He roams the bustling Bazaar, careless of the ongoings of the world around him & set firmly on the goal he has set out to achieve. As he picks through the weekly fruit a stranger brushes his shoulder & then all is ineffable. The world as he knew it was gone & in its place laid a labyrinth of abhorrent murk. A huge pink orb striped in white stared upon him with a nonexistent eye, curiosity blaring on the little creature in its domain. The orb drew closer, threatening to bare its true mesh but instead his gaze was swept by the whispers of the sphere, whisking him away from the now and into the then. His crimson cape fluttered in the wind & in hand a blood-soaked sword. In the mud, an almost familiar Kathar lay defeated with not even a twitch or a groan. Between the two stood a bulwark suit of Blacksteel armor, viridescent flame having its attention set on the killer. Their environment was hazy with little indication betraying its location, only the faces being so austere with their clarity. All went black & then from new eyes, he gazed upon the scene. Stygian drapes danced in the wind now & within an ashen palm laid an ichor-kissed dagger. In the mud, he could see it was him who had fallen & yet the bulwark stood in his wake nonetheless. With no rhyme or reason, reality flashed back, surrounded by the ongoing life of the plaza. Only a second had passed within the eternity & so, he returned the apple from where he had lifted it to venture off to his next task. "Destiny is that which we are drawn towards and fate is that which we run into"-Wyatt Ear
From bleak nothings grew a shape in their eye, enigmatic in all but the folds of its mask. It spoke in absurdity, amused by those who shared its box & in reward for their presence, It weaved together a message. "She sits, adjacent to the mask her tea gone cold yet her mesh engulfed with sweltering heat. The milk jug was full & the house was tidy. Where many sought her comfort there was none to her but silence. He had done it, sinewy torn & ichor shed the grass lay stain in what was left of this tiresome mess and still yet was his hat not to claim, for with them it would surely fade. So far away yet knowing his faded touch, she wept alone for never again would she know their possessive clutch. In time she will discover in his carrion they were all but the same, but for now, he was gone with festering guilt seeding in her frame." Its words soon faded as it was pooled by black, where slumber returned them each with no way to turn back. “It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.”― William Blake
