It is by the will of fate alone that life should begin as such. Confined to a place without walls or borders, without guards or oversight outside of one’s own governance. Perhaps it is a luxury not befitting one which life has doomed to a single place. Perhaps the blessing one should seek after all is to never have the ambition to chase the greener pastures which always lay beyond.

With all that is owned and of use placed in a pack, one can leave the fields and rows, the streets and walls which they have known of all their lives. With a simple choice of rationed bread and coin, with a trusty blade and a bow which is tried and true, the road and the lands about can provide what food and water is sought.

But on that path of uncounted steps where the journey is the destination, one will always find themselves in a liberated curse. For fate does not well enjoy being denied, defied and ignored. It shall weave for any a punishment worse than that of staying put to seek out pleasure and purpose in what is known. It takes hold of those threads it has woven for one’s fate and coils it around the neck, to lead onward like a dog without reason, cease or care to explain why.

There will never be a place to settle, no place to rest one’s head. Only phantoms allowing a night or two to know that what was sought has been found. But they are only that, phantoms and illusions whose presence quickly fades. As fate once again takes hold its threads and pulls one again down the road.

The curse of never truly finding rest, of an ever ongoing search for that which exists only in dreams. The search for the ever greener pastures, where staying seems to turn all to dust and ash. Fate will lure and trick some at times, daring them to stray from that which has been woven for them. And woe betide those who do stray from that cloth of fates both bound and wound. For the trap of seeking out the dream will not ever end, and hope will wash away like writing on a beach’s sands.



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