AN ITINERANT'S CONCLUSION

[Radzig 546]

Spoiler

This is not public knowledge, nor is it the same storyline as this

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AN ITINERANT'S CONCLUSION

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“If I had brought myself to sustain, to partake in that task, would things have gone differently?”

Was the outstanding question of the day.

“If I had the insight to claim those morals and cast away the prospect of that fleeting human condition, would things have gone differently?”

He would slide down that rock, stoking the small fire with a stray stick he had stumbled upon. A good meal was due, for a good man, truly. A sausage, pilfered from some local storehouse, as well as a more than stale biscuit. Regardless, neither would yield any taste, as it was only for temporary sustenance.

The man licked his worn and chafed lips, crawling into that enclosure, that garden he claimed his domain.

 

The sausage rolled, right and left, reddening and bulging like that of a flayed man. It spit towards him, rolling along, a cycle of that hissing and rolling. The man enjoyed it.

Enjoyment was a fixed thing, placid. Happiness was a fleeting thing not for that man but for the land as a whole. It was saved for that disillusioned nobility, bumbling in glee as they sodomized each other until a great rage overtook one, for another felt that joy.

Enjoyment, though, was found in that man, regardless of the deprivation of any human relativity. With that ushered another query
 

--

 

“What was a name?”

 

Integrity and character, something that name would dictate. But towards whom? If one is to find none to judge that integrity and character, does that name have any value? There is no condition for upholding the values and ideals a former took upon themselves, so the selection of a name might as well be a manus fumbling about a worn cap. A name, alas, is relative and can be molded like an argil figure. With the strippage of that state the name will not mold the character, rather the character mold name. Thus, who is to say a name must be constant and cannot change at a foible?

The string of thoughts was surely a justification for that man, as he had known many names in his lifespan. In his domain, he had no denomination. 

 

And what of that human condition which he once, for a short span of time, held so dearly? It seems that all was relative. With a great loss one may experience that loss of the human condition, but for the man's case it was something so absurdly mundane: time.

At a certain point, he had lost his sense of purpose relative to impending death. For that short time, he had felt purpose, greed, malice, all of which directed wrongly were just in his humanity. Perhaps there was a hint of guilt, some repressed anger towards him. But alas, the depiction of these human conditions became a farce, as a name was, molded at his next endeavor.

Speaking of such, a venture was due, for that domain grew cold with the passing months, the passing years and he yearned for something new, if such even existed. And truthfully, such did, a hunger growing in the pit of his soul and crawling up his lungs, mouth agape yearning for some meal to chastise it’s lacerations. And thus, the man dismantled that fire, grasped that small parcel of ornate goods, and sought that endeavor.

--

 

Rebuilt, was that mantle and fire, leaving the man to sit in that crevice with the heat to roll from side to side, spitting and hissing as his face reddened and bulged like that of the sausage, a great terror and yearn overtaking he. 

 

“And what of the fiendish, the naive?”

Alas, that fleeting human condition returned for a mere moment. Revulsion was brimming, to the point the man crept from that domain to retch and gag.

“And what of the prideful, the aloof?”

Wrought was the man clawing at the soil, hurling his curses and malediction. It was a welcome affliction, which offered some sense of circuit. 

 

“That of the youth.”

After a great ages the man halted his writhing, standing upwards and dusting his bare person. 

 

Perhaps a return was due.

 

--

 

That return would sustain longer than expected. That man halted along a bend, peering upwards along that hill face dotted with trees and former homesteads. The surrounding air reeked of smog, although the air was pristine as ever, not a bird nor man in sight. 

 

The man pursued on, though, coming to a halt where that quaint village once stood, now mere smoldering ruins. Temperate, it was, those charred fixtures, not enough to burn, though. He would produce a cloth, which he would lay upon one of the blackened stones. It was a welcome warmth, one in the aftermath of some unnamed disaster, but welcome nonetheless.

What a similar heat he had felt those years ago, when glory was still relative to his person, on those charred sands about Korvassa. If he recalled correctly, he had lost a leg right at the femur, which was tossed aside along with he by the insolent regiments he fought with, for their ranks were made mostly of sons of nobles and criminals. Alas, such was better than what they faced now, their forces made entirely of figurehead and pompous brats. A criminal had more honor, truly.

Regardless, he felt at that right leg and shuffled to feel that of the left. Honest, true flesh sat there. He stood upon those two legs, wrapping his blanket around his skull, for the dawn had already crept upon that valley as he lay there for the eve. The man bent over, reaching for a charred stone. A quaint thing, that little stone. He’d tap at it, scratching the edge which would surely dull his creeping fingernails, for under the charred ash shone the grey face a stone. Dusting it off moreso, he would jostle it in his palm, clench it, and thrust it upwards into the air above he, only for it to land to his right. There, he would cup a hand along his brow.

“An endeavor.”
 

He’d mutter, making his way along that path in the direction that stone had predicted.

--
 

The moon offered a cold reflection against that tarn, the placid fixation broken on and off by some creature revealing it’s presence, sending ripples which would bounce along the bank. One of these creatures was unlucky enough to make junction with his slender digits, pulling such out from the loch as it was tossed along the bank. The man hurried over, reaching into the gorge of it’s forefront where a great clenching would initiate, although not enough to subdue this creature. The man would sit, content, extending his hands as cold sweat streamed down his brow. 

 

After such was completed, he would toss the blanket aside, creeping towards the waters edge. Rather than pull out another creature, he dipped his person into the water, slowly descending until the biting fluid encompassed his body where he would halt. A great contrast it was, that blackened water and his pale skin, akin to that of the moon. The man brought forward his two legs to peek through that liquid and let his scalp rest in that water. 

 

A good deal of time passed before the man opened those apertures, peering skywards towards that moon. He’d writhe some, swimming yet again towards that bank. There was a youthfullness to he, reinvigorated, for he could swim with little strain upon those limbs and produce a chord free of rasp. His gaze, too, the complexion he donned was smoothened with youth, though his eyes shone great wisdom. Blackened liquid, that of ink, encompassed he as he swam, his skull, covered in flesh, skin, and hair the only thing to break that perpetual blackness. Save the occasional hand to reach through, pushing he along towards the edge where he would make for departure, the stygian water dripping down his body. 

 

The man stood, climbing upon that bank to reach for his cloth wrapping it around his bare person at the waist. His feet had no callous, yet he felt no pain as they walked upon those roots and branches descending from that mountainous loch.

--

 

“Where did they bury her?”

He asked himself, attempting to recall such as he made his way along that path, little sun leaking through that awning above. 

 

“And her daughter, where did they bury her?”

He asked, driving a small limb off the path. He halted, briefly, to looked peer his foundation searching for some wear or wound, yet none was found. He continued along.

“And of the brother, might he have passed as well?”

He ceased yet again, pausing at a brook. He’d stoop down, inspecting that face peering back at him beneath that surface. He’d lift a pale hand towards his cheek, pulling down at such as to assess the sockets of his grey orbs, that of the First, Joseph. 

 

“What of a name?”

He stepped through that stream, lifting the cloth some that covered his waist and groin so it sustained it’s insipidity.
 

“If only I could recall, I would return bearing that prior namesake.”

 

He halted yet again at some bridge, bearing worn planks of that decaying countryside, now a metropolis of unemployed estates. Upon that bridge was a paper, wet and torn, yet the ink still readable. Lifting such, he’d scan the words printed upon such.

“If such is relative, he disgraces that name.” He’d mutter. 

“One of my blood, foolish.” He’d muse.

 “A naivety, beyond comprehension, for if he were to assess the true state of things, he would find and understand the lengths at which his facades ripple throughout these lands.”

He’d sway his head, tossing the composition aside, which would indefinitely float towards that river beside he. He would continue his march, muttering to himself.

“I speak as if it matters, though.” He’d heave.

“There is none to rule, I notice a supreme lack of unity, here, for in unity they find dissent.”

The man would pause feeling at his cheek. 

“Have they no honor?”

He would turn, not from where he came, not towards where he was going, but towards the west, for if one were to taint that name he held so dear, that fallacy of honor that he held so close to he, that relativity, he would not stay to watch such. Thus, he began that trek

--

 

Spoiler