Excerpts from the Book Of Dreamless Ink
Three sisters all together, two old and one new. The first left to see the stars, and then there were two.
Two sisters left behind, after she had gone. Dancing with one another, they would not be alone.
One sister on the ground, One in the sky. Together they walk hand-in-hand, together they will fly.
– Myathriri Ssangach
Have you seen a will-o'-the-wisp? A fleeting spirit, who enjoys your presence for a time, before flitting back into the dark forest? A candle flame, that flickers, and sputters, and lights briefly before dying out.
But what if one invited it to sit by the fire? Giving real warmth to the lost, false flame. Bringing it into your shelter, shivering and spitting from the cold and rain. What then?
Well, it would have the most wonderful stories to tell you. Tales woven from candle wicks, and told with the fiery, fervent vigour of a licking tongue of flame. Fables and parables and chestnuts and anecdotes and legends and comedies and tragedies and myths and poems and works and stories, all exquisite in their creation. And the hearth of the campfire would grow ever warmer for the spirit's inclusion in the flames.
And as the false flame shares in the merriment, the people about the camp do also, taking the newcomer with open arms, and delighting in their tales. The stranger can only stay for a brief moment, but that moment will be held with arms open and hearts full of love. The fire will die down and the night will pass, but it will be a night to remember, stretched to breaking point, wishing tomorrow would never come. The night will be long, but it will be full of memory, stretching between and around the wisp, letting her in on the joke, and sharing the joy around the crackling blaze at their centre.
It will not last forever. The flickering tail burns out, as a candle lit from both ends will do, no matter the care placed in maintaining the flame. But as it does so, feel the warmth it's brought. See the glow of the campfire, splashing across the faces of those who listen in to the stories, and who graciously gift theirs to the wisp.
She will return to the forest, dark as it is, as her flame burns up. But oh, what a story she will have told.
–Myathriri Ssangach