Sitting besides the small campfire Nihtwulf is writing in his small leatherbound journal. The day has progressed calmly, after a morning of running into a small orc band for a moment spurred him into action, using his mount and sword to dispatch the foul creatures. Sitting now in the calmness of the camp, Nihtwulf has turned his mind to writing a small poem.
Firmly the sky writhes, when on the mark is caused a death.
There you would give your life to hear them, speak again the words most tender.
When all becomes calm in the end, and you are alone, you'd break your life for a song.
To those lives who stooped low, to notice mine, I will say my goodbyes.
But to live this life, I would give anything, anytime.
You can kill a life with mere words, but in your soul, how would it feel?
In the fragility of our lives, words hold mystery, words spur feelings, words of love build a temple in which we seek refuge.
If your sight was swept away, and you could no longer see the world, with words you could learn how the sun would rise, and with mere words two could become one.
For those words that cause us harm, there are words that caress.
For those words that make us suffer, there are words that make us rejoice.
Words that touch, enlighten and lift, even though they are but sounds.
For a fraction of that time, we would give anything.
With a small smile he blows on the page to dry the ink, before tucking away his cherished journal and the small bottle of ink.
