The Threshold Strode Past

"What's worse than a Phoenix Feather?"

"Nothing, sir."

The nose of the ship grinds over the shoreline, burying into sand.

"Truer words have not been spoken, Scribe. I wonder if truer words can be. We have arrived at The Beach of Paradise!"

"Disembark!"

The Scribe manages to stay composed while delivering this order, but was at a loss as to how. The Scribe was already aware that The Ambassador had no idea where they were actually going, yet had not fully comprehended the meaning of that knowledge gap, even as he watched The Ambassador deftly navigate quippish seas that The Scribe knew he was blind to the specifics of. Still, as the crew began disembarking in joy and disbelief, The Scribe watched as The Ambassador stared with eyes open, at the mouth of the river of Paradise, looking accomplished, but certainly not overwhelmed. eep rang out all around, as the overwhelming weight of the calculated nature of love externalized in a single tone.

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