Why do we call something home? It is a place to return to, but why does that make it home? Home can change, home can morph, and home can be destroyed.

Ofaris has known one thing - the cold. He wears his large coat, and holds tight his cat. He knows he might be happier south of The Wild, but he knows it here. He knows the land, he knows the people, he knows the creatures.

I guess that's what makes it home - the familiarity.

That's also what makes Wizard #7224 and Wizard #6136 home as well. Neither come from any sort of consistent home, but all share the same traits.

Speaking few words, they hunt together, eat together, and travel together, but need not stay together as they know each other and need not boast.

Home took on a new meaning however, when the shroud appeared. Halloween night, it was but a flutter of darkness, but these white wizards knew the feeling. A fleeting wisp of darkness up in the air, and the darkening pit in the stomach was all they needed to know. They looked at each other around the fire.

Speaking the first words among the group in months, the nameless said,

"It's time to call on Wizard #388. Send a raven to Red Wizard Capital".

Entered by: 0xF49E…71FA and preserved on chain (see transaction)