VARUS
The Portal is a whole other world in and of itself. It had taken some time to get used to slipping out of the underside of the Spire, of realizing exactly what it was, letting it unlock his memory of what it had been like before. But he’s sure the Voice has simply managed to perfect her work in all the time since he could recall any of it. And some of his memory? Simply a block. Something he can’t get into.
He hopes it comes with time.
But it’s to the snows that Varus emerges, the vast land of Halo which has only become icier from what he remembers. He still doesn’t feel the chill of it, thankfully, nor does he feel the weight of exhaustion as he takes the trail toward some place vaguely familiar. It’s to Snowcloak he goes, scanning around the small city for anything that might spark more of those memories.
And in truth? He finds nothing, yet again.
So he pauses, by an unfamiliar door, pulling out a book to open with the only hand he has, scanning it for the things he does remember, and glancing up at the names on the underside of the buildings to designate which goes to which.
And again?
Nothing.
He hopes it comes with time.
But it’s to the snows that Varus emerges, the vast land of Halo which has only become icier from what he remembers. He still doesn’t feel the chill of it, thankfully, nor does he feel the weight of exhaustion as he takes the trail toward some place vaguely familiar. It’s to Snowcloak he goes, scanning around the small city for anything that might spark more of those memories.
And in truth? He finds nothing, yet again.
So he pauses, by an unfamiliar door, pulling out a book to open with the only hand he has, scanning it for the things he does remember, and glancing up at the names on the underside of the buildings to designate which goes to which.
And again?
Nothing.
stories without a few let downs are boring when told
perfection and poems are a lie when it all unfolds
perfection and poems are a lie when it all unfolds
