ASHES BILLOW UPON SILENT WORDS

[Pallodium 465]

“The only thing worse than being blind is having sight yet no vision.” - Excerpt from the Krux Doctrine; ‘On the Witness’.

 

The west-bordered north always was a tempestuous place. Dry gusts swept down from the mountaintops, the colossal volcano spewing magmatic ash at a steady pace, clouding the skies. This land, to many, was the ‘Ashlands’, or to some even the colossal behemoth of  ‘Redmont’.

 

To the Raven, this land merely was. 

 

A land they once gazed upon decades ago, a land they found as everpresent, a fragment of a world that existed as it was. The ashen cliffs, the smoke-covered peaks- the ragged shores, all of the land simply existing as it was.

 

 

 

 

They sat down before an ashen tree, gaze fixated upon- nothing. Their sight was stripped for them, hollow sockets capable of beholding nothing. Ashen leaves crumble off the branches, stripped by the wintery day. Yet the figure could not see the world about him.

 

What is sight? Is it the ability to witness? It is what permits a living being to comprehend the world through a new lens? Is sight what begs a being to move forth?

 

Flames wither into smoke, rocks crumble to dust. 

 

Does the one who witnesses both’s undoing have sight? Yet that cannot be. One can smell smoke, can touch that of dust; both must exist in the end. Fragments of another, lingering decrepit nature of what was before; is such not the world in itself? The world, fragments of what came before- observable.

 

What is sight? Is it the capacity to witness that which came before from what one perceives with the present? Is it the mental nature that allows one to believe what is present?

 

Nature does not permit oneself. Oneself permits nature.

 

Does the one who beholds other’s attempts to fell the world, to watch those collapse and fall beneath the weight of others have sight? Yet that cannot be. Sight is a concept, that which permits the concept of reality to be witnessed. Sight. A plea to The Titan, a plea fell on by deaf ears in the ashen plains. 

 

The world seemed to drift, a corvid temporarily stagnant upon the draconic tree. The being looked on- in silence.

 

A single word, esoteric in nature followed from the person- a swathe of flames carving into a small rock- lifted up, and pocketed. The winds bellowed, blowing hard. The west-bordered north always was a tempestuous place.

 

In halls of ash where shadows dance with flame,
A herald blind, their visage marked by ink,
Yet scornful of their sight, a soul that sinks,
Longing to see, to pierce the darkened game.

 

Upon the Ashlands, the Titan's path of might,
The blinded one seeks an audience not,
Implores Azdromoth, flame-eyed and true,
To grant them sight, to end perpetual night.

 

"O Azdromoth, thou King Who Never Was,
I yearn for sight, release me from this haze.”

The pleas fall under false ears. Not a soul
Hears of the words; thus scorns the Raven’s phrase.

 

 

 

Spoiler

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