The Musings of a Thousand Suns and Moons

[Scrivener]

Author's Note

This particular set of works comes from the 10 year span of my own nomadic lifestyle that immediately followed my ousting from my previous home within the security of the Rings, revised and reprinted for general consumption. The following prose has been organized in the order I feel it should be read in, not necessarily chronological, nor necessarily by topic. It is my hope that after finishing you will better understand my purpose in doing so. Due to my own humility, I must apologize and inform you that I shall remain anonymous, and shall instead pen my name as Aoife.

Sun-Sick

 

IY 7780,  Tabbah 10

Sheets of fabric and carved stone fade to ash
Malice given form weeps from every festering orifice
Dimpled, pocked, crevices where once stood land
Now bleached beneath that scorching sun

So-long to you my old friend
So-long to the days before
So-long to your towering walls
And the comfort they once brought us

Now we waste with no quarter, no rest from the harsh dawn
Sullied and dragging with us the wake of hundreds
Of thousands of suns and moons and hundreds
and thousands of souls at our sides who still, sometimes whisper
Call us back, to you, to home
Our home which is no more

As dawn shifts to day, and noon to twilight, so do I
Shift and change, with the windblown dunes and storms of ash
Now, as that sun - That cruel, unapologetic sun - fades in to night
I say to you, my friend - To you, my love - Goodnight

The sun shall surely rise tomorrow
And as it does, I too am sure
That this is not farewell, my dearest
And we shall meet again once more

Aoife

A Journal Entry

 

Approx IY 7779,  Qdim

I've lost count of the sunrises and sunsets since the fall. This desert threatens to claim us all before the next moonrise. Sand spills from every joint in my armor, crevice in my boots, and sometimes from my nose and mouth should I be unlucky enough to catch it from the gusts of wind.

I once was able to pursue my craft in peace, now the heat and thirst keep my mind from being able to follow a clear enough train of thought to pursue it. Nothing inspires me in these wastes. The only thing I can think of is home, and how starving I am.

I've started to dream of the sand now, how it shifts like a tumultuous sea, only broken by the jagged rocks that may once have been cities, roads, and towers. As my mind slips I can't help but think, perhaps this could be my muse.