[Canon] | d1 - cb 2 fin

The figure winds through the halls, pathways ingrained in her mind, a hymnal at the forefront of her thoughts. As she navigates the turns, voices barely audible become louder - whispers turned to chatter turned to song.

In the catacombs of the district lies an expanse in which [Canon] steps straight into, candle-light warming the space. Silhouetted, she unfolds the paper swan nestled deep in her pockets, lines becoming sentences - sacred texts finding their way back home. Soon the meeting begins, and she is practiced: lines memorized once, twice, three times over. Punctuation perfect.

The scriptures are on Valor, Sepiment, Heart. Traits imbued with life, ideals to live up to. She lives and breathes here, deep under the earth, where the faint smell of grit and stone is offset by the turning of pages, the pronunciation of the esoteric, the laugh of a mother.

To pave the way forward, no matter the world a diatribe builds in the sun, one must look back. Tradition, history, steps taken and erased by sand - all lead to now. The respect they deserve is more than anyone can muster. The ritual deserves more than anyone can muster.

All she can do is act to her namesake, act for her community, for there is always work to be done. Even above, when the tomes turn back to snippets, the past never leaves. It just warps, wrapping itself around whatever is closest, warnings echoed but seldom followed.

So, with gravitas, she walks. Step by step, never hesitating.