Anseo arís you childers of Molly, now run anew to her arms! Take the steps, clamber over the ruined wall, cross the scruffy stream or walk beneath battlements and through the gates. There are many portals; sigil scraped, discovered by chance, but entered with volition. What a thing to stumble across, to trip over!
And these people, this crew; brightly sloughed and well met. Erstwhile companions, old friends, travellers and neophytes; poets, players and paladins. Natural climbers all, sublime in their scales.
You gather at the golden hour to the rally of ringing masts, and dissolve in the small hours to the wail of ringing ears. Brothers and sisters of wind, wode and water, joined in this magical movement from station to station. Ever eager for the next embrace.
You have many maps, but what use are they? Their folds contain no meaning. No laughter in the coppice. No evening light, laying softly on restful slopes. No wide eyes, gleaming in the green glossed night.
This is terrain that can be surveyed only through walking, delineated by the cartography of perception; muscle and organs repurposed to augur, clinometer and theodolite.
A place where memory, topography and ritual entwine, where the mind dissolves without a sound, bubbling in sensate effervescence.
This is every place and no place.