Where Am I?
Around The Web
Well met, traveler.
You have been wandering for days, keeping time by nothing but the rise and fall of the moons. A stone tower rises from the horizon. It seems ancient, nearly etheric, and the ache in your tired mind dissipates as you trek toward the structure. Cool, damp air soothes the sun-weariness of your skin. You are surprised to find fires lit in a hearth inside, assuming this relic to be abandoned. Countless shelves are lined with books, scrolls, and loose parchment. Many are written in languages unidentifiable, but inexplicably you find yourself understanding every stroke.
You are drawn to a tome.
The waterlogged journal draws your nose before your eyes as it reeks of smoke and death. Its soft leather cover folds easily under your fingertips. Inside are the notes of a shaking hand, its longing evident between lines of smudged ink.
Open this journal.
A collection of loosely bound parchment seems to radiate magic. Countless revisions have been made: evidence of an author shrouded in doubt. Something about the fraying pages is filled with sadness, a story that can never truly be finished.
Flip through this manuscript.
A beautiful scroll unravels in front of your eyes. The penmanship is precise and illuminated watercolors frame its edges. The words within are that of a child's, and as you look closer at the illustrations, you believe it was not painted with oils and earth.
Unravel this scroll.
Strangely, your footsteps carry you to a bag of runestones. Their whispers carry the sound of a life lived fearfully: the crashing of waves and the crying of children. Still, there is a warmth that lingers against your palm that begs to be held.
Throw these runes.
A bright text with gilded pages draws bids you closer. Decadent images of the stars line the interior cover. Somehow, you seem to know that the words written within its cover do not belong to its author.
Read this tome.
Open this journal.
A collection of loosely bound parchment seems to radiate magic. Countless revisions have been made: evidence of an author shrouded in doubt. Something about the fraying pages is filled with sadness, a story that can never truly be finished.
Flip through this manuscript.
A beautiful scroll unravels in front of your eyes. The penmanship is precise and illuminated watercolors frame its edges. The words within are that of a child's, and as you look closer at the illustrations, you believe it was not painted with oils and earth.
Unravel this scroll.
Strangely, your footsteps carry you to a bag of runestones. Their whispers carry the sound of a life lived fearfully: the crashing of waves and the crying of children. Still, there is a warmth that lingers against your palm that begs to be held.
Throw these runes.
A bright text with gilded pages draws bids you closer. Decadent images of the stars line the interior cover. Somehow, you seem to know that the words written within its cover do not belong to its author.
Read this tome.
Weekly Reading
The memory of answers torn from fate
The destruction of all who cannot wait.
At dusk and dawn, the Rose Queen rules
While thieves of night still own the dark.
Green Dragon's breath pollutes cloud and pool
As silent spider spins webs that mark.
The broken oath and the traitor's plot,
The huntsman's horn and sharpened spear
Make wishes pacts that come to naught
When madness claims those who would appear.
Life stands death upon its head
As sweet lust joins in pools of blood.
Escape the curse with no tears to shed
As nightmares arrive all in a flood.
Disease and plague are no end of life
When mastered by the harvester of strife.
- Song of the Spirits
The destruction of all who cannot wait.
At dusk and dawn, the Rose Queen rules
While thieves of night still own the dark.
Green Dragon's breath pollutes cloud and pool
As silent spider spins webs that mark.
The broken oath and the traitor's plot,
The huntsman's horn and sharpened spear
Make wishes pacts that come to naught
When madness claims those who would appear.
Life stands death upon its head
As sweet lust joins in pools of blood.
Escape the curse with no tears to shed
As nightmares arrive all in a flood.
Disease and plague are no end of life
When mastered by the harvester of strife.
- Song of the Spirits