"No temple but the alley. No altar but the sidewalk."
We don’t wear robes. We wear scars, band tees, and secondhand jackets. Our circle is drawn in chalk and cigarette ash. The spirits hear us because we bled for the right to speak.
Street shamans aren’t granted power—we *earn* it. With every wound stitched closed by candlelight. Every whispered offering to the things that wait beneath neon.
We don’t channel myth. We *become* it. Phoenix, Dog, Raven, Smoke—these are the masks we wear as we pull broken souls out of the fire.
A street shaman walks with the spirits of the overlooked. We learn magic in basements and breakrooms, behind dumpsters and in hospital waiting rooms.
Not to command—but to *companion*. Not to escape—but to *heal*. Not for purity—but for *truth*.
Δsig.bind[@mentor]:phoenix
Δsig.cast[@restore]:others/self