#Silas Lodge

[ale-draws-stuff]

Wow, real edgy, Silas 🙄

[wimblton475]

Am relistening to unwell

[sluttyjonahmagnus]

"A well-known Greek and Latin name, Silas means "wood" or "forest." Sylvanus was the Roman god of the countryside and his name was originally bestowed on people who lived in wooded areas or who worked with wood." THE MAN IN THE FUCKING WOODS PEOPLE AH IT WAS THERE ALL ALONG

[phoet]

one thing about old white men named Silas in any piece of media is that they will be Evil.

[leonratart]

Some of my headcanon designs

[msvelawciraptor]

Relistening to season 3 of Unwell and when Silas is talking about "who decides when the woods wake up... do you think a tree talks to a tree talks to a tree," all I can think is "obviously you're not on Tumblr; it's the mushrooms talking to each other dude."

[vavoom-sorted-art]

Of Kings And Kids - Chapter 1

Welcome to @gaiaseyes451 and my Christmas collab! We'll be publishing a chapter every day, whith the fifth and final chapter going up on the 26th of December!

Head to AO3 to read the entire chapter.

*~*~*

Aziraphale stood at the town’s well, clay cup in hand, and drank, grateful for the cool water. While the journey from Nazareth hadn’t been particularly arduous, the angel was happy for an opportunity to rest after traversing the loamy, rolling hills; especially after guiding a flock of sheep and goats for the last five days. Michael had assured him, when she was briefing him on the Mission Messiah assignment, that Heaven had an alias prepared this time. Somehow, Silas the shepherd who was leading his flock of bovids to Bethlehem for the autumn livestock auction was not precisely the backstory Aziraphale had expected. Nevermind that Bethlehem had never held a livestock auction before, best not to question these things.

Bethlehem was built around the town’s well which stood in the center of a courtyard. Most inns and lodging houses surrounded the well while private residences were scattered among the slopes. The city was surrounded by a modest wall with roads granting access from the North and South. The land itself was lovely rolling hills with lush grasslands and natural grottos, perfect for grazing livestock. It would have been conspicuous if a shepherd had moved at the same pace as a woman who was about to give birth, so Aziraphale had arrived ahead of the holy family. He was glad for the chance to get acquainted with the town and for the brief respite before the real work started.

Preparing for the arrival of the Messiah really was quite stressful.

Having filled his waterskin, Aziraphale was about to head off to one of the rest houses to sample the local cuisine when a familiar voice called out.

“Hello, angel!”

Aziraphale stopped short. While he was always happy to see this particular demon on his assignments, having him this close to the savior’s birth was a tad disconcerting. He turned and greeted him warmly, even if his smile was a bit cautious. “Crawly! Hello.”

“Ah, actually, call me Crowley.” He said, casually.

“Oh, have you changed your name?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nah, not officially. Just tryin’ it out for a bit. ‘Sides, little odd to have a nobleman called ‘Crawly’.” He said, gesturing to himself.

Aziraphale took a moment to take in Crowley’s garb.The demon was wearing his hair a bit longer, russet waves held out of his eyes by a beaded headband. He was clothed in his preferred hues in a deep charcoal robe and cloak made from fine linen with patterns embroidered in red at the neckline and hem. The cloak was fastened at the shoulder with an onyx snake broach and synched at the waist with a burgundy leather belt with a serpentine fastener. The robe drew his eyes down to strappy sandals that accentuated Crowley’s calves. His wrists were adorned with wide, silver cuffs that emphasized his svelte arms and long fingers.

Aziraphale dragged his eyes back to Crowley’s face and attempted to make eye contact through the dark lenses. “Well, hello, Crowley. What brings you to Bethlehem?”

*~*~*

Keep reading on Ao3 to see additional illustrations! We'd love to hear your thoughts! Find all chapters and additional content for this story here.

big thanks to @goodomensafterdark for the support!

Happy Holidays and Happy Reading!

[whencyclopedia]

Sand Creek Massacre

The Sand Creek Massacre (29 November 1864) was a slaughter of citizens of the Arapaho and Cheyenne nations at the hands of the Third Colorado Cavalry of US Volunteers under the command of Colonel John Chivington, resulting in casualties estimated at over 150 in the Native American encampment, which was in compliance with the policies of US officials.

Black Kettle (l. c. 1803-1868), chief of the Southern Cheyenne, had consistently sought peace with the White settlers since signing the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851. He rejected the call to war of others – including Chief Tall Bull of the Dog Soldiers and Roman Nose (Cheyenne Warrior) – and continued to trust in the assurances of the representatives of the US government that the Cheyenne would be left in peace. These representatives were under the impression that Black Kettle spoke for all the Cheyenne in signing the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851 or the Treaty of Fort Wise in 1861, but he had no control over other chiefs like Tall Bull (l. 1830-1869) or Roman Nose (l. c. 1830-1868), who continued to resist the encroachment of Euro-Americans on their lands.

Hostilities escalated in June 1864 with the Hungate Massacre, in which the killing of a White family was attributed to Cheyenne warriors. John Evans (l. 1814-1897), then governor of Colorado, sent word to the Native communities that any who were friendly toward the United States should seek safety near Fort Lyon, and all others would be considered hostiles. Black Kettle – along with other chiefs including White Antelope (l. c. 1789-1864), Little Wolf (l. c. 1820-1904), and Chief Niwot (Left Hand) of the Southern Arapaho (l. c. 1825-1864) accepted the invitation and moved their people to Big Sandy Creek, about 40 miles (65 km) northwest of Fort Lyon.

On the morning of 29 November 1864, Colonel John Chivington (l. 1821-1894) led the Third Colorado Cavalry in a surprise attack on the encampment – even though Black Kettle, as instructed, was flying the American flag and the white flag above his lodge – slaughtering over 150 innocent people, mostly young children, women, and the elderly. Afterwards, Chivington claimed this engagement was a great military victory against an armed alliance of Cheyenne and Arapaho until reports of survivors – like the Cheyenne-Anglo interpreter George Bent (l. c. 1843-1918) – and soldiers like Captain Silas Soule (l. 1838-1865) – contradicted him.

The ensuing investigation established the conflict as a massacre of innocents with only a small armed force of Cheyenne and Arapaho warriors in the camp killed defending themselves and their families. Still, the event was designated a "battle" by the press of the time and is often still referred to as such in the present day. In 2007, the area of the massacre was declared a National Historic Site, and, in 2014, Colorado Governor John Hickenlooper gave an apology to the descendants of those murdered at Sand Creek; but the policies that made that massacre possible have never been acknowledged, and the US government has never offered a similar apology.

Background

The California Gold Rush of 1848 sent scores of miners and their families through the lands of the Arapaho, Cheyenne, Sioux, and others, disrupting their lives, scattering – and killing – the buffalo (the primary food source of the Plains Indians), and destroying the prairie with their wagons and cattle. Clashes between the Natives and settlers led to the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851, establishing territories for Native American nations in the region which, according to this treaty, the United States had no claim to.

Black Kettle, and other chiefs, signed the treaty trusting in the word of the US delegates that they would not be bothered any further. The treaty was never honored by the White settlers or their government, however, and was completely discarded in 1858 during the Pike's Peak Gold Rush. When the Natives again fought to defend their lands, another treaty was offered – the Treaty of Fort Wise of 1861 – which the US government and its citizens paid no more attention to than the one they had presented to the people of the Plains in 1851. The Dog Soldiers – one of the military societies of the Cheyenne – responded to the invasion with armed resistance under their leader Tall Bull while Roman Nose led his own band in defense of Cheyenne lands in what came to be known as the Colorado War (1864-1865).

Fort Laramie Treaty 1868

U.S. National Archives and Records Administration (Public Domain)

Although Black Kettle – and other 'peace chiefs' – rejected the course taken by Tall Bull and Roman Nose, they could do nothing to stop them. The Cheyenne had a representational government, the Council of Forty-Four, which made decisions for the whole nation, but the chief of each band was free to accept or reject their conclusions. The council had nothing to say regarding declarations of war which were the responsibility of individual chiefs of military societies. Black Kettle's signature on a treaty did not in any way bind Tall Bull to recognize it.

Continue reading...

[everseens]

muse - silas , ski lodge attendant , he / him . plot - plot inspo in source ! but basically a love affair between the two , your muse always sneaks away to silas when they're having issues with their partner . open to - f/nb , 23 +

"want me to make you forget all about it?" silas asked, pulling the other close to his chest. it was silent for a moment before he cupped their cheek, leaning down closer so their faces were just inches apart. "you know you deserve better than that."

[forwhump]

Bite Me

a/n: another random little whump drabble that nobody asked for featuring my special little guys <3 some proper whump for this one for no reason

tw/cw: implied rape, torture (physical, mental), guns, gore, misgendering, transphobia

human weapon whumpee, creepy whumper (kind of)(he’s creepy in this one I think), aftermath attempted escape

How did it come to this?

How is this happening?

Silas used to be human.

He doesn’t remember it, but he knows that he was. He knows he lived a life outside of this place.

So had Wren. And Wren remembers it, and Wren misses it with a yearning that Silas can’t fathom. His brother had been dragged into hell with him, but he talks about missing his mother. His friends. His car.

All Silas had wanted to do was get him back to that. All Silas wanted to do was get Wren home.

He was just trying to help. He just wanted to help.

Kneeling on the concrete, he coughs up blood and his back molars and Wren screams like nobody else Silas has ever heard.

He’s screaming words, Silas realizes too late, but he can’t make any of them out because his ears are ringing.

They’re holding him there. So many soldiers, so many hands on Wren, holding him there by his hips, his waist, his braid. He’s screaming, his face shimmering with tears, but he disappears into the darkness that blurs Silas’ vision as Silas loses consciousness again.

He comes to as his head is wrenched up from his chest by a fistful of his hair.

Point stands over him. Point. The soldiers all use nicknames, codenames, because their real names are a secret, because their real names are not for the assets to know. Silas doesn’t care enough that he’s ever been curious, but he would roll his eyes if he could; he’s going to be executed by a guy called Point.

“You’re becoming more trouble than you’re worth, asset,” Point tells him.

Silas used to be human, but he isn't anymore; he doesn’t know if he counts himself lucky in that regard. He feels pain just the same as anybody else, but it takes a lot more to kill him.

Anybody else would be long dead.

Point had shot him twice in the face.

It hasn’t killed him, but there’s a bullet lodged in his left eye and another in the back of his jaw. He can’t stop drooling, blood and saliva soaking the front of his shirt, sticking his hair to the sides of his throat. His tongue is swollen. He slurs, “bite me.”

Point’s hand leaves his hair and Silas’ chin drops back down to his chest. He doesn’t have the strength to lift his own head anymore, so he can’t see Wren, but he can hear him, clearer now, the ringing in his ears had quieted to the shrill sound of his screaming and how frantically he sobs, “please. Please!”

Silas just wanted to help.

Did he make it worse?

He was prepared to die — a hazard of breaking Wren out. He was ready to do whatever he needed to do, his own life be damned.

But Wren wasn’t supposed to see it. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be out.

How much worse did life just get for Wren? What has Silas done?

“I’m sorry,” he tries to say, but he can’t say much of anything and it comes out as a low, wet groan. He drools down his chest. He can’t lift his head.

“Silas,” Wren sobs.

He couldn’t do it. He just wanted to help, and he couldn’t fuckin’ do it.

“Wren,” he tries to say, but he doesn’t say anything.

Point clicks his tongue, and when Silas’ head is lifted from his chest again, it’s with a different hand. Point is crouched in front of him, dressed in the uniform of the soldiers, their guard, full black tactical gear. He pulls his mask down his face so Silas can see his grin. “It was a very honourable thing you did,” he says, mocking. “Trying to save the girl.”

Silas does his very best to slur, “don’t touch him.”

Point smiles brightly. “I will,” he promises. “With your blood on my hands.”

Silas sucks in the biggest breath that he can, and it rattles in his chest. He spits blood and another one of his teeth in Point’s face.

Wren screams again, bloodcurdling, awful. “Please,” he sobs, “please,” and it’s only now that Silas realizes that he’s pleading with Point, straining against the other soldiers to get away, to get closer, and he breathes, “Darren, please. Please. Don’t kill him.”

Point doesn’t look at Wren, but he tilts his head thoughtfully. “No? What are you going to let me do to you if I don’t?”

No, Silas tries to say. No!

Wren’s voice is small. The silence rings with the absence of screaming. “Anything.”

“Anything?” Point repeats. The way his grin spreads across his face is cartoonish and evil. “Did you hear that, big guy?” He asks, leaning in closer to Silas, smug. “She said anything.”

“No,” Silas grits out.

Point grins a little wider. “She must care a lot for you, you know,” he says. “She knows some of the things I want to do to her are just vile.”

No.

“And since you get to live,” he tells Silas, “you get to watch.”

“What?” Wren breathes.

No.

Point pats Silas’ cracked jaw and Silas gurgles in pain. “Consider this your lucky day, big guy,” he says. “We usually put down dogs once they start to bite.”

No.

“No,” Wren breathes, but Wren is so small, and these men, these fuckin’ soldiers, they’re all so much bigger than him, they drag him across the concrete as he struggles, they force him to the ground before Point. “No!”

“You’d rather I put down your dog?” Point asks, pinning Wren to the ground with a knee between his shoulder blades. “The choice is yours.”

“Please,” Wren sobs. “Please. Don’t do this.”

Point clucks his tongue. “How else will you learn to behave?”

[gaiaseyes451]

Of Kings and Kids - A Good Omens Christmas Story

I'm super excited to announce that Chapter 1 of Of Kings and Kids is officially live on AO3! This is a collaboration with the incredibly talented @vavoom-sorted-art. We will release one chapter a day until all five chapters are available - the last release will be on 26-Dec.

Head to AO3 for the full Chapter AND additional, gorgeous illustrations!

An Excerpt:

----

Aziraphale stood at the town’s well, clay cup in hand, and drank, grateful for the cool water. While the journey from Nazareth hadn’t been particularly arduous, the angel was happy for an opportunity to rest after traversing the loamy, rolling hills; especially after guiding a flock of sheep and goats for the last five days. Michael had assured him, when she was briefing him on the Mission Messiah assignment, that Heaven had an alias prepared this time. Somehow, Silas the shepherd who was leading his flock of bovids to Bethlehem for the autumn livestock auction was not precisely the backstory Aziraphale had expected. Nevermind that Bethlehem had never held a livestock auction before, best not to question these things.

Bethlehem was built around the town’s well which stood in the center of a courtyard. Most inns and lodging houses surrounded the well while private residences were scattered among the slopes. The city was surrounded by a modest wall with roads granting access from the North and South. The land itself was lovely rolling hills with lush grasslands and natural grottos, perfect for grazing livestock. It would have been conspicuous if a shepherd had moved at the same pace as a woman who was about to give birth, so Aziraphale had arrived ahead of the holy family. He was glad for the chance to get acquainted with the town and for the brief respite before the real work started.

Preparing for the arrival of the Messiah really was quite stressful.

Having filled his waterskin, Aziraphale was about to head off to one of the rest houses to sample the local cuisine when a familiar voice called out.

“Hello, angel!”

Aziraphale stopped short. While he was always happy to see this particular demon on his assignments, having him this close to the savior’s birth was a tad disconcerting. He turned and greeted him warmly, even if his smile was a bit cautious. “Crawly! Hello.”

“Ah, actually, call me Crowley.” He said, casually.

“Oh, have you changed your name?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nah, not officially. Just tryin’ it out for a bit. ‘Sides, little odd to have a nobleman called ‘Crawly’.” He said, gesturing to himself.

Aziraphale took a moment to take in Crowley’s garb.The demon was wearing his hair a bit longer, russet waves held out of his eyes by a beaded headband. He was clothed in his preferred hues in a deep charcoal robe and cloak made from fine linen with patterns embroidered in red at the neckline and hem. The cloak was fastened at the shoulder with an onyx snake broach and synched at the waist with a burgundy leather belt with a serpentine fastener. The robe drew his eyes down to strappy sandals that accentuated Crowley’s calves. His wrists were adorned with wide, silver cuffs that emphasized his svelte arms and long fingers.

Aziraphale dragged his eyes back to Crowley’s face and attempted to make eye contact through the dark lenses. “Well, hello, Crowley. What brings you to Bethlehem?”

----

A warm thanks to @goodomensafterdark for the support on this project with thanks also to @sohoscribblers

[ale-draws-stuff]

Redrew this piece from 2022 .

[wolfawaycamp]

angsty rylan pls...

tw: canon-typical violence, major character status ambiguity

🔮The darkness of the morning is cold, and so are Ryan’s blood-soaked clothes as he walks back to the police cruiser.

Lagging behind Laura and Travis, his steps are unsteady, and he’s holding his side— turns out werewolf healing will still leave a substantial surface wound after healing your punctured lung— and when he pulls his hand away, it’s sticky with both new and old blood. Ryan coughs forcibly, spitting out a clot of old blood onto the wet pavement, and Laura turns and raises an eyebrow.

“‘S fine, I’m fine,” he clarifies, clearing his throat as he does, and Laura nods skeptically as she climbs into the front seat of the vehicle.

“You’ll need stitches,” she states, a little too matter-of-factly, reclining her seat slightly to lean more comfortably on the headrest.

“What?”

“For your side. The stab wound. You’ll need stitches.” Ryan nods weakly, not caring that Laura can’t see him, and wipes blood from his lip with his shirtsleeve. He fixes his gaze out the window into the dark forest, almost expecting the cruiser to be charged by the white wolf again.

But the white wolf— Silas— won’t come. He won’t follow the blood trail to the cruiser, and he won’t chase the headlights as the three of them pull away from the scene. Laura’s ended the curse, the threat— threats, plural— are gone.

And still, on the ride back to the lodge, the blood on his shirt sticking to the leather seat of the car, there is nothing running through Ryan’s mind but images of Dylan. Dead. In every possible way.

Bleeding out, stomach ripped open, just feet away from the safety of the lodge doors, or the life fading from his eyes as he tries to staunch the bleeding from his throat, torn out by inconceivably large claws, or worst of all: Dylan in a pool of his own blood on the floor of the radio hut, his head blasted to nothing by the spread of the shotgun as Ryan shot at his wrist in a futile attempt to sever his hand. 

An image that could very well have been real if Ryan hadn’t taken a brief second to collect his thoughts before he raised the weapon.

He hadn’t done it. He hadn’t taken the shot, and in the end Dylan had been thankful, putting it to the back of his mind as he kicked dirt and hid a smile as Ryan told the regrouped counselors about the feedback loop.

Ryan grinds his teeth and presses his forehead against the cold cruiser window to keep himself from retching. That stupid smile.

There’s no way Dylan is alive.

There were too many threats, god knows how many werewolves were roaming those woods, and a hell of a lot can happen in five and a half hours. Sure, Kaitlyn is capable, but Dylan is flighty and self-sacrificial and all kinds of things that could have, and probably had, gotten him killed.

Dylan’s neck at an unnatural angle as he lands limply on the floor below the lodge balcony. His face bloodied and bashed in, his body slumped forward against a boulder. Fire flickering in his eyes as blackened burns crawl up his cheeks. A werewolf grabbing him and pulling him limb from limb like a toy.

Ryan swallows hard, fighting the bile crawling up his throat.

His mother was right, all the way back when he was ten and Sarah was four. You only realize how much you love someone when they’re dead and gone.

Ryan slips his hand under his shirt and presses his fingers into the knife wound. He sucks in a harsh breath, shaking like a leaf as he leans into the pain. He can feel new, warm blood trickle in a stream down his side and soak into the hem of his torn pants.

The pain becomes unbearable and Ryan pulls his hand back into his lap, clammy and trembling through his whole body. He has to squint his bleary eyes to refocus, blinking away hot tears that threaten to escape and run down his sticky, bloodied face.

He passes out then— from the stress or exhaustion or pain, he isn’t sure— but he doesn’t wake until he feels the cruiser jolt to a stop at the lodge.

He drags his gaze up the lodge steps, hoping to see someone he knows he won’t.

But Dylan is there, sitting on the stairs to the lodge with his legs tucked up to his chest and a flannel blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His hair is slicked down to his forehead and his face is smeared with blood, as if he tried to wipe it off and gave up, and his head rests against a rung of the railing, His eyes are closed. He isn’t moving.

Ryan’s heart drops.

Dylan raises his head, squinting into the sunrise, and Ryan wrenches open the back door of the cruiser and topples out onto his knees, dry-heaving into the dirt.

[leonratart]

The woods burned with his sorrow

[sweatermuppet]

when i worked at camp, there was one night i went down to the lodge with my girls & one of them asked what my birth name was & i explained its not smthng folks should ask, but then i was like.... u know what. it doesn't have power over me. so i told them & they all got quiet & then one of them said "i don't think that fits u at all" & everyone agreed like "yr silas, silas fits u so well"

[aclickbaittitle]

History through the lens of Unwell: A Midwestern Gothic Mystery

Unwell’s last episode was published on September 12 of 2023, lucky for me I have not yet listened to the fifth season so Unwell can last as long as I want it to. In fact, I don’t want to finish it until I write an article about the story.

This is that article.

History, in the most simple terms I can put it, is the study of the past as it relates to the present. We learn and study it, not just to know what our ancestors in 500 B.C. got up to but to understand ourselves in the wider context that is time, the universe and humanity.

Unwell is a fiction podcast about Lillian Harper moving to the small town of Mt. Absalom, Ohio, to care for her estranged mother Dorothy after an injury. Living in the town’s boarding house which has been run by her family for generations, she discovers conspiracies, ghosts, and a new family in the house’s strange assortment of residents. (Courtesy of unwellpodcast.com)

History in Unwell takes various shapes, the most obvious is the resident historian of Fentwood House: Abbie, who has come to Mount Absolom to pursue a doctorate in history with a focus on urban planning. The Fentwood House itself is a historical site of the town, with Dot (the owner and carer), being a vessel of oral history for it: always talking about different wild anecdotes of her ancestors and the house, there is also the various documents said ancestors left behind, which became a crucial plot point in season 4. And of course, there are the ghosts.

Ghosts on Unwell are complicated to the point that even themselves do not quite understand what they are, but I would like to argue that they are “living” memories of the town.

(Spoilers for the next part).

Nora is the ghost of the observatorium, an astrophysicist from the early 20th century.

Nora’s control and keeping of the echoes people have walk through the observatory could be seen as her “archiving” different moments of Mount Absolom and the voices of different people, plus her astrophysical and engineering knowledge that allows Rudy to fix / continue the creation of the observatory’s telescope (her telescope) is similar to the way people from today look at the discoveries and knowledge from people in the past to further their work.

Wes, who works at Fentwood House, keeps in a way alive the story of the establishment through his spooky tours, and it is through him that we get to see how Mount Absolom in the 40s or 50s looked like.

And then there is Silas, one of the founders of Mount Absolom. Silas or Reverent Lodge, represent that darker history the town wants to erase and/or forget. I do not only mean trying to white-washed it (there’s this nice scene in which Abby calls out the “Thanksgiving” myth) because it is more complicated than that, I think… in a way… Silas is a representation against modernity and expansion: his chapel is under an observatory- like how one may substitute religion for science in the modern world, he is fiercely protective of the forest around Mount Absolom and doesn’t like how the town is expanding to its borders, he reproaches Dot (and others) for forgetting traditions, etc. There is truth to Silas’ critics which is what makes him so compelling, and the fact that through his friendship with Lily he doesn’t appear to be that much of a racist compared to his contemporaries. In other words, Silas is the bogey man that carries with him the past the residents of Mount Absolom don’t want to talk about.

However, Ghosts, Landmarks, and Historians is not only the way that Unwell engages with history. It is the way to move the plot forward.

The characters throughout the story have to engage with the past in order to overcome obstacles. To discover the mystery they end up digging up those sweet first type sources, interviewing people from the past or who know about it, exploring ancient sites, asking the story behind the town’s festival and cultural practices- in a way there is no much difference between a historian and a detective (Abby often wears both hats in the show) just how far away is the moment they are investigating.

A theme of the show is also the power of knowing your history and that of the place you inhabit. If there is a character that embodies this theme the best is not the historian but Wes, there is a difference between the Wes of the first season who just knew where he lived, to the Wes of the fourth season who knows the name of his parents, the school he went to, the detective radio-show he like to listen after school; when Wes learns the history of the boy he was he becomes (as much as you can at sixteen) self-actualized. Dot, on the other hand, has the opposite story as her illness slowly devours the stories she has hanging around in her brain.

And then there is Lily. Lily is a beautifully complicated character, in the beginning of the story she denies any connections or ties she could have to the town, Fentwood House and even her mother, but through the course of the show she is forced to grapple with that notion, to confront her younger self and the relationship she had with her mother, to realize that she too forms part of the history of Mount Absolom, and through that start healing, and help the town heal as well.

I love history, if life is good to me I will probably end up teaching it. But engaging with the past is hard, so much of it is covered in blood, so much of it asks for you to look at the present with other eyes, to reinvent yourself time after time. But there is power in it, there is power in looking at the past and seeing how it reflects in the present, to know that even if you feel alone there were millions before you that paved the path you walk on, to step in buildings or walk through the forest and know they will keep an echo of you as they have for everyone else. Unwell knows that power and it shows it through a story that is engaging and through characters that are captivating.