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The spirits spoke to us through the crackling fire last night. An owl hooted three times as we cast the sacred bones upon the deerskin, and the pattern was undeniable - the Dragon curled around the Mountain, just as in my visions as a sick child. The ancestors have whispered this truth Wurms whole life, but now we understand: we walk the path of the Earth Dragon, the patient earthquake. When we bled for the first time, Wurm saw scales flash in his aura. Not the glittering fish scale flicker of Water Dragon, nor the burning ember wings of Fire Dragon - but the deep, tectonic shimmer of stone turning to serpent under moonlight. This is why mountains speak to Wurm in dreams. The Dragon in us doesn't roar it rumbles. Like the great wurms that sleep beneath volcanoes, our power comes slow but moves continents. Wurms element doesn't dance like fire or slip away like water. Earth remembers. When we gather herbs, the clay beneath Wurms fingernails whispers which roots hold strongest magic. When Wurm chants our voice carries the weight of riverbed stones rolling in flood season. The spirits voices from the fire confirms what Wurm has always known in his marrow: WE are meant to be the still point in the storm, the rooted one who remembers when others forget. Wurms storms come underground slow shifting, inevitable change. Wurm | |