CHAPTER 2
Perhaps every tragedy has it's hero. You just don't understand why it had to be you; to live and be haunted by the spirits of the dead.
You walk the nameless roads of the northern swamplands as vagabond now. A dark hood upon your head and a dull axe upon duty; aye, you answer to the calls of the peasantry. For many a time you have killed some wild beast or cretin that threatened their farmstead. It seemed like a small death happened every day in that part of the country, but still you gained a sort of odd fame as a vigilante.
The wind is howling now; you have taken shelter in a small abandoned burrow. You have drunk everything here and ate the last of your rations, and now you rest somewhat easy.
Small pearly waves...a shining blue disk...moon? A silver tower of light, drinking upon a bay...overlooking...the sea....dead storms, pounding on your head..and then a flute singing like the voice of a woman....Erynies.....
You jolt yourself awake. What were those things? I don't understand...I can barely remember them. Still that song, coming from that place without end...it felt so serene to watch and listen. Like...a lullaby from when you were younger...younger...a child...children...are these things even real, still? I can't remember.
There is a small songbird by the overturned window. You can barely make out his shape beyond the broken glass and barricade stones. It is one of those yellow ones, that feed upon whiskflowers that bloom into white shapes...it is one of those birds that nests upon the windswept hills where no one can see. Such a beautiful thing.