Late-night flight through dark and brooding country. A ceaseless whisper of cicadas.
Dubious men in linen suits who smile too much and call you my very good friend.
A shipwreck. Something in the lagoon.
A doorway. Many doorways.
A church. A curse. An old priest.
A stone sarcophagus.
Many hills. A precipice. A monastery.
A blood-sacrifice. A gathering.
Oaths. A chant.
A break for freedom.
Bock will return tomorrow with a normal service and will speak no more of this.