Elvish Invasion, a Muse has landed

        “’twas a time when the written word was an art-form.

        These days, it seems there are more laborers than


        Something extremely odd and wonderful has occurred, but before I get into that, let me explain a few things. I have been writing “Wizard Stone” for the better part of thirty years (or more) and have watched it evolve slowly over that time. From a preteens imaginary world, to a full blow fantasy setting, it has transformed with and through my life experiences. I completed the original manuscript in 2008, but it has gone through a few revisions since. I had never been too satisfied with some parts and removed them. Inserted to fill in missing scene connections or to bolster buildup to the next chapter, I made a few additions.

        The story followed an outline, but that outline was only written up to the scene I was writing at the time. It is no small wonder that only the synopsis, which is a page and a half long, has not changed over all these edits and revisions. While reworking my manuscript, I kept having thoughts of side stories and wrote down notes as I went. I would always put them away for later use. My pile of “Future work” outgrew my pile of “Removed Chapters”. Of course, this made me happy in knowing that there would always be more to write about.

        Now to the heart of the matter. In September, I decided to join the ranks of social media. I created a Twitter and Author page, as I got ready to submit my first query letter. I had no idea what to do on either, so I followed a few people and made a few quotes. It was not until I responded to a few tweets, that people started to follow me. One of them suggested making a Blog page and this was born. Having never written a blog before, I was a little hesitant and unsure of what to do next. I wrote what came to mind and for the most part, that worked.

        I had read quite a few mentions of writers struggling to write 2k words a day. Now, I type 70 words a minute and could, in theory,type 4k words an hour. That sounds good on paper, but writing a story is not that simple. I tested that theory one afternoon and came up with a nice 2.5k short story called “Broken Bonds”. It took more than four hours to write and another two of editing. I loved the feel for that kind of writing. A monster was born that day.

        I got it in my head to do those short stories often. I was writing another when something happened that I can’t explain. As I wrote the first line, an entire story formed in my head. I knew the beginning, the middle, and the end. This was something new. Every aspect of it formed in my head without any thought. I started typing and found that all I was doing was retelling the story. I did not have to stop and analyze every paragraph or sentence. I already knew what I was going to write before I hit the keys.

        Nine hours after I wrote that first word, I had completed another 36k. Three days later and I am beyond the 100k mark. I know that there are only a few more chapters to go. This is not what I expected. It took more than thirty years to write the first one. How could I write the second in such a short time? Why did that mysterious muse decide this was the perfect time to camp in my head? Well, I welcome it and will try my hardest not to lose it. I am not sure if this is a normal process or a fluke, but I intend to make the best of it. For now, I must say fare-thee-well as I am off to finish my work.

First Drafts: A trip down Memory Lane

I would like to give you a deeper look into the writers mind. It is an ever evolving construct, molded by every aspect of our past. Over the last few weeks, I have seen a plethora of writing about first draft and inspiration gained through reading. I will share my first draft, a scene born from various literary standards. Shortly after re-reading the Hobbit, as was my yearly practice, I typed these words into a Brother Word Processor. It was October of 1991, and I had just written the first opening scene of “Wizard Stone”. I can’t tell you how many alterations, changes or revisions have occurred since that first draft. The basic idea was there, even if the maturity level was not. The following took a while to type on PC, but I tried to copy every word exactly as first written.  It is not the complete chapter, just a portion of the first scene and enough to get a feel for the material.
I present this to you now, unaltered in any way, except for a few minor spelling corrections.

Chapter 1

       It was a beautiful morning in the Hollow Wood. Most spring mornings in the valley were, but this one was somehow brighter and more peaceful. Flowers were in full bloom. The sound of birds singing from their perches filled the air. Bees buzzed about their work. Even the brook, water bubbling off its rocky bank, was keeping tempo to it all. Droplets of dew were still clinging to leaves. Tiny shafts of sunlight danced and glistened on spiderwebs, transforming them into delicate jeweled strings. Scents of every kind lingered for just a moment before moving on, replaced by new ones. It was a beautiful morning indeed.

        Examos took a long breath. He let it out as a grin formed on his face. With a sparkle in his eyes, he thought out-laud, “What a wonderful day to be alive.”

        Only a few weeks ago, snow covered everything in sight. Spring had come late and when it did, it wasted no time catching up. Tall grass replaced the white blanket of winter, transforming the landscape into a rolling sea of green. Where drifts had built up waist high against a stone wall, ground squirrels now play an endless game of chase. Deer, drawn to the open space of the valley, started to venture out from beyond the treeline to steal a meal of fleshy leaves. After months of hot fires to ward off cold wind, life had again returned. Although only a tiny village sheltered by both forest and mountain, this little corner of the Torlies Forest was a wonderful place to live.

        To Examos it was home and home meant comfort. Unlike many of the other dwellings, his was nothing more than a squat log and stone cabin, built into the base of a great oak. There was nothing fancy inside, just the basic needs of a solitary young man. Simple accommodations made it much easier to heat and less to clean. Nothing stood out, except for the craftsmanship. Ornate carvings adorned every surface, flat or curved. Many mornings, he would awaken to find his neighbors gathered outside, sitting on the grass examining or discussing the latest work. It wasn’t until he built a bench that people stopped coming uninvited. This does not mean they stopped coming all together.

        Request letters piled on the doorstep overnight. There were only twenty families living in the valley and there always seemed to be far more letters than people. Over time, necessity grew to keep a daily schedule ledger. At first, the attention was rather amusing. His normal daily tasks, hampered by the onlookers, became problematic. Stepping around people while trying to weed the garden was not an efficient way to work. A carved log letter box, set on the side of a stone wall and a locked wooden gate, remedied the problem almost immediately. It was not long before his sculpting work became confined to the inside of the little cabin.

        “Ahem,” an almost familiar voice broke the reverie, startling Examos. “Might I inquire where I might find the master of this house?”

        There was a moment’s pause before he responded. “Yes, yes you can. I believe you’ve just found him,” he said it in a matter-of-fact way. Trying to reduce the glare, he raised his hand and squinted to see who was there. A man, silhouetted by the rising sun, was all he could make out.

        “Well? Do you guess, or do you know? If you are only guessing, then perhaps I should ask what, exactly, your business is here? I would expect that you would guess your purpose as well. That leads me right back to my original question.

        There was an air of deliberate arrogance in that man’s voice. There was also something old, but familiar. Something he had not heard for a long time. Thoughts started to spin around in his head. “This is my place.”

        “Are you sure or are you still making guesses?”

        “I am Examos Silari,” trying to stand taller while regaining control of his wits, “and I am the current owner of this land and the house upon it.”

        “Well, of course, you are, Master Silari and I am happy to have met you in good health on such a morn’”, the silhouette responded as if he had known all along. “Now that you are surer of yourself, we can proceed. May I come in?”

        Examos had always been a beacon of calm where others might anger. This conversation was testing his limits. His temperament was now leaning toward riddance of this determined current distraction. Curiosity prevented him from voicing his annoyance out loud, but not his actions. He turned his head, looking towards his front door. His mind raced with ideas. How could he escape such a conversation, without insulting this stranger? This was a matter that needed great tact.

        Inspiration struck as he turned to face the man he could not identify, “I am truly sorry, but my ledger is full and won’t be clear until noon tomorrow. I’m afraid there’s no way I’ll be able to entertain guests at the moment.” He smiled at how clever his plan came together. Lying was not in his nature and the truth was much better than any story he could have conceived.

        “Splendid”, came the immediate response. “A noon tea would be just the thing.”
“Yes, indeed.” Thinking the conversation was at an end, he turned and started walking towards the cabin. Images of a quiet tea replaced any other thoughts. “I have a wonderful black leaf I’ve been saving. I think it would go splendidly with hot honey muffins.”

        “It is settled then. ’til the ‘morrow.”

        “Wait, what?” Stopping abruptly, he turned his gaze back to the stranger.

        “I said, “’til the ‘morrow,”” speaking louder.

        “I don’t remember inviting you, Mister,” his voice trailed off. “I didn’t catch your name.”

        “Well, of course, you haven’t. I have not spoken it to you yet. But it would be rude not to inform the host, about whom he would be hosting. I am known as Elden Que’m Alum, in the ancient tongue.” The figure stepped to one side so that the sun was not behind him. With his features revealed, he bowed, “You may know me by another name, Pasternal.”

Broken Bonds

Broken Bonds
by R.L. Oram

     Animals flew or scurried away to hide behind sheltered safety, as the sound of boots striking rock echoed out of the ravine below. The woods became eerily quiet. Janice stood motionless, peering down the trail toward her pursuers. She was weary and cold, her breath forming a heavy cloud of steam as she panted. The sound of clinking steel renewed her energy, but knew too, she could not keep this pace up much longer. Poised to run, she watched a moment longer, hoping they would take a side trail, giving her time to regain some lost energy.

     The tangled tops of this ancient forest kept most of the snow from reaching the ground. That made tracking her a little harder, but the hounds did not need tracks to find a trail. They would pick up her scent again soon enough. This was an unknown land to her. She thought of leaving the trail, but reason told her that it would not be the wisest idea. Someone had made it, so it had to go someplace. She tried not to think about where it ended, focusing instead on being the fastest root to travel. Speed is what she needed now and dodging branches, trees, and other unknown obstacles were out of the question.

     A bearded face rose up from the ravine, looking right at her with an evil looking visage. He yelled over his shoulder, pointing in her direction. The language was unfamiliar, but she knew he was telling the rest of his company to hurry. There came a response of cries and howls from farther behind. Voices on both sides were much closer. A few more moments and they would be on her. Knowing the only escape was to press on, she turned and fled.

     After the rise, the trail plunged to the valley floor. No sign of excitement showed; descending the hill with manacles on being almost as challenging as the climb up. Falling, more than running down the steep incline, she gained little distance. A few loud commands came from behind her followed by a large commotion. Her heart sank. They let the hounds loose. There was no way she could outrun them.

     The trail veered sharply to the right just ahead. Panicked, she slowed little, barely making the turn. A quick glance revealed a deep chasm on her left and an idea formed in her mind. Stopping as fast as she could, she looked back at the curve. It was not quite dusk, but the low light might just work for what she had in mind. There were only a few moments before they were on top of her and she was not sure she could even do what she wanted. She wasn’t even certain the trick would work.

     Janice stood staring at the point she wanted it to happen. Desperately, she tried to remember how she had seen it done. With hands outstretched in front of her, she tried to pull the image out of her head. The bindings prevented her arms from moving the way she needed and nothing happened. She tried again, this time with just her fingers doing the movements. Still, nothing and now the hounds were only strides away. Tears began to well up in her eyes. She felt hopeless and knew her life was about to end. Frantically, she put all her intent through thought and motion, releasing her will.

     Darkness suddenly appeared in front of her. It was nothing spectacular. A small, lightless orb that barely covered curve and cliff. The cries and crashing that resounded from below, verified that it had worked. The hounds, running at full speed, had no time to avoid the darkness and could not see the edge they plummeted off of. She felt a sudden sadness for the creatures, but accepted that it was necessary and turned to run on.

     Large muscular hands wrapped like a vice around her waist, roughly picking her up off the ground. Surprised at how stupid she was for letting him sneak up on her, she let out an angered scream. Kicking and flailing to loosen his grip, she reached toward his face to scratch his eyes. He was far too large and her reach could not make the distance. Her nails landed on his neck, but did little damage. She could feel his muscles tighten as his free hand grabbed the chain and in one forceful motion, pulled her arms over and behind her head.

     With her head tilted back, she could see the expression on his face and that brought new waves of fear. There was something far worse than death planned behind those sinister eyes. He held her tighter and did not loosen his grip until she stopped struggling. With a fierce howl, he tilted his head to the sky and shouted something in that language she did not understand. Whether of victory or claiming his prize, he did not pause for any reply. He just started down the trail without waiting for his companions.


     They had come to the end of the trail just before nightfall, including seven other men involved in the chase. There, they found what looked like an abandoned tower of some kind, jutting out over the cliff face. It was a tower in that it had a round stone foundation and a few partial walls. The upper levels had all collapsed over time and only the stone slab first floor and a part of the second floor remained. A fireplace stood on one remaining wall, where they made a cooking fire. There was an intact cellar, though, and they closed Janice down there as soon as discovered.

     It was dark in this corner of the cellar. There were no windows and the slab exit closed. Other than a few cracks in the deteriorating mortar, there was no light. She was born and spent all her life in the darkness of the deep places. Captured and forced to live on the surface, this felt close to home. She was not going home and she was not going to be someone’s plaything or a slave. It took several moments to force her eyes to adjust, but she could now see in the dark again.

     She could hear the muffled voices and hideous laughing through the floor above. It would not be long before they turned their attention back her way. She did not want to stay trapped in some old basement when that happened. Determined to be free, she searched the tiny room. The outer walls were too heavy to push, but there was an alcove that had much smaller stone insets. If a few of those came loose, there might be a chance to tunnel out. If that failed, a few stones would make a fine weapon, a final stand. Once, lucky enough to escape, perhaps she could do it again. There were not eight of them the first time, though.

     Her long years in the wilds of dark caverns, caves and every kind of connecting underground passages, had heightened her senses in these kinds of surroundings. Where she first saw only an alcove, she found to be much more. She could smell a passage beyond what was actually a stoned up doorway. It was an old passage leading deep into some even older rock. Excitement building she pulled at the stones. Try as she might, they would not budge. It seemed as if something unnatural was keeping them in place or teasing her with knowledge that she could never use.

     She could hear footsteps heading for the slab that covered her basement prison. Her mind raced and she could feel her heart beating faster. She looked over the floor again for any kind of makeshift weapon, but there was none to be had. She could hear the slab lifting and saw the light from the fire spilling down the stairway. They would be coming for her and she could not defend herself. Putting her back against the alcove, she braced herself for what she knew was about to happen next.

     The alcove wall swung open without warning and she fell backward into the passageway. Lying on the floor, she heard the click and watched the door swing closed again. There were more muffled voices, but these ones sounded angry. Then the sound of metal crashing on the stone was all that she could hear. Sliding away from the doorway, still on her back, she wondered how long this run of luck would hold. The pounding began to intensify and dust was showering down from the ceiling and walls. Determined to break through as they were, she needed to move and now.

     Janice gathered her wits enough to pick herself up. She moved down the corridor at speed, until coming to a steep stairway going down. Designed for someone much shorter than her, she took the steps two at a time. This complex had been cut from living stone with a precision, she had not encountered before. She wanted to study it, but was more interested in saving her skin. She promised herself to return one day if she survived long enough.

     The last step landed her in a much wider corridor. She could see the passage opened into a large room with a dim glow, beyond. She recognized its source, but could not quite remember what exactly it was or where she had seen it before. The muffled sound of breaking stone pushed her forward, foregoing any caution. They were going to break through that wall soon and she knew she needed to be far gone when they did. She ran headlong into the room.

     Her breath caught when she saw what was producing that glow. She tried to swallow, but her entire body began shaking with terror and would not let her. She let out a small whimper. It took all her will, just to breath again. Luck was playing evil tricks on her today and it was becoming tiresome. Tears started to form and this time, there was nothing to stop them. She had released the thing imprisoned here and now knew that she was going to find out what suffering was all about.

     “Why does one weep?”

     The voice was gentle and surprised her. She could understand what it was saying. She forced her eyes to look up and saw not a beast, but a young being with soft features and deep blue hypnotizing eyes. She wanted to fall into those eyes and forget all else that has happened. Her mind was calm.

     “You need not fear me, child. I am in your debt for releasing me. How did you come to be in this place?”

     The being’s voice was almost musical. It was full of life and energy. She did not fear him. “I was escaping from capture,” she held up her shackled hands to show him, “I came from a place above here, by accident.”

     “I see,” he said with an eyebrow raised. “Well, that is only a minor thing and I’d be most happy to fix it, if permitted.”

     He continued to gaze into her eyes, as if peering into her very soul. There was a calming nature in those eyes and his speech. She did not think twice about it, as she walked forward, holding her arms out to him. He touched the locking pin holding one band closed and it fell out like butter. He did the same to the second. There were no words or gestures. He touched them and they fell away.

     “How did you do that?”

     “I asked them to fall and they listened, nothing more. I could teach it to you, if you’d like. You were born with a gift that you do not know how to use and I could guide you.”

     He smiled at her in a playful way. It was a smile that reminded her of the first time she smelled a flower. Something beautiful and relaxing. Like a dream for the senses.

     A clamor came from the stairway and she turned to see torchlight growing in the corridor. Her time was up. They would have her now. She could feel her heart racing once more and her breathing became more shallow. She turned to run, but stopped. The one she released from the stasis prison was standing in her way. He was looking past her to where her pursuers were about to emerge.

     “They are men, are they not?” he questioned in even tones.

     “I don’t know. I once saw a man when I was younger, but he was off in the distance and I didn’t get a good look.”

     “They smell like men, slave trader men. I despise slave traders, men or otherwise.” A scowl formed on his face and his brow deepened. He put his hand on her shoulder and whispered into her ear, “Ask them to leave. Don’t do it gentle.”

     For some reason, that hand on her shoulder stopped any questions she might have. It was not only reassuring, but empowering. Doubt slipped away, replaced by confidence. She stood as tall as she could, focusing on what she had to do. She knew it all along, but only now does she understand exactly what to do and how to do it. She held her arms over her head and waited. She felt like a coiled viper about to strike.

     The men stepped slowly into the room. One by one they circled the two figures standing at its center. They saw their prize and were eager to have it. She was not sure if they even noticed the other person standing beside her, so fixated were their eyes. As one, they raised club or rope and stepped forward.

     “Stop!” she shouted. Ignoring her demand, they continued.
“Stop!” she said it louder, but this time, she let the shackles fall to the floor.

     The bindings hit the floor with a loud metallic ring. The men stopped, mesmerized by what they just saw. It did not last long and they started to run towards her. They knew she had no way out. It was over.

     She dropped her arms, hands clenched in tight fists at her side. When they were five steps away, she closed her eyes and put all intent into her will. “Leave,” she whispered.

     She breathed deep as long moments passed. There was no other sound. When she opened her eyes, they were gone. She felt the hand squeeze her shoulder. Without thinking, she put her hand on his. Then she turned and threw both arms around him. Through happy sobs, she could only get out, “Thank you.”

     “You don’t have to thank me. I only showed you what needed doing. You’re the one who figured out how.”

     “I don’t even know what to call you or why you were in that prison.”

     He touched her cheek with a gentle hand and wiped away a tear. “I am Elden Que’m Alum, my child and my imprisonment is a much longer story. I don’t even know the current year.”

     She nuzzled her face into his chest. It was comforting. The most comforting thing she had ever felt. “I’m known as Janice, of House Devon. I don’t know the surface calendar. I am sorry.”

     “My dear Janice, why don’t we go up and find out together. I still have much to teach you and I would love your company.”

     He bent down to kiss her on the forehead, but she looked up at that exact moment. Their lips met and the rest, as they say, is history.


Arvandor – an intimate beginning – Part 2

Oh, I have seen Arvandor. I remember a time when all was new, wild and people hid in fire lit shelter. I have walked the city street and forest trail, looked across the world from mountain high and sailed upon the oceans; traversed desert, tundra too and got lost in the jungle. I have crawled through caverns, dungeons deep and soared up to the heavens. I have seen nations rise to great heights and crumble again to dust. Ah yes, I have seen a thing or two in my day, there are a few I have not and still it amazes me about what man can achieve, for good or ill, in his short lifetime. 



When I first started writing about Arvandor and its people, I did not have any grand plan. It started as a simple idea; a place like our own earth, with cities and villages, people of all kinds, what I imagined the perfect world to be. I could not make it the same as where we lived. Unsatisfied with the world we exist in, I made a place I could escape to and then explore as I wish.

You will see many quotes or stories here, written by someone named Pasternal. To be perfectly honest, he is not real, not in the normal sense anyway. When I was eight years old, that was not the case. He was as real to me as my home or parents and he talked to me quite often. The day I first wrote the words Arvandor, he showed up and, as hard as I have tried to be rid of him, has not left. He is my imaginary or inner voice, the guide I use to reveal my fantasy world. Maybe he uses me more than I use him, but it all ends up in the same place, on the written page.

I am telling you all this now, because I want it said, done and out of the way first. I would like nothing better than to proceed to the core of Arvandor; jump right in, reveal the mystery, splendor, and all its vastness, but starting here was necessary and I do not intend on revisiting this background information anytime soon. There is still much to see and visit, much to learn and of course, many tales to tell and I would rather be writing that here, then spending time on the “what and why?”. There is always a method to my madness and learning of that upfront I think is the best thing.

It is funny that I bring up madness now. I have questioned that on several occasions and found the answers confusing. I freely admit that I listen to a little voice inside my own head. I have even talked back to it. I have come to the conclusion that there is a thin line between sanity and imagination. I think I tend to walk that line closely from time to time, perhaps even crossing it when not paying attention. Whether crazy or not, talking with that little voice works for me.

That part of my life has also evolved over the last three decades. Pasternal, once just a means to guide me through the world of Eta, the planet where Arvandor sits, would later wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me stories. I do not know how many of those tales I have forgotten over the years, but I’m sure they would have filled volumes of their own. I made it a habit of keeping a notebook next to my bed for just such occasions so that I would have something to write about when I woke in the morning or whenever I got around to deciphering the scribble I had written while in a sleepy daze.

Let me just say, without Pasternal, nothing about Arvandor would exist other than a name. There would be no story, no Hollow Wood, no sheep named Blix whose descendants would grow the most sought after wool. You would not even be reading this, for I would have done something different with my life and writing a blog about a fantasy setting is far removed from where I would have wound up. I’m glad it worked out this way. The troubles and downfalls I have encountered did more to shape me than shape Arvandor, but it did shape it nonetheless. Let us just say, we had mutual growth.

I am writing all this, not in hopes of gaining an audience or any other personal reason. I am doing it to share my beginnings. To put it down lest it becomes lost and unheard. I would have this memory left open for those who it might touch in any way, no matter how small. That even in my passing, there will be a part of me that remains. That is why I write. To share my ideas with those who like to walk outside our world for a while.

Now that we have come to the end of this segment, grab a pint, sit ye down by the fire and listen to a tale yet untold.

Arvandor – an intimate beginning

What is Arvandor, you ask? That, my friend, is a long story.
~Elden Que’m Alum (Pasternal)

So what exactly is Arvandor? It’s a fantasy setting I created to use as my imagination deemed fit. Arvandor is a continent much larger than North America, on which many different creatures, cultures and regions exist. Past civilizations and ancient lore can be found anywhere one tries hard enough to look. Most inhabitants live and die, without ever seeing much of the world they live in, but there are a few who dare to search out trouble. Usually, it finds them first.

I would love to explain Arvandor quickly, what it is and where it came from, but like all things developed over time, it isn’t that simple. It is a long story; A very long story, with many long and short tales attached. Things happened throughout my life that helped transform and mold it into something unrecognizable from what I envisioned in the beginning. It was much different at its inception, simple and very small. Before I can tell you what Arvandor is, I have to take you a step or two back in history. Back to a time when I was much younger and more innocent. A time when I was not much more than a silly child filled with great ideas and an even greater imagination.

I grew up in an age when computers, video games and the cell phone were still in their infancy. They were too new and we did not have any. We did get to watched the occasional movie on a huge 45inch Zenith cabinet television, connected to a Betamax cassette player. We made up games to play outside and read inside when it rained. It was during the Bicentennial year, that I first read Pyle, “King Arthur” and my imagination took a giant leap.

I read vigorously for a few years and book after book, went missing from my fathers library. There was a vast collection of the classics on those shelves and I devoured them eagerly. It was two years after my seventh birthday that I found myself engrossed in a book called “The Hobbit”, a masterful work by J.R.R. Tolkien. That same year, I found a new kind of game sitting under the Christmas tree and a new way for me to delve deeper into my dreams. The simple name on the box said Dungeons & Dragons.

The combination of wondrous tales and mystical places added fuel to my inner fire. The addition of role-playing games meant I could write about places I dreamed of and live it through those characters. Many friends walked those streets and wood arm in arm with me throughout my youth. When players had questions, I would create more answers than they would ever need. Writing longer stories and background information took on a life of its own. Volumes of full notepads and speedily drawn sketches started to fill my large walk in closet.

As I grew, learned and saw more of the world we live in, I added little touches here and there to my own setting; every time, making it richer and feeling more alive. I started the first draft of, what would become “Wizard Stone” called “Thorn of the Rose” in the early eighty’s. I had just finished a short western novel of 60,000 words called “44 Cal. Tag” and thought putting some notes from Arvanor together into a large story was a wonderful idea.

So, here we are. You ask what now? To be honest, this is the first blog I have written and I was not sure what was going to be out on this page. I just started typing and this is what came out. I do plan on visiting and sharing more about Arvandor as often as I can in these blogs. There are so many corners unexplored and people of great interest yet undiscovered. If that is not enough for you, I have several created languages, some with more than five-thousand words, to share. For now, I will leave you with this:
Walk with me and I will show you a whole new and amazing world.