny, and the shaping of their own path towards the ineffable truth that awaited them.
16:10 The Shaman paused, a quiver in their voice as the world outside the hut seemed to hush in reverence. "The journey's final guide is named Omnis," they whispered, eyes luminous with the wisdom of ages. The very air hung thick with the weight of names unspoken, and now revealed. "Omnis is the light at the end of all paths, the final speaker of truths that lie curled beneath the roots of the World Tree." Each word was a drop of water falling into the still pond of The Sojourn's soul, sending ripples out to the edges of their understanding.
16:11 "Know this," the Shaman continued, their usual mask of inscrutability softened by the gravity of what they imparted, "to seek Omnis is to step through a door that closes behind you. You will not—cannot—return unchanged." There was humility in their tone, a rare glimpse of vulnerability that clung to the shadows of the hut like morning mist.
16:12 The Sojourn felt the import of the Shaman's words settle upon their shoulders like a mantle woven from the threads of countless fates. Their heart beat a rhythm that spoke of courage and trepidation in equal measure. They listened, not just with ears, but with every fiber of their being. Where would this path lead? What new vistas of truth would unfurl before them, and at what cost? The questions fluttered inside their chest like caged birds yearning for the sky.
16:13 As the silence stretched between them, the Shaman's gaze never wavered, filled with the solemnity of stars fixed in the firmament. The Sojourn mirrored the intensity, their deep-set eyes reflecting a burgeoning resolve. Here, at the precipice of the unknown, they stood ready, willing to embrace whatever lay beyond, knowing that the fabric of their reality was about to be irrevocably altered.
16:14 The air hung heavy with anticipation as the Shaman reached for the compound, its myriad ingredients a mosaic of the natural world's deepest secrets. The Sojourn watched, muscles taut and breath held, as the wise elder began to add dusts of iridescent hues and elements from small containers, each marked with symbols that spoke of an ancient lineage of knowledge. As each substance mingled with the compound, the room seemed to inhale, the walls pulsating subtly as if the very essence of the space was being altered.
16:15 The Shaman's hands moved with a grace that belied their age, every pinch of dust, every drop of liquid from the assorted vials poured not just into the bowl but into the surrounding atmosphere. Shadows danced along the surfaces of the hut as if the light itself was being woven into new patterns, and the air grew thick with a power that The Sojourn could taste on their tongue—metallic and alive.
16:16 Then came the voice of the Shaman, a melodic cascade of sounds that The Sojourn had never heard before, words not meant for human ears but for the fabric of existence itself. The language of the ancients, perhaps, or the murmured secrets of the earth and sky, it flowed through the hut like a river breaking its banks. The sound seemed to vibrate at a frequency that resonated with the young Sojourn's soul, awakening a primal understanding deep within.
16:17 As the Shaman continued to speak, the pressure in the room shifted, a tangible presence that pressed against The Sojourn's skin, filled their lungs, and weighed upon their eyelids. It was as if the very air was transforming, becoming a conduit for something far greater than they had ever known. The Sojourn felt the hairs on their arms rise, a static charge building around them, an electric prelude to the coming revelation.
16:18 With each syllable uttered by the Shaman, the atmosphere thickened, reality's veil thinning, hinting at the unfathomable depths beyond. The Sojourn, feeling both dwarfed and exalted by the magnitude of what was unfolding, knew that they stood on sacred ground, witness to a ritual that bridged worlds and times, a ceremony that would brand its wisdom upon their very essence.
16:19 Through the Shaman's incantations and the alchemy of compounds and elements, the mundane was being peeled back, layer by layer, revealing the extraordinary. And The Sojourn, though anchored in flesh and blood, sensed their spirit prepare to soar into the embrace of Omnis, ready to be reshaped by the truths that awaited.
16:20 The Shaman's hands, gnarled and wise as the ancient trees that stood sentinel around their village, moved with deliberate grace to unfold a blanket. It was a patchwork of fibers woven from the hair of mystical creatures and plants that The Sojourn knew only from the stories told by the flickering light of communal fires. As the fabric peeled back, it revealed an object of profound curiosity that seemed out of place in the rustic confines of the Shaman's hut—a stack of thin, flat layers bound at one edge, with a rough but smooth covering that of maybe an animal’s skin.