They say that all which remains in this world is but a whisper of its former days. I’m often inclined to agree. Though there still remain such whispers, floundering upon the winds. Sometimes they gather in number, as in a valley, and like thunder, echo with such force that one is shaken to the bone.
I never really cared for myths or the stories of the Bards. We all knew of tiny pockets which enticed the senses with the arcane. But none recalled, for a thousand years any presence of a God, enough time for truth to give way to fiction, and flights of fantasy to be fact. Besides, with more pressing matters at hand, I leave the Gods and all their deeds for the children, to lead them into sleep. But I suppose without, even tales from my own path become confusing.
The world was ever so much simpler when I knew my corner of the world, when a neighboring kingdom was exotic and far away. When the lands of legend would not be seen by any outsiders save for the wealthy and the traders. And the latter is all too eager to speak of the origins of their wares as fanciful and full of wonder.
Were it not for my departure from my native land of Roves, across seas who rage with storms with roil and linger and to set foot on ancient soil I’d heard of before in song, I’d think it still a story. But this is a past I can no longer hold onto as memory, for now what faces me is my task and a future still uncertain. In this present however, I sit with a cup of wine alone in a corner, the calm before my storm.