In a cycle relentless in distress, one can find blessing in even the gentlest pause. Come the absence of luxury and one reveals the true content of acknowledging the value that a moment to breathe in harmony, away in spirit from concerns terrestrial, can release to aid the healing of a tortured core. Comforts entangled along wishes and desires vanish to redundancy if stripped in times of menace to be replaced by relief of having kept integrity. The murder of Sagre ended, after timeless and pointless machination that relapsed into a spew of revulsion to trap, contained by golden lances, the cursed who were denied not luxury, but life. In piteous lament, with hands grasping to reach the sockets of my eyes I rued and loathed the sublime breeze that cuddled me, the spotless blue that taunted me with warmth, for they now blew and shone much overdue, when those deserving of this treasure fermented in sludge for worms to gorge in celebration.
But the hour of redemption that lurked in narrow distance pledged renewal. Tempers boiled in the heat of war soon broke from sedentary state and began to spread like a blaze through arid grassland. The morbid scenes surging from hands accustomed to wielding arms cast a shadow that broke the bind of kin between Mornisian foes.
A new power took shape from the words of one by name of Rogers. When the people thirsted blood to avenge one spilled wastefully to paint the labyrinth of strongholds, the proud heads that wore the crowns of daggers met the ground and let loose ends tied by younger strength to a throne of new ability. The charisma of revolt conquered many from who would perpetuate a wave of change released from archaic joints by Eeleger’s demise. Passive ideas learned flight in the wake of upheaval as visions propagated by Agermon’s beliefs found refuge in a people’s yearn for affirmation; a yearning soon to be aroused in a sequence that sought the plunder left from Menua’s meltdown.
Thus it had begun. The prologue to future events reached bloom in rain and mud and misery among rats and sickness and decay, in a sanctum covered by darkening walls where the feeling of injustice was let trigger an ambition to smother the thought of warfare by saturation.
For the time being, I waited... I waited for the wounds to close, the pus to drain, and the restlessness to brew in acidity and distress. Soon the mixture would find stability in a goal of bursting outwards. When that moment would be, mighty nations would tremble at the noise of desperate hollers announcing the arrival of one they would come to know as Myth.
The rise of the Myth was taking shape.