A Psalm for the Wild-Built

This was a modern monastery, not some rule-locked hierarchy like the pre-Transition clergy of old.

They hooked up with the herb farmer on a few occasions, and thanked Allalae for the sweetness of that.

There were endless agrarian delights to be distracted by: wine, bread, honey, raw wool, dyed yarn, fresh bouquets, flower crowns, aquaponic fish and pastured poultry in chests of ice, speckled eggs in cushioned boxes, fruit cordials, leafy greens, festive cakes, seeds for swapping, baskets for carrying, samples for snacking.

the age of twenty-nine, would like

Dex did their best to look sympathetic, which is what they wanted to be, rather than lost, which is what they were.

They’d been a garden monk until the day before, and in that context, their expressions of comfort to the monastery’s visitors came in the form of a healthy foxpaw crawling up a trellis or a carefully pruned rose in bloom.

Sibling Dex stroked a pillow with quiet reverence. “It’s perfect,” they said.

All of the Sacred Six’s symbols were painted on the wagon’s back end, along with a paraphrased snippet from the Insights, a phrase any Pangan would understand.

An object of both practicality and inviting aesthetics.

ral of the Child God Allalae,