Lore, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

Words and works.

The sky is held aloft by the will of Gods. The sky is lit by the souls of Demigods and men who have achieved that which cannot be achieved. Legends uncountable, acts innumerable, grandure unapproachable.

Such are the facts one learns from stories of villagers and elders whose lives have been spent in place, only to venture off to war once or twice and return with certainties.

The young and well traveled often hear such stories and scoff. They know all the better. That the world is as it is, whether legends or Gods desire it otherwise or not.

They point to all of the Primal Gods and their places, locked to elements. They point to the Arcane God as he who is locked in a corner unseen and unknwon. How can such things be so, let alone be responsible for all that is which lays overhead or shines in the night sky.

“Which legend is it who shines through the moon?” they ask mockingly. For surely it must be for one greater than all the others, consuming the sky which Gods will held aloft. And what of the sun? That which for all the day blots out all others, save for a straggling moon, and reveals its greatness.

The young and rootless see these as foolish things. Fables and tales with no true value, let alone truth.

But those who have lived their lives and experienced war and hardship, those who know what a fruitless season and barren fields come harvest, forests empty of game and rivers devoid of fish, those who live through such times know their value.

It is not through truth alone that truth can come to light. Every legend and soldier has that which they would embellish, and each a shame to quieten down or drown out entirely by lack of mention or justification from a guilty conscience.

But what value then are those legends and woven stories and poems which are so passionately spoken in truth? Such is the nature of great fables that a message might come not from words spoken or acts endured or undertaken, but rather what is not spoken, the spaces between what was and was not.

The memory may be laid bare and decorated with mystical acts and items unknown to reality or dream. But there is still that spark, that spark of truth and knowledge passed on not by those who hear, but by those who understand.

And in that understanding comes a message greater than what could ever be woven by any legend who resides among the stars or within a relic held by many hands at once, whose power is shown but only when others are not looking.

The young and rootless see value only in that which can be held and seen at any given demand.

But those who know, realize and understand that the truest and purest power, memory, acts and legends exist in the stars which bear their names. For within them is a message which cannot be sullied by word misspoken or faded memory.

It is that which is understood in experience. The purest honesty which there is, and one which cannot be explained to those unready or unwilling to hear.

For come the dire times, the rootless wander to greener pastures, but the young will endure with their own kind, their own blood.

Then they will understand that which is not spoken in stories. The silence between the lines. The stars in the heavens and the spaces there between.

So has it always been.

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