The fire has finally exhausted itself, heat long since faded. But a thick miasma
lingers over the devastation. Animals have yet to return. The birds won’t fly
over, only tentatively circling the mountains.

On high the miasma has mostly dissipated, leaving only barren paths cleaned of
vegetation. These ash bathed paths will be my only companions for some time.

Ash clings to my boots, my cape, my being. I have no way to remove it. Something
I’ll have to carry with me.

With the moon struggling against the clouds and torchlight’s limited radius the
navigation remains a difficult one. And with mist hanging down low viewing the ashen
path somewhat difficult.

The clouds sink into the night and now free moon beams arc over the sky. One snags
on a pair of horns protruding from the mist. Then another wraps around the slow sway
of a tail. That tail.

One last go with the whetstone. It’s time to head down.


Part three coming somewhat soon. Part one is called Ash. Writing lately has been akin to smashing ones head against a wall.

Music I listened to as I wrote this:

Sugar with coffee and cream.


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