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Angrily he raked at the burning flesh. Traces of scarred tissue gave way to fresh weeping wounds. The blood did not gush with vigor as with the first tears.
His wounds wept a thick black sap which his heart laboriously struggled to pump through his veins. He had grown weary. He had heard and seen too much, felt enough.
The world had darkened considerably for him almost a year ago to the date. It was a path he had been ignorantly eager to tread.
Had he known. Had he only...known.
His bloodshot eyes traced the gently rolling hills, eerily illuminated by the ivory moonlight.
With half closed eyes, the glowing threads slowly revealed themselves. The tapestry was in eternal flux. Woven by invisible hands, he could make out the pulsating lines that criss-crossed, overlaying each other in predetermined patterns.
Tightening and slacking, glowing and fading; fates were cast upon the faithful and heretics alike.
It was the terribly seducing scents that tugged at his spirit.
Fear, pain, love, anguish, passion, all had a distinct glow and palpable taste. The unfathomable breadth of the infinite emotional gamut saturated the atmosphere around him.
Constricting coils of confusion weighed him down, unforgiving shackles imprisoning him to this mortal game.
He wanted to go back. To her.
Tonight would be the same as every other night.
Disappointing.
He had received word from faithful spirits on the silent state of the northern keep. The confusing tumult overtaking the once prosperous keep deeply concerned him.
How had his brothers and sisters dealt with the months of inaction and lack of progress in their homelands.
Sutra tilted his head towards the stars, yearning for an easy answer. He was well aware that difficult questions would require difficult solutions.
He prepared the fresh gauze, packing it firmly against his moaning flesh. His vision had become obscured by matters he had faithfully attended to, keeping his word to the rightful monarch who sat in the kingdoms throne.
Soon, the dark arch-duke would grow weary of the crown; a new soul would in turn accept the burden it promised.
The elves had known peace for almost a seasons harvest.
The dark finvarra could feel the approaching storm. The new crown would take his newly earned prize by violence.
Fleeting visions of burning shires and baronies flashed behind his trembling eyelids.
Duke Sir Morgan would take each shire, barony, and duchy by force.
A new war was stirring behind the veil of diplomatic civility.
Questions flowed like a raging rapid in his fatigued mind. Would the kingdom finally burn, crumbling from the inside? Would the elves be greeted with open arms or flashing swords?
Sutra gripped the last knot in his right hand, securing the new bandage on his left forearm. He could only wish for a peaceful resolution.
Not this time.
One thing was certain.
Death and famine were coming.
S
[con't]
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The general who advances without seeking fame and retreats without fearing disgrace, whose only thought is to protect his country and do service for his sovereign, is the jewel of his kingdom. -Sun Wu
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