10th June 2006, 8:46 PM
Through the dreary shades of night, the wanderer silently travels. Where paranoid dreams of foregone malice and pride float aimlessly like leaves through Autumn air. It is here that by the grace of the Divine Lords he will find the thing that he desperately seeks. The one thing, above all else, that must be found.
The sky is peirced with the red blood of the thousands who are killed in all the meaningless trivialities that spark wildfires of desperate passion for the sake of vengeance. And the moon shines undimmed over it all, like the eye of some great demon, peering down upon the land with great malevolance and turning the ground into ash. This is the land that the wanderer must pass through ere his finds that which he seeks.
It is a land that few men enter, those who have the mark of madness upon them, and no man has ever yet left. It is a land of the most intense cold and the most scorching heat imaginable, boiling and freezing all in the same instant. It was to be a place of rest for the weary as they traveled their tragically short journey called life. It now stands as a monument to the arrogance and misguided intentions of men long dead, forever keeping alive the memory of that time.
The fierce and unforgiving winds tear and his clothes and face, bringing with them the sting of loosened sand. He struggles against them, finding no solace among the desolate wastes. His mouth is parched from thirst and his stomach moaning from want of food, but such things cannot be found in such a place as this. He presses onward, obtaining a small victory with every step forward.
The mountains tower above him, their jagged peaks resembling the teeth of some ravenous beast ready to clamp down on the neck of its victim, instantly ending its life. A fate that awaits all who enter.
The wanderer's hands are now bloodied as he makes his way up the sheer cliffs. The last leg of his torturous journey is now upon him. Over the top of those mountains lies the thing that he has traveled so far and endured so much for
The winds have no reached a fever pitch, bearing straight down the side of the mountains and forcing the the wanderer to carry nearly twice his weight. He finally reaches with his torn and mutilated hands the last ledge of his long journey. He pulls himself over the top and lays panting on the cold rock. The winds have died down and the roiling skies have calmed. He sees it, just inches away from his face, the goal. He stretches out his hand and touches it.
A single flower.
The sky is peirced with the red blood of the thousands who are killed in all the meaningless trivialities that spark wildfires of desperate passion for the sake of vengeance. And the moon shines undimmed over it all, like the eye of some great demon, peering down upon the land with great malevolance and turning the ground into ash. This is the land that the wanderer must pass through ere his finds that which he seeks.
It is a land that few men enter, those who have the mark of madness upon them, and no man has ever yet left. It is a land of the most intense cold and the most scorching heat imaginable, boiling and freezing all in the same instant. It was to be a place of rest for the weary as they traveled their tragically short journey called life. It now stands as a monument to the arrogance and misguided intentions of men long dead, forever keeping alive the memory of that time.
The fierce and unforgiving winds tear and his clothes and face, bringing with them the sting of loosened sand. He struggles against them, finding no solace among the desolate wastes. His mouth is parched from thirst and his stomach moaning from want of food, but such things cannot be found in such a place as this. He presses onward, obtaining a small victory with every step forward.
The mountains tower above him, their jagged peaks resembling the teeth of some ravenous beast ready to clamp down on the neck of its victim, instantly ending its life. A fate that awaits all who enter.
The wanderer's hands are now bloodied as he makes his way up the sheer cliffs. The last leg of his torturous journey is now upon him. Over the top of those mountains lies the thing that he has traveled so far and endured so much for
The winds have no reached a fever pitch, bearing straight down the side of the mountains and forcing the the wanderer to carry nearly twice his weight. He finally reaches with his torn and mutilated hands the last ledge of his long journey. He pulls himself over the top and lays panting on the cold rock. The winds have died down and the roiling skies have calmed. He sees it, just inches away from his face, the goal. He stretches out his hand and touches it.
A single flower.
Sometimes you get the scorpion.