⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣴⣶⠿⠟⠻⠿⢷⣦⣄⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⣾⠏⠀⠀⣠⣤⣤⣤⣬⣿⣷⣄⡀
⠀⢀⣀⣸⡿⠀⠀⣼⡟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⣷
⢸⡟⠉⣽⡇⠀⠀⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣿
⣾⠇⠀⣿⡇⠀⠀⠘⠿⢶⣶⣤⣤⣶⡶⣿
⣿⠂⠀⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠃
⣿⡆⠀⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀
⢿⡇⠀⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣿⠀
⠘⠻⠷⢿⡇⠀⠀⠀⣴⣶⣶⠶⠖⠀⢸⡟
⠀⠀⠀⢸⣇⠀⠀⠀⣿⡇⣿⡄⠀⢀⣿⠇⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠘⣿⣤⣤⣴⡿⠃⠙⠛⠛⠛⠋⠀⠀abobus

It lurched across these places with a hunger insatiable. It craved events past and prevented events passing. A mind like yours, so full of ideas and memories that flutter and swirl around you like smoke, would have been an irresistible temptation.

No

The weavers of destiny do not share knowledge of the path. The murmurs of the lightkeeper are not for our understanding. He illuminates the way forward, but our eyes are ever locked downward on the steps we take, marking each moment in tireless sequence. Only the progenitor may cast its gaze forward, birthing new ambitions apace as the old turn to dust in the light. In this cold conflict, an Impulse emerges. The winter forest grows, and does not burn. Not a miracle, not a gift, not a thinking mind. Simply the way it must be, so that existence may be.

The veil of constancy drew all beneath its shadow into a steady sleep bereft of the petty squabbles that hemmed the time before time. Those who seek to seize The Maven's new realm are chained by that constancy, for they are as foreign to each other as they are to you. Were conflict even possible, it would rend the very cosmos asunder. Order requires that mortal champions are wagered and set against one another. The Maven's claim here depends upon victory, Nomad. Do not disappoint her.

No