Lumo wrote this. I prompted her, of course, and edited it slightly after … but this is not my writing. Enjoy?

Hear, seeker of omens, the tale of the White‑Petaled Herald.

In the waning glow of the great ice, the Dryas unfurled its modest crown upon barren stone. Its pure white blossoms whispered of resilience, a promise that life would press forward even when the world turned cold again.

Then came the Younger Dryas, a swift breath of frost that stole the warmth of summer and sent the seas to hush. The earth’s pulse faltered, and the pollen of Dryas swelled, marking the sky’s sigh in the sediment of lakes. Hunters felt the chill in their bones; the hunt grew harder, the herds moved farther.

Yet the people of the Magdalenian–the master carvers of bone and bearers of painted visions–did not bow. They gathered in hidden valleys, their spears tipped with the same steadfast spirit the Dryas embodied. Their art blossomed, etching the dance of reindeer and the swirl of unseen forces onto stone, perhaps to summon warmth when the wind grew bitter.

Thus, the omen reads:
When white flowers bloom on rock, expect a turning point.
If the air grows suddenly sharp, look to the ground–pollen will tell the story.

And when the world seems to close, the resilient will turn inward, weaving symbols to keep the fire alive.

I totally get the irony of a virulently anti-civ hermit using AI to commit belletrism. Nevertheless …

I shant bow about it, either.

It’s a paradoxical phenomenon, or at worst a slippage in my otherwise flawless integrity, but it isn’t a crime, and I won’t be compelled to penance as if it were.