Return.

For it is, in fact, a return. While I cannot predict how the future shall go I can say that I am glad to be back. As such the boat shall remain non-rocked. Much more can be said. I shall not speak of it here, for it is such a small thing that just as easily could have ended in withdraw.

Ah, while the great outdoors trouble us with rain the moon remains cloaked. The cold hilt of the blade speaks to me of frost and snow. It whispers. Snow. Snow. There is blood in it. There is life in blood. Blood in the snow, life in the snow. Snow is life.
Our ancestors may be forever taciturn. Yet it is we who shall listen.

Listen.
Listen.

Do you hear them calling from the soundtrack of your life?
Do the chirps of birds sing songs of glory?
Do they sing songs of the Great Tribble Hunt?

Do you hear me calling?
Listen.

Not everyone gets a second chance. Make the most of it.
And be happy you're not dealing with Doran Martell.

Listen.
Listen.

Thank you.