“We found the witches of Urr after a two day hike into the wood. They were aquatic, not biologically but culturally, wading their days in the bog immersed in soil and silt.”

“We found the witches of Urr. ‘Take our picture if you’re so adventurous’ They said. ‘Our witcheroo bolio are made to be seen so see them.’”

“We explained to the witches where we had come from, and our journeys through the great tapestry of the multiverse. We had lost our rods and lenses and maps and were in desperate need of their assistance in our homecoming.”

“The witches of Urr invited us for a swim, and told us they would help us get home once our skin had become sufficiently pruned.”

“They said they could sling us through their sister reality, a parallel of what they called ‘our sisters of the dust’ with hopes of using the momentum to get us home. For this to happen, they would need us to gather honey from the Humming Temples for the ritual.”

“The humming Temples were a scattering of structures laid out across the hills and valleys east of the swamps of Urr, buzzing in dedication to the honey and the comb.”

“The Humming Temples resonated with the din of the pantheon, a chorus of bees alive in the hive.
It moved through your body like sap through a trunk, a vibration that resonated along the marrow.”

“We gathered the honey, careful not to spill any. The liquid magic of this place held an aura of cosmic infinitude over each drop of the golden resin, like a mother bird with her chicks tucked under her wing.”

“By nightfall we had found the Witches of Urr. It was as if they could feel us sloshing through the swamps, by the time we arrived they were already beginning the ritual, ushering us and the honey through the pine barrows.”

“This was the moment. On high and deep underground. The murky waved and the honey glowed… the witches began weaving their witcheroo through the coil of their being.”

“Our ears began to ring. But a low ring like the gurgling of the earth at its core, rolling over the panamelts of a new reality. The witches converged on the honey, walloping into it like a rabbit hiding from a hawk.”

“What is the soul of reality. What is it that sings inside of the veins of each and every moment. The witches galloped up upon the honey. Taking it into tenderness in themselves and bathing in the glow of their own haunting life force as it resonated as a mirror in the honey.”

“The witches of Urr slurged up a circle, reverberating the swampy fabrics of their reality into an iridescent hymn.”

“Something cracked. The winds rippled up through their cloaked witcheroo and lit the light at their pruned fingertips.”

“The honey expanded and enveloped us. Crystallized in the ether we reached out grasping gundling over and tipping inward in a rush of the buzz of the pantheon.”