You look astonished. Is it possible you have never heard of the ominous Lime-Tree, and the Fatal Bough? Why, ’tis a common tale hereabouts, and has been for centuries. Any old crone would tell it you.
After passing through a Green Cypress Tree tree near the top of a grassy knoll, The Monk entered the southeast corner of Rookwood proper. None of the other sims mattered now. He could focused in on the task of finding Phillip’s grave…
“Rest assured, Petunia,” spoke Hidi the Witch by her side. “You are not a possession like Sammie; you are *you*. This is a cat’s tale in the end, after all. Not a dog’s.”
“No ‘butt’s’,” retorted the witch. “Just watch… and learn.”
“Peters found this on the interwebs yesterday and passed it up to us, Tronesisia. We thought you’d like to know about the missing post, er piece.”
“I had a dream about Lambs.”
“No Woody, you cannot be a Musician in this story as well. Now put that away and get ready. It’s time.”
“Hello my love,” Old Man Allen Martin said. “For the last time.”
Wheeler could not help. She just had to watch. And, yeah, it was painful. Very painful.
Then it was done. Correct reality locked in.