The Path of Dust and little returns

[Arkan Bladesinger]

The road strecthed before him. An endless road.

A Road he had walked before a thousand times, no matter these cobblestones were not the same his boots had tread on before.

Devon was tired.

Tired to the bone like a traveler who gets tired upon walking countless miles. Tired like a one on a pilgrimage who uses his last ounce of strength to crawl on his knees to his chosen sanctuary.

Devon was tired past these things.

A traveler would have a place to travel to. A soul on his way to salvation would shrug off the burdens of the road on his way to better future.

Devon had no such goals, yet he kept on walking; one step after another.

Once he had a goal. Once he had a golden future.

Once.

These things played a phantom opera in the backroom of his mind. He was used to shut them down now. Still, a door sometimes opened bringing forth a torrent of memories and visions he would´ve chosen to ignore if he could.

A Pretty girl in a fancy red dress.
Gone. Methodically shut off and slain as a phantom that she was.
She almost left no trace of the fact that she was once loved as passionately as a young heart can love.

A Frown.

Gone.

The Next memory is harder. Men dying while Devon commands them to fight the trolls.

Ignore it, it is just a mindtrick!

The memory persists... Long-limbed green warthy arms everywhere; Scott being ripped in half, Arvon´s scull caving in. The Company scattering, his first command. "Fight, you bastards!", he screams, but the bogs seem to swallow his voice and it all seem so surreal now as they close in...

Devon awakes in sweat, curses as he remembers that the trip to Llorkh was a failure and faces the coming day metodiously and coldly efficiently as his father thought him back in Narfell, knowing that next night would bring no respite, either. The Hauntings would continue.

And Devon would walk.

[Wynna]

Interested to see where this is going. Keep it up, Arkan.