Down, down, deep within the earth and deeper still, treading upon a path of rock and darkness and magic, fate twisted and clawed. An elf stretched his arms, partaking in feelings of normality and that of not-flesh, of magic and corruption, of reminder and implication and dread and death.
But Lanre Cerusil did not think of these things, for all they assaulted him - Lanre Cerusil did not think at all, except to participate in the perpetual self-lie, to fancy, to desire. He rejected thoughts, and they flew from his mind, eschewed, useless, bearing no fruit. But he did think that day.
Lanre Cerusil had seen much of ambition. He had seen it within others, nurtured or trampled upon it, cultivated it within himself. He did not think of it anymore. It did not matter to him whether or not he held ambition, or whether or not those around him did. But that day, he thought of it.
He thought of a man, concealed and paradoxical, a pariah. He thought of a man who he had endowed his trust and who had endowed trust upon him. He thought of that face - just for a moment. And he wondered.
He had paused, freezing in place, his perpetual motion disrupted. It was unnatural. But Lanre Cerusil did not realize that it was - he continued walking, down, down, deeper into the earth, basking in feelings of life, seeking refuge and enlightenment and the Void. Or perhaps not seeking those at all. He could not know.