I recall standing atop this very rooftop. I looked at Bree, as it unfolded before my eyes, and imagined it burning. I saw its filth-ridden alleys blazing; I pictured its decrepit dens being swallowed up in hungry flames; I imagined its wretched vagabonds turning to cinders.
That was many years ago. At times, it feels as another lifetime entirely. Instead of setting the fires loose, instead of feeding the flames that were already there, I left. Now, upon my return, I find the inferno has died down; yet a few sparks still remain.
Now standing atop the same rooftop, I no longer see the bonfire. I no longer feel the heat brushing my cheek. Instead, I taste a most peculiar wind. 'Tis but a breeze, but there on the horizon, clouds are gathering. Dark clouds, of rain, of storm -of change. Who will dance in the rain, and who will be drowned by it? That remains to be seen.
They walk below, merrily, unaware; blissful in their ignorance, as the raging storm gathers beyond their view. Above their heads, below their feet, around the corner, waiting. Preparing. Setting the stage for one final performance. One that few shall applaud -if any.
*****
[Originally written by the player of Crow (Derakoth)]
