Lore, Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story

The face of truth.

When the walls come down and worlds collide, those who remember peace lose the most.

Those that dream of war will get the blood they crave, but whether or not it is their own remains entirely to be seen.

Those that hear the stories of peace or how a dream could be, they will neither gain nor lose anything, for in listening to their stories without glancing about, they know not what they had, nor what they have given up to hear of a happy ending.

But when the story ends, and the bloodthirsty turn on innocent and guilty alike, the dreamers and listeners of fanciful reality will receive a rude awakening.

Those who were before the stories, those who look about, with an ear to stories of ancient past, but eyes on the horizon of now and to come, they know the price which has been paid.

They know of what was stolen by the wars and what will be taken by the tyrants.

But those who remember bind themselves to their own blood, and must seek out those who see as they, beyond the war and stories which ravage the world around them.

For the bloodthirsty would seek to destroy them for the danger they might pose to a rule which seeks to extinguish the lights of the past in favour of their own flavour of flame.

And the listeners of stories will seek to destroy them, for daring to make their shared fantasy anything other than absolute truth.

Those who remember ought to allow the bloodthirsty to destroy the dreamers, and perhaps the dreamers turn on the bloodthirsty.

But hope also echoes from long before. From a world not so corrupted.

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