Crowley

Crowley sits atop his thatch chair in his waterside hovel at the junction where the Reach departs the sea.

Obscured by rock from the winding roads along the water's edge, protected from the flurried winds that whip off the water by the tall, proud reeds.

This is where he feels like he should be nowhere else, doing no other thing.

The ancient water that has known all the rivers and oceans of the world, the clouds of the sky and the ground beneath man's foot flits and flows knowingly amongst the deep reeds.

The water laps coquettishly, suggesting relief for his weary feet should he so oblige. Slim slithers and slops down to the water's edge to feast on the bounty of bugs.

Uncorking the flask with a satisfying plunk, he allows the potion to drip onto his tongue twice and no more, he's not making that mistake again...

..he forcefully recorks the bottle and places it under his coat and waits... drifting...

..the crickets chirp, moths flutter and birds tweet while clouds meander slowly across the dusk sky...

That's where his mind is quietened, the red hat pulled down over his eyes. He retreats into his subconscious.

His physical body at rest beneath the weighty two-tone fringe, his mind alive with the power of the magic that he holds within.

To any weary traveller passing by, Crowley may look like a old, stoned degen...

..but those who know, know.

Entered by: 0xDcF4…3eCe and preserved on chain (see transaction)