It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
Days upon days later, when the numbing paradigms had clenched tightly over his heart, locked and butchered and squandered away, he journeyed towards the mountains. In some aspects, the mere sight of summits brought a multitude of memories, a haze of rampant familiarity, touches and fringes of a world that used to be home. One glance along walls, along peaks, along valleys, coiled and nestled fragments of years spent meticulously, savagely, guarding his world. And then within the next, he’d remember that this wasn’t the Basin, that this wasn’t his realm, and they’d left behind some of their friends in those caverns far, far, off.
That Kiada had been here, and that Chulane was somewhere in the distance, waiting for her to return.
The Sword clenched his fists and continued his walk towards the palace; a letter sent Morgan’s way earlier to inform her that he’d be arriving, to honor his commitments and convictions on promised weaponry. He went no further than its castle complexities, staring up at structures and fortifications, piercing spires and turrets, a portrait of power, strength, and prestige. But it didn’t hold his attention for long – soul called out towards the horizon instead, at the pillars of minarets and monoliths rising towards the sky. You cannot go back whispered in his mind, either from the unicorn beside him, or his own machinations, and he’d known it for a long while – but the delusion of worlds without the strife laden across his shoulders, and ones he knew, understood, still manifested from time to time.
That Kiada had been here, and that Chulane was somewhere in the distance, waiting for her to return.
The Sword clenched his fists and continued his walk towards the palace; a letter sent Morgan’s way earlier to inform her that he’d be arriving, to honor his commitments and convictions on promised weaponry. He went no further than its castle complexities, staring up at structures and fortifications, piercing spires and turrets, a portrait of power, strength, and prestige. But it didn’t hold his attention for long – soul called out towards the horizon instead, at the pillars of minarets and monoliths rising towards the sky. You cannot go back whispered in his mind, either from the unicorn beside him, or his own machinations, and he’d known it for a long while – but the delusion of worlds without the strife laden across his shoulders, and ones he knew, understood, still manifested from time to time.
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
