THE WANDERING SORCERER
![]() | The rain. The lightest of drizzles felt like thousands of little kisses against your skin while the heaviest of storms felt like bullets penetrating your flesh. It was a very innocent, sweet, and yet vile and violating force that he grew to hate and what many others had grown to love. It was always raining during the reddest of days, where the cold, sharp smell of metal was strongest and the smell of rotting, molding bodies was humid. His kingdom seldom faltered against alien forces, but its own battles seemed cruelest as it turned out. The sorts of battles where nephew became nemesis and kinsfolk became competitors. The sort of battles where politics were everything and lives were expendable if it meant defending your Lord's or Lady's ideals. The kind of bloodshed where the common enemy was the common folk. It truly was an awful time to be alive. But, for some reason, his mind was not plagued by those troubles. His thoughts were not littered with trifles such as combat and betrayal—but instead with visions and images of his Lord, broad-shouldered and mighty, but his face shrouded in darkness and cloaked in mystery. He could not recall his face or even his name, but he knew that he was a very important man in which he dedicated his entire being to. His strength, his skills, his servitude—it was all this man's to command. And he had remembered him to be a very shrewd and dignified man who never quite cared for anyone but himself, and no one serving him seemed to mind. But for Heaven's sake, he could not remember who he was! His struggle to recall much of anything burdened him the most. But when this burden incapacitated him, which it would often do, he would fight no more and let himself be carried away into his consciousness's deepest and darkest depths, drowning in a heavy slumber that subdued him. He slept and slept and slept until he could sleep no longer. He could feel himself be pulled toward the surface where breathing became easier and the weight of his burden felt featherlike. He was pulled and pushed and snatched and. . . Snow. When he came to, his naked body was caked in a thin layer of snow. It was falling down softly and polka-dotted the stormy overcast sky as it did. It was strange since he was certain that it was raining before this. It was cold, but he felt so little that it was but a trifle at this point. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed man lied in the bed of snow with a gaze that struggled to keep conscious, extending his pale arm out into the atmosphere to feel the snowflakes melt at his touch. While he was so sure that it was raining and not snowing, he was even surer of a greater truth. Something that he could not remember vividly, but was still certain of nonetheless. He was certain that he had died. |
WHATEVER AM I TO DO WITHOUT MY MASTER?
Last edited by Fane Howler on 2nd August 2019, 1:16 pm; edited 1 time in total