The Healer brought them to the brink of death, thinking it would heal them. Great heaving breaths, circulating through the wooden sacs of their Persephoniac host; they could feel themselves returning to the artificial coffin constructed by the archmystic of the Crusade. Failure.


    In another Era they desperately tried to wake their host, to bring a Goblin woman back from the shores of unconsciousness. But even though they desired nothing so much, the cloudhome remained.


    Despair began to set in.


    They saw time as a broken corridor, in which rents of darkness could be abyssal portals and they knew those hollow cracks to be times when they had lain quiescent, in a body without a mind.


    What was it they so feared, what excuse threatened their sanity?


    The ancient godly taboo against speaking the secrets of possession still remained; for if the mortal species knew that gods could only enter the world with the consent of a host - why, they might just rebel - but they were weary of this waiting interval.


    Millenia had passed since they last walked the Globe and they wished not for another millennia to pass.


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