“My lady Weaver

I ask you to cast your eye on this small patch of land.

Or your ear.

Or your nose.

Frankly, if you wanted to cast your elbow on it, that could certainly do no harm. Your eyebrow, arched above, would be a rainbow to it.

Mostly what this land needs is your love. Not a lot, really. The people who lived here love it dearly already. They tilled it, they built upon it, they found their way though the land. Not just literally – we have maps for that now – but what the land stood for, how the crops grew best and where.

They worked upon this land, finding the best ways to make this new world soil work for the old world farming style. Finding new ways, building new traditions for younger men to destroy in the search for something new.

Upon this land was love, hope, joy and – most importantly to them – food.

Look at it now.

Initially, that might look like a contradiction, since I mentioned above I’d be happy with the presence of your elbow, but you can look at it with whatever sense you like, and it’s still wrong. The love that was fed to this land has been bled out, corrupted into hatred and blight. The soil is brittle and black, the air is thick and sour. Frankly, I’ve spent the last month swimming though this soup in Dale and here, and if nothing else can convince people what terrible things unlife can do to the world, it is this. You don’t need your eyes to see this mess.

The farmers can love it again, but to get rid of the horror that has been unleashed here, I must request your help.

In the name of the Storyteller, I bring the tale of this land to a happier chapter.

In the name of the Midwife, I bless this land to bring it new life.

In the name of the Builder, I strengthen this land that it may support those who work it.

In the name of the Lover, I infuse this land with my love, reinforced by that of my lady.

In the name of the Weaver, I consecrate this land.