Whitehawks Labyrinth of Truth, Beauty and Passion...
You've been wandering the romantic and mysterious alleyways of the Left Bank during a sporadically violent summer storm, searching for an image of Paris that has grown and matured in your mind all of your life. Quaint, eclectic stores have placed books and objects with foreign names and shapes in the window; they whisper to you from behind the glass in a language in which you dont quite catch every word. Art galleries blossom here: all the au courant artists of this old, magical city live and work in this area. Paris has always embraced modernity and the Avant Garde while maintaining a solemn, cogent appreciation of its history. Most of the time, old and new blend beautifully into an exquisite French tapestry. You stumble upon a brasserie spilling onto the sidewalk where you must pass a few moments while savoring tidbits of French culture. Stylish and sophisticated people chat around you--even small talk sounds beautiful in French. Don't feel intimidated, they're just people too; blessed with a graceful language and cultural quirkiness not unlike your own. It's time to go because you still havent found the experience that you've hoped for on this journey--a glimpse beneath the touristic veneer--something real. You wander again, becoming lost. You come upon a pair of the large doors similar to the ones youUve seen all over the city center. These ones in particular draw your attention to their uniqueness; they glow with a tarnished golden hue and an intricate, complex pattern seems to hover just above the surface, seemingly teeming with something resembling life. You sense something intuitively which you can't explain rationally: a powerful presence or energy emanates from one door that is just slightly ajar. You must go in, curious soul that you are...
Whitehawk (Spirit having flown) (asleep) is here. Exits: