A solemn fire pit cracks and splinters as it burns inside of an old long house; it's flickering flames the only source of light that barely seem to stretch out into the darkness. Kneeling beside that fire is a lone man, who stokes it with a charred stick. His face is aglow with the warm light as he looks to you, and grins in a very strange manner. He tilts his head awkwardly to the side as he beckons you to join him, and escape the bitter cold of the winter.
Hello.
There is a strangeness to the tone of his voice that you cannot place, but it doesn't bespeak of ill intent, or mischief. He sets his fire poking stick down beside the stones that surround the small fire, and he clasps his hands gently.
I, am INSANYITY. This is my new home.
With that said he looks back into the flames, and as they reflect off of his eyes you can tell that these are the eyes of a man with many stories to tell. The eyes of a man who has seen much, who has done much, and who has yet more to do. But there is also a strange sense of comfort in him as well; as though he's been doing this for many, many years. Will you go to him, and join him by his fire?
Hello.
There is a strangeness to the tone of his voice that you cannot place, but it doesn't bespeak of ill intent, or mischief. He sets his fire poking stick down beside the stones that surround the small fire, and he clasps his hands gently.
I, am INSANYITY. This is my new home.
With that said he looks back into the flames, and as they reflect off of his eyes you can tell that these are the eyes of a man with many stories to tell. The eyes of a man who has seen much, who has done much, and who has yet more to do. But there is also a strange sense of comfort in him as well; as though he's been doing this for many, many years. Will you go to him, and join him by his fire?
