[se] the last of a line of lasts

It's taken a lifetime to lose my way

All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand

Blinking slowly, eyes conflicted around firelight, the beast tilted his head a fraction, studying, perusing, captivating, calculating, when one could only guess what ran through his head. Stories and myths, legends and tales, truths and falsehoods could have all punctured and pierced around his skull, fracturing and bending, guiding and igniting, and there he stood before towers of flames and infernos as if he were a part of its eternal flame. “The Voice was Abandoned too. That is why they do not like us.” Magic, magic, magic, and therein he sneered and snickered, permitting the ascension of the conflagration, higher and higher and higher as the embers followed the refrains in his head; Safrin colliding into the Spire, the hole widening and opening on stars and patterns, the tulmhainar freed to see the sky one last time.

But Chulane’s inquiry sparked something, and the fire sputtered in little torrents of rage instead of the calm, peaceful entity; an alarming resemblance of dragons, of mountains, of a time long since passed but embedded in his brain. A growl lingered and lowered from his chest, rising over bones and fire, eyes narrowing to a threatening degree – not to anyone in particular – but the idea. “I refuse to be a pawn.” Regardless if he’d already been made one, if he was just another piece no one cared about, shifting to a certain point, before he too was decimated, destroyed, or left to rot and waste away.

I'm fine in the fire

I feed on the friction