Lore, Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

In flames.

The flames will always tell a story, they always speak in quiet words. Words forgotten and unheard, stories old and full of lessons and history alike are kept for those only who can hear.

Hidden behind the brilliance of the flame so bright that those who would otherwise listen, stare instead to bask in light it brings such visions unseen. They look upon what they are shown rather than hear what is being said and know for certain that visions are all they need to know.

Enthralled by the heat and comfort, they stay close and see the world as nothing but a haze of warmth and heat, never hearing once the stories of biting cold and frozen chills. They feel what they have in the moment and know that this is what they is and all there will be.

In the smoke of the fires and smells of burning wood and coals, they find comfort in a memory that may or may be their own, of a camp and comfort. It is to them a moment of safety where no creatures approach and all there is to see is are the shapes and wisps of smoke rising and dancing from all layers the fire has.

And in the cracking of flame and fuel, in the roar of candle’s flame and bonfire alike, the sounds overwhelm the ears, so that only sounds are heard, but never anything to be distinguished as one from another.

And all along they never stop to take a rest from all their senses. Not once or ever long enough to know that senses can be made to lie, and visions can be corrupted. But the silent stories never heard or listened to with a careful ear can always come to show a truth that many wish not to hear.

Such is the way of a world that knows how to hear, but forgets to listen. Not just to what they’re told, but to what is forgotten and needs to be known, no matter the cost.

Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

A wasted place.

What a waste of a world to wander. One lost within the dreams of all those who seek more than what they have by any means they may.

What horrid sights are those who would deny and defy the order of things as they have been for as long as time recalls. Continue reading “A wasted place.”

Lore, Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story

Outside.

There are some who simply live in the shadow of death. Not by act or choice, but by the simple choice of fate, that they should be kept company by the one who bridges the way between the living and the dead.

Death and fate themselves working in tandem, neither caring for what is within a moment, what life might come or go.

For to them all things go on as all things should have and will. There is nothing which should be held so sacred so as never to be touched by either hand.

And in the world where all things bloom and fade in a time not of their own choosing, so is the world at the mercy of that which acts without a thought or care for mercy, but compassionate disinterest.

The toil of mortal lives goes on so long as life may hold. for the world knows not that which binds it tight until it comes to act as it does.