It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
Even without an audience, the Sword would’ve persisted. Mesmerizing and pleasing to the eye, to the warmth it exuded, to the power and demolition contained, the flames spiraled, forming more designs, more pinnacles, more towers to accompany the celestial stars. Laden from within were layers of cosmic dust and seething constellations, as if they’d all been borne from the undulations of conflagrations, brought to life from distant plains. Within them, he could see a whole host of things, eyes widening as they shimmered and swayed, as they promised and beseeched, as the fire never wronged him, never unwound him, never lost him, never abandoned him.
He gave little thought to those suddenly there – appearing suddenly, as if they too had been brought forth from the rising inferno, tilting his study, and thinking nothing of Loren’s voice coming from a lion, or Chulane’s coming from a moose. The embers only rose taller, straighter, and then flickered down like something had burst, a stream of meteors or showers, christened in moonlight, in vibrant crimson, in brilliant orange. “An offering,” he noted to nothing or no one in particular, nodding at Loren’s insinuation, making the flames do just that – dance, dance, dance, curling and coiling and contorting. “Any requests?” For what, he couldn’t be sure – his mind was altered into the keening blaze, the smoldering, hallowed proportions, riveted to its edges.
Then Chulane’s statement met his skull, and he thought little of his experiences with gods, because then there might be prowess or bitterness attached, depending on the circumstances. Only his booming voice echoed and followed, between the flames, eyes narrowing. “What do you want to know?”
He gave little thought to those suddenly there – appearing suddenly, as if they too had been brought forth from the rising inferno, tilting his study, and thinking nothing of Loren’s voice coming from a lion, or Chulane’s coming from a moose. The embers only rose taller, straighter, and then flickered down like something had burst, a stream of meteors or showers, christened in moonlight, in vibrant crimson, in brilliant orange. “An offering,” he noted to nothing or no one in particular, nodding at Loren’s insinuation, making the flames do just that – dance, dance, dance, curling and coiling and contorting. “Any requests?” For what, he couldn’t be sure – his mind was altered into the keening blaze, the smoldering, hallowed proportions, riveted to its edges.
Then Chulane’s statement met his skull, and he thought little of his experiences with gods, because then there might be prowess or bitterness attached, depending on the circumstances. Only his booming voice echoed and followed, between the flames, eyes narrowing. “What do you want to know?”
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
