Last updated: 15 hours ago
Tales of Scribe 67 have oft been uttered by drunken, toothless drifters fishing under bridges on rainy nights, tales of a mad hermit with a tattered coat and twisted staff who roams waterways spilling down from the mountains. He was once a scholar with a penchant for scribbling poetry on any available surface, 67 appearing as a signature—the year of his birth, or perhaps a year prophesied for the end of the world. Having grown increasingly erratic, he vanished one evening and took to living wild in the mountains. Old timers find arcane markings etched in old tree trunks and under river rocks—poems left by Scribe 67 for the weary traveler to discover. Some have glimpsed him brandishing a homemade fishing rod with which he conjures St. Elmo’s Fire, now a ritual in his personal religion. In the predawn, one can hear faint wailing echoing through the forest. It is Scribe 67 beckoning all to take to the woods—at the places where there are no paths.
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