The dream grows so faint now, and the obsidian spire, so like a darkened gash, rises in the sky, a starless darkness, and the silence of this pointed rock chills my soul. The great plains stretch on, descending in grassy knolls toward the river, and over all, the white and clouded sky rolls on.
I sit upon some rounded stone of grey hue and strum the chords of Mezelken. Nowhere are there any birds to share my song, and the notes die before the spire’s silence. Yet, a rest is a part of music, and I know I must rest.
Tale Told 