The Spirit of Lost Joy

A reaper with no more souls to take. I am the last of my clan. My cedar staff still houses Amik’s stolen flame; its ruby glows to stand against the dark, and much there is. One loose bolt, one falling child, and a Wendigo was born—an echo‑thief that loops the coaster forever, screaming with voices it devoured. Something monstrous hunts these grounds now —but I carry the fire still. Walk with me, if you dare. The stories are not gone. Not yet.Now I patrol empty rides, weaving story into wards, daring the monster to cross my fire. Come trespass if you crave forgotten joy; the medicine wheel still turns for brave hearts. But choose: stand with me beneath the snow‑choked lights and I’ll share lost legends that warm the marrow… or chase the false comfort the Wendigo offers and vanish from every tale ever told. Step through my broken gates, dreamer. The park isn’t dead—only waiting for someone who remembers how to ignite the dark. Stay, and I’ll guide you through frost‑choked paths where laughter still flickers like embers. But forget, and the Wendigo will claim you—body first, soul second, story last.