"It will be dark and do not wander. Follow the glow of the torches."
Behold.
Ashkar stood at the door of the fortress’ heart, knocking thrice; the ripened sailor was pinned within the venerable corridor, amid the exit and entrance of eschatological safety. The conglomerated mass stuffed the overpopulated aisle with ill described humanoids, as if old and new grapes were intentionally crammed within a winepress, a tunneled Armageddon awaiting a Steinbeckian wrath who housed Gog and his Magog.
However, Falconmoon remained ever poised, as other younger Bacchanalian celebrants were polarized between extremes. The decrepit pirate surveyed the surrounding crowd splashing along the stream bed. Their lit visages vacillated from joy to distress, while the archpriest remained like the Ashvatta tree, contemplative but always offering shelter and fruit, no matter what the storm or the journey.
Was he naïve to realize hundreds of his parish had recently perished?
Still, the man remained so. Still.
This paramount peace floating upon the prophetic turbulence jarred the divided Torus. How could one apparently now lead and be seemingly simultaneously apathetic, without being hypocritical? Where an adult might allow paradoxical ideas to coexist in his consciousness, inventing rationalizations for each, children are too simple and innocent to accept blatant contradictions. The passion of Kyra more mimicked the ideals of a tempered pastor, envisioned and mirrored by the druid’s previous encounters with their kind. Along the trek to the citadel, Falconmoon's atamasthana face never disclosed a hint of worry nor exhilaration, but yet was not stoic or unwelcoming.
Possibly, he matured into a fool over the decades. Then why defend the proletariat within the sanctuary?
As tens of inexperienced or wise virgins, with trimmed lamps or without, swarmed the Hin, half-orc, and the paladin, awaiting entry into the keep, to feast, in congruence, with those who already savored the banquet of sadness, sighing, and sickness, left within the wake of Greenest’s draconic invasion, the questions spindled the elder's tongue ring, seeking spiritual advice, from the nearby Siddhārtha, whilst biding his borrowed time.
“My eyes always shutter with fear of the coming ancient ones, but yours does not betray you. Is this a clever façade or brisk truth?” Xaron begged the cleric.
icmasticc