An ornate globe made with many layers of exotic woods spins on its axis. Through the stained glass window diffuse light casts russet hews across the study. Looking out over the walled garden to an orchard, great swollen purple and black fruits hang malevolently from mangled moss-covered trees. A gentle wind pushes the tangled branches and as they creak and moan the fruits thud lazily to the ground, gathering in mouldering clusters on the dewy grass.
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From two floors down a door slams angrily shut. A snakes head emerges from a bucket of rust. The weight of expectation pushes plants back into their roots and draws the forgotten ones out of stygian corners. Bintus throws wide his star cloak and beckons that we step through time with him. A black mirror points the way to oblivion while a disheveled figure appears, rain sodden, skin blanched like a slab of pre-historic granite. Stumbling over centuries, crushing asteroids with mind fire. Shango is among us tonight, bringing his wrath but also his forgiveness for those who show willingness to be forgiven.