#Now that art piece is gone into the aether; never to be seen again

[pastelaspirations]

Dear people in my dreams who are about to interrupt me when I am watching an Errorink video/comic dub... Don't. Stop. Turn right back around and do n o t do it-

You don't understand, okay. I can't just. Hit play and continue right where I left off. If you interrupt me, that video is gone. V a n i s h e d. DISINTEGRATED INTO MERE FIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION, DISAPPEARING INTO THE FAR RECESSES OF MY MIND, NEVER TO BE SEEN A G A I N

So. Dream people. Please do not interrupt me when I am engaging with my favorite gay skelliebones, alright. It is quite literally impossible for me to ever find and engage with that video, comic dub, piece of art, or whatever the hell it was, because it's a figment of my imagination and I am physically unable to conjure it back up if interrupted-

[leaping-layla]

What If This Storm Ends?

Asher Devereux made his way downstairs to the library and adjoined combat room. His brows were furrowed, and he was armed with a wooden tray that had sushi, prepared potstickers and buns resting upon it. Two sets of chopsticks resided, one on each side of the tray. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs upon seeing Layla, freezing as he examined her. Every muscle in his body was tense for a moment, but it was just that; a moment. When it passed, he continued on and made his way over towards the fire she had situated herself in front of. "Hey," he murmured quietly, smiling down to her before he extended the tray down in offering. "Food?"

Layla Locklear looked up, jerking her head to the side at the sound of Asher's voice. Her eyes were wide, staring into the fire, that is until they turned on him. She bit her lip and forced a smile. "Hey." She said, moving her hands to rest in her lap, one clutching the other.

He resisted the impulse to frown, instead, he maintained a soft smile for the woman. "I made your favorite... As best as I could, anyway." He settled himself down on the floor beside her, placing the wooden tray of food in front of them. "I'm not well practiced in the culinary arts of Doma... But I hope I did alright." He looked back towards Layla and shifted his gaze down towards her hands, inhaling deeply before he sighed. "Are you feeling better?"

Layla turned her head, shaking it side to side lightly. "No." She said, eyes turning from him, from the fire, down to her hands. Her fingers twisted and twirled over one and other. Nervous? Uncomfortable? She didn't say. "You don't have to sit with me." She finally said, allowing that long pregnant pause between them to finally subside. It was then, though, that her eyes moved to the food. "I feel like I haven't eaten in weeks." Had she?

Asher gave a slow nod and turned his gaze to settle upon the fire. Each individual lick of flame was observed as he considered his next words. Eventually, he sighed, nodded his head, and cleared his throat. "I know." He looked back towards Layla, peering at her from the corner of his eyes, glimmering with painful uncertainty. He reached out for her, curling his gloved fingers over the top of her stacked hands. "I made a lot..." he offered, his smile growing somewhat, even genuinely. It was the truth, the tray was covered in different assortments of sushi from the hostelry that they had enjoyed in Kugane... Or, well, Asher's imitation of them. Buns resided on each corner, and several plates of potstickers were present between them all. There was a lot there... He'd truly gone above and beyond in food preparation. But it was always easier to cook than think. "I hope you won't mind sharing some of it with me?"

Layla jerked her hand back quickly. Too quickly. At first, she had not noticed he was gloved, but it didn't matter. She didn't trust him, or herself, for that matter. It was a familiar feeling, not trusting herself, and she was caught off guard by not only the feeling but that she didn't really know why. She shoved her hands into the long robe she wore, pulling a pair of thick, black gloves free. Each hand was slipped into the gloves and then placed into her lap again. "I know I make you uncomfortable." She finally said, whispering the words. It was then that her eyes finally settled on the tray of sushi and other items. She. Was. Starving. So, so starving.

Asher froze for a moment as Layla jerked her hands away beneath the cover of her robe. He furrowed his brows and gently pursed his lips, worry overtaking him for a moment. "You don't make me uncomfortable," he murmured, pulling his hand back to his knee and settling his gaze upon the tray of abundantly full Doman cuisine. "I... Make me uncomfortable around you." He wrinkled his nose at the explanation and shook his head. "I don't trust myself." Those last words came out as a low whisper, hardly uttered. Just loud enough for her to hear. He paused again, letting only the crackling of the fire remain between the two of them before he plucked up a set of chopsticks. He extended them out to her and lofted a brow. "Food?"

Layla furrowed her brow, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She lifted a hand, taking the chopsticks. She moved them, clutching them in a closed fist, back into her lap. "What does that even mean?" She asked, shaking her head as she looked over at him again. "You pulled away from me cause I was drai--" Her head shook from side to side again, fingers wrapping hard around the chopsticks she still held, nearly breaking them.

Asher bit his lip gently and canted his head to the side as Layla posed her question. It was a good question. One that he wasn't sure he really had the answer to. "Bad dreams," he tried to explain feebly, plucking up the other set of chopsticks. He couldn't bring himself to pick at the food he'd prepared, not yet... Not after Layla had finished speaking. "I would let you drain me," he said, almost emotionlessly as he shrugged. "I don't want to be without you, not in this life... Not in the next." He sighed and finally plucked up a single piece of raw tuna draped across a slab of rice. "When you stumbled... You surprised me. It was a lot at first, but I would put up with it, even though I know you don't or wouldn't want me to."

Layla Locklear almost didn't let him finish. She was up, on her knees, and turning to face him faster than she should have been. It was almost inhuman. The moment she was up on her knees, staring him down with intense blue eyes, she pushed him. Not just a normal push, but a hard, heavy-handed shove. "Are you a fucking idiot?" She asked him, eyes lit with a bluish flame. It lasted only a moment though, and before he would even have time to react to the shove, she was slumped back down beside him as she had been before.

Asher lurched to the side with Layla's heavy-handed shove. It was hard, it wasn't what he'd come to expect from her usual playful self, but it still wasn't quite enough to knock him off balance. Not truly. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Probably," he murmured and recentered himself. His piece of sushi had escaped his chopsticks during the shove, and it fell just off to the side of the tray on the ground, pieces of rice broken off to surround the tuna. Luckily there was a lot already. "You're not diminished in my eyes, Layla... I'm just happy that you're back." He plucked up the spilled sushi and rice with a gloved hand, tossing it forward into the fire. Nobody wanted to eat that now. "I was afraid for you."

Layla picked up the chopsticks she had dropped in the process of moving to shove him. The wider top of one was broke, bent, and splintered. They were still useable, that was all that mattered. For a long time she sat there beside him, simply processing all of the things he had to say. Each word. All of their meanings. "You are an idiot." She said, finally, just before dipping her set of chopsticks down to pluck up one of the smaller roll pieces. She didn't even care which one. She knew his cooking was A+. "Asher," she continued after swallowing down the raw fish and rice. "What happened?"

Asher glanced down to the chopsticks she rebrandished, examining them as she began to pluck up some pieces of sushi. "After Booshie's gauntlet of fights we had to return to your Father's... We had moved residences temporarily to help distance you from the person that was stalking you." He cleared his throat and prepared to continue, but inevitably furrowed his brows and reached out with an upturned palm for her chopsticks, his other hand extending his own out to her. She might've pushed him, incurred that damage upon her own utensils, but he wasn't about to let her sit there and eat with them. "You were getting ready for bed when you disappeared, none of the Guards knew where you had gone or seen anyone... That's when we discovered that the thing that was interested in you was a Mindflayer." Even as he continued to explain, he was gazing at her expectantly.

Layla Locklear jerked, once, at the exact moment he mentioned the Mindflayer. It was almost as if her body responded it to, the familiar name, but her mind was still lost to why. For now. She took his offered chopsticks, smiling up at him weakly. "Why are you like this?" She asked him, already reaching down for the second segment of a roll. "Everything in my head is just..." She paused again, popping the bite into her mouth and remaining silent while she chewed. "It's just a fucking mess." She finally finished, eyes on him again. "And, it was so strange earlier today, when I woke up. I was so hot. But the room wasn't hot... and I... I could feel you. And Eme. And Kayne. I knew you were there. But, not because I heard you, or saw you..." She stopped once more, swallowing back a lump that had formed in the back of her throat. "I could taste your aether. It was so raw. And I just..." She paused, again, looking down at the sticks in her hand.

Asher snorted quietly and retrieved her own chopsticks, fiddling with them in his hand to get a proper grip with them. She was definitely more practiced with them than he was, but he'd make due. "You were..." he trailed off, searching for the words as he retrieved a bite for himself and silently chewed. Once he'd swallowed it down he shook his head. "You weren't entirely yourself, I don't think... You were manic, aware of certain things at some points, and slipping at others." He shook his head and looked back towards her, offering a smile. "Are you feeling that right now?" He examined her from head to toe as he posed that question, inevitably settling his gaze upon her own. He remembered how those green eyes had turned a fiery blue. It was hard not to imagine them doing so again already... But that was something he felt he'd keep to himself for now.

Layla just looked at him and nodded. There was sadness in her eyes, pure, unadulterated sadness that he had likely never seen there before. Real emotions. Raw. Hard. "Very, very much." She said quietly. "And I don't know how to make it stop."

[a-memory-of]

Ruran Vas had been confined to his apartment for a sun, having acquired his ninth stone with sudden overwhelming changes. Ellere had helped him, kept him fed, and made sure he was safe. When awake, for lack of better word, he would mutter to himself in the ancient tongue. The words that could be discerned were just as cryptic. His eyes gazed beyond reality, and his irises still flickered with golden light.

That particular morning, he spent it sitting up in bed and looking down at his thin hands. The sunlight stretched over his bed from the nearby window. With every waking day, he was growing a little more lucid, but always a breath away from zoning back out. Ellere Valahan had barely left the apartment since they had come the previous day. Getting Ruran here had been a worrying ordeal. And had Ruran not left his bird outside, she doubted she would have even succeeded in getting him out of the desert at all. The inn he had frequented had been closer, and with help from the proprietress there had settled him into a room where she had fallen asleep at his bedside, half hunched over the blankets.

The following afternoon, she had managed to connect with him enough that perhaps she could take him to his apartment. He did not seem aware at all, but he could walk, and he had enough sense, for a moment, to open his door.

It worried her, immensely. But she could find nothing wrong, there was nothing she could tend or heal. So, she settled into a routine of just caring for his well-being until he could tell her what he needed. She had food delivered so she did not have to leave his side. And had called her assistant to bring her some spare clothes.

That morning when she entered his room with breakfast, she had to pause. It was still such an ache to see him hunched like that, eyes lost elsewhere and mind in a place she could not reach. "Ruran dear," she called to him, letting him know she was there, even if it would not be heard. "I've breakfast for you." Ellere sat on the edge of his bed, setting the tray in her lap. It was simple, easy to eat, some oatmeal and fruit. Torrents of memories and emotions—both his and not—flooded Ruran’s mind, so much so that he could barely sort his own among them. He had once told her that he felt he had forgotten something...but now it seemed he remembered too much. A night’s rest had given him strength, and the stone around his neck was trying its best to contain what it could.

Ruran closed his eyes, listening, listening. He knew that voice.  Her name, her name...

“Ellere.” That was it. His soft voice was heavy with remembrance. His eyes opened again, still occasionally sparkling with golden light behind the shadows of his white mask.

Ellere Valahan, Ari’doram silently reminded and tried to pull those memories of her to the forefront. Healer of thy wounds, a trusted friend.

“Of course,” Ruran said to seemingly no one, and then to Ellere, softly, “You are alright..?” Ellere watched and waited, patient and quiet.  It was so strange; it was if she could see his mind working but his eyes stayed distant and lost. She did not expect to hear her name, it was the first he had said other than mumbled phrases in an old tongue she did not know.

His question brought out a tired, yet very relieved laugh. "Oh, Ruran... only you," she spoke lowly. "This is the first I've heard you say in two suns, and you ask me how I am." Reaching out, Ellere lay a hand over his arm and rubbed gently. "But if it eases you, I am perfectly well."

She did not know how long this moment of awareness would last, or even if it was already gone. But talking to him like he was there also kept her from fretting too badly. He was there. She knew. She had never seen him like this, but she had to believe it would not last.

Taking the chance that he was indeed still cognizant enough to reply to her, Ellere shifted focus from breakfast to something else. "How are you, dear...? Do you have any pain? Is there anything I can do?" Ruran looked down at her hand and slowly reached over and placed his hand on top. The more she talked, the easier it was to remain present. Knowing she was well did ease him.

Gently, his head shook. “No pain,” he murmured, “just...heavy. I feel so many thoughts, different yet—the same.” His eyes closed. “Difficult to think...”

The scars, hidden beneath his tunic, had been running hot since Qarn. It was to be expected, with the influx of new aether, but they still remained strong enough for the aether to not consume him, nor make him spark and twitch as they did moons ago.

Something she said belatedly dawned on him. “Two suns..? I must—... I am...wasting time lying here...” He shifted as though he was ready to bound out of bed and out the door, but he could only manage a few ilms, still on his bed. The stone gleamed at his attempt. The relief Ellere felt just hearing him talk again was almost overwhelming. The fact that he was not in pain, even more so. But she could quite obviously tell something had changed. Her eyes lingered on the stone around his neck a moment before she turned to gather the breakfast tray again, giving his arm one last squeeze under his hand.

"I am glad to know you're not--" the bed shifted, and she turned back to see him struggle in a vain attempt to get up. Ellere pursed her lips, leveling him with that look, "Ruran Vas. Don't you dare."

"As if I am about to let you wander off..." she clicked her tongue, setting the tray in his lap. "Until I know you are not about to black out on me, I shall insist you stay here." Ellere reached forward, fluffing some pillows behind him to give him a better position to eat.

There was little hesitation as she reached for his mask, gentle but just as insistent as her words had been. "The first you are to do is eat your breakfast, and then you are going to tell me what you saw in that room."

_____________________________

With @weepingknight, art by @locke-rinannis​

Ruran stopped, and he looked down at the tray. As the mask is removed, he does not object. A glimmer of light crossed his distant eyes, but a slow blink swept it away. Blonde hair hung over his gaunt, tired face.

He didn’t feel hungry; he didn’t feel much of anything yet. But he nodded obediently and reached for a piece of fruit to start. “We will try to remember...” He pushed a small piece into his mouth, and even though it felt strange and somehow detached from him, the taste helped to keep him grounded. Ellere watched him, still firm but also a little sad. She knew he disliked her fussing as she did, and she never wished to treat him like a child, but he was so stubborn. Setting his beloved mask aside, next to him and within reach, Ellere sat back as he began to pick at his food.

"We?" Ellere immediately caught the odd phrase. That was a first. Even when Ari'doram took hold it was one or the other. "Who is we...?" Ruran looked to the white mask. It was important. It represented so much. He picked up another piece of fruit, and Ellere’s question went several moments without response.

“A-Ari’doram and I—all of us,” he breathed, and he motioned to his chest, where the soulstone glimmered. A soft rush of ancient whispers swept through his mind, so many memories, chaotic and boundless. “I hear you,” he whispers to them, “I hear you...” His response quieted her, and she found no words for a while. Ellere studied his face, watching him speak to... something, someone she could not see. Her expression fell. How could she ever hope to understand, truly?

Ellere gave a long sigh, bowing her head. Blonde hair spilled over her shoulder as she did. She was tired, it was easy enough to see in her posture. When she finally spoke again, it was soft and confused and uncertain all at once. "I apologize," she brought her head back up, looking to him. "I just... you frightened me, Ruran. In that room, it was as if you no longer knew I was there... knew of anything else. We were attacked and yet I could not break through. And then you collapsed in my arms."

"I cannot hear what you do, or see what you do," Ellere continued, swallowing thickly and glancing away. "I... admit I feel I am at a loss on how to help you." Focus. Both Ruran and Ari'doram had the same wish; it was too easy to be swept away. Reality felt distant. He concentrated on the texture of the orange slice in his hand and the acidic sweetness on his tongue; it was real, not a memory. It was now, not an ancient past.

"I am still here," Ruran said to assure both himself and Ellere, turning his head toward her. "I remember...pieces of what happened. I felt the golem calling to me."

His eyes grew more distant—looking beyond her—for a moment, as if reflecting on the event was having the same effect. He blinked, gently pinched the orange, and continued. "I am learning...but Ari'doram is still incomplete. W-we need the final piece..." Ellere shifted, moving from where she sat near his knees to settle closer. She was near shoulder to shoulder now. And the closest arm wrapped about his back. She had no idea what he was feeling, but she knew it seemed far different than before. Words did not seem enough, she had none to offer anyway.

"I know," Ellere sighed, the final piece, the end ever-present on her mind as well. She let her forehead rest on his shoulder a moment, perhaps in selfishness. "And we will. You know that I will help you. But for now, you need rest. If the last resides in a guarded place as this one did, I... I cannot let you walk into that danger as you are." Feeling the weight on his shoulder, Ruran responded by letting his head lean against hers. Despite being bed-bound for a sun or two, he was still so tired...in many ways. An inkling of familiarity crept back to him.

“Rest... We will rest,” he agreed. The stone gleamed but remained silent. “—until the time has come.”

He abandoned the orange piece to place his hand over hers, the one that was wrapped around him. Although his eyes were distant, his words were genuine. “You ought to rest as well.” Taking a deep breath, Ellere felt her eyes close as she rested there against him. She did not like the way he was speaking, it was as if he was lost in his own body and Ellere hated being reminded of what all this meant. She had told him, not that long ago, that she believed everything would be fine. She had held on to the oath she had given Ari'doram, but she did not know if it would be kept.

"I have borrowed your couch," she finally said, though it was hard to hide how worn her voice was. "I will do so until you are well, do not fret about me, dear." Above all, Ruran believed that the final piece was paramount. Its necessity burned into his mind; if he could just make Ari’doram whole... However, something in Ellere’s voice stirred him. He wished he could pull free from the swarm of thoughts, if even for just a moment.

“But you sound tired,” was the best he could muster. “I can manage. Truly.” Ellere held him tighter for a moment, before letting out a long breath of defeat and pulling away. She shifted up, raising her arms and cupping each side of his maskless face. His eyes were distant still, even this close.

"If I go home to rest, do you promise me you will not leave yourself?" she asked, brows furrowed together. It was clear she was hesitant, worried. "I am always only a pearl away, and I can come by later to check on you and bring you some dinner." Ruran did his best to focus. His eyes flit and flickered with soft light as he tried to meet her gaze. She was so near, yet so far away. The touch to his face still felt like he was wearing a mask, a barrier between his skin and hers.

“I promise.” Despite his best attempts, he felt his thoughts slipping back. Another wave of memories washed over him, and he slumped a bit. “I will be here.” His head would dip down when she released him.

After a long pause, he spoke again. "...Do not...lose hope...” These words were different, heavier, and they echoed with another tone that indicated it was not purely coming from Ruran. She could feel him lean into her hands, a heavy weight taking him from her again and that ever-so distant look returning. He did not look any different than when she had first brought him here. Ellere frowned, knowing that when she left, it would be the same. Her thumbs gently traced under the white markings under his eyes, anything to keep her from pulling away just yet.

Slowly, Ellere let her hands fall away. She adjusted the pillow behind him to help his balance and ease his back. She removed the tray of forgotten breakfast, setting aside on the nearby table. It was doubtful he would make any more progress on it.

The four words that came after made her pause. And Ellere was caught between the motion to stand, and the want to stay. She looked to Ruran's face, then gently rested his mask in his lap, placing his hands over it. "Look after him for me, Ari'doram," she quietly said in turn. Ruran’s head slowly bobbed in affirmation, an echoing breath leaving him as the soulstone glimmered. His fingers curled over the edges of the mask, but he otherwise remained still and stared at his lap. There he would remain until she returned at nightfall, true to his word, lost in a myriad thoughts that even Ari’doram could not fully contain.

[akhmorns]

temor

desiderium, noun an ardent desire or longing especially : a feeling of loss or grief for something lost   

a retrospective study on how Sunwalker feels about the Crystal Tower and its guardian

Somewhere along the way she’s stopped thinking about it, she realizes.

The Crystal Tower looms over her like a skyscraper- dividing her heart in two like a trained knife. L’mihn looks up and sees red eyes and a love far too good for her tainted hands, undeserving and undeniably warm. Yet in her mind lies the dreadwyrm, and he sees years of imprisonment and suffering- chains too tight, the shackles wrought about his feet and hands are scarring. It is bittersweet, and every time she steps within the interior it is both exhilarating and excruciating.

It feels a lot like back then.

Here, leaning against the railing overlooking a beacon two promises in the making, she feels the worst she’s ever felt. L’mihn turns her gaze down to the guards standing in front as her thoughts drift. Sunwalker travels back, years ago, to a time when dragons didn’t make their homes in the hearts of little orphan girls and she could barely read Allagan scripts, when she stood looking up at the tower from miles away- a ray of blue against the purple miasma.

It looks much nicer here.

Back then, she had stayed awake countless hours listening to G’raha’s histories, entranced and undisturbed by the glory of the ghost of an empire. The stains of a legacy lost to the ages had yet to bury themselves, the thrill of advancements lost to history running deep in her heart. L’mihn had been enthused, elated, so entirely eager to traverse the Crystal Tower- Mor Dhona had become a second home and NOAH her temporary family, every moment she was not doing other work she would be there to scour the tomes with G’raha, trading quips and theories and getting lectured at by Rammbroes for distracting their key historian.

L’mihn remembers a time far later, when she had stopped by to say hello- where he had said she was just like him.

They’re nothing alike, really. L’mihn had claimed as much only to be given a doubtful smile and a change of subject. He would never wander with a wyrm hidden in his breast, wouldn’t split his aether to feel the thrill of a euphoria six calamities in the making. G’raha- her Raha, had laughed with her and gotten hissy with her when she had snuck him out to go Morbol hunting of all things, had the promise of a future in his heart when he closed the doors on her. Where he had been selfless, she had been selfish, where he had accepted the light of the future she had taken the sins of the past as her own- and as she blinks the tower and the setting sun come into focus once more.

Well she’s crying now. Great.

One time, a familiar face had told her dwelling on the past would just hurt her more- and while then the circumstances were different, she was mourning the loss of a dear friend who had saved her life, she feels the sentiment come up again. L’mihn is over the pain of losing friends, but this isn’t the loss of a friend, she knows full well what this is. Somewhere along the way she’s stopped thinking about it, she realizes- the sacrifices she’s made for power, the self destructive nature that’s consumed her and sworn her into her fantasy of dying a hero. The bittersweet feeling she gets when she looks up the Crystal Tower, the guilt she feels when the Exarch claims her achievements, her heroism- it’s all led to this.

Once again, L’mihn Sunwalker has fallen into the routine of wanting to go back to better times. It hurts to admit, there’s really no way someone hasn’t seen her crying in the middle of the aetheryte plaza, on the balcony overlooking a painful realization. Once again, she stands at the foot of a slow dance with ghosts. In Ala Mhigo she thought she had solved it, accepted her legacy and moved on- and in a way she had. In her heart she had promised to Master Sari to keep the art alive, promised her dead father to stop crying over him, promised the scions to be more open, to understand she wasn’t hated for what she’s done- that it was okay, and she had. L’mihn wonders where things changed, and as she looks up at the sky it hits her.

Ah. The light.

Blistering, a freezing cold that tears her skin apart and cuts into her like a million pieces of glass. L’mihn still feels the remnants, even if the light is tame the scar is still real and sometimes she still feels like she’s dying. It reminded her a lot of back then- of when she had first gotten the brilliantly stupid idea to absorb a portion of the dreadwyrm’s aether: the explosion of pain, the burning of skin and lungs and the blood. Yet it felt nothing like the light, where the dreadwyrm had only stained her eyes the light had stained her entire being. In the end she lived, they lived- even though Ardbert doesn’t talk to her anymore it feels wrong to not include him. Eventually the scars will heal, and even if some days the passing mountain range will remind her of a friend who understood, she will move on.

The real problem has always lain with her.

Somewhere along the way L’mihn has understood she wasn’t really quite the same. This road she’s walked before, in the cold streets of Ishgard as she struggled to come to terms with the dreadwyrm that nested in her aether, is the same one she’s facing again. The light in all of it’s fracturing glory- has lain itself across the road as a reminder she will never be quite the same. The truth of it had always been there, and L’mihn had always ignored it, but Hades’ final words come to mind and she can’t anymore. In a way, it’s relieving. That she is not a monster- that the friend that mended her aether is and was always her, that the dreadwyrm sitting in her head is just a remnant, but she is afraid.

It’s fear. The fear that the little orphan girl will one day die in the shade of souls that are not just hers that L’mihn will no longer think about the late nights when she had little to do but read tales, that when she loses the days spent starving she will lose everything she is and was. It’s the fear that she’s lost herself.

Rammbroes comes to mind again, clearer this time, as she’s overlooking Silvertear Falls she mentions something about keeping the summoning art alive as a promise. The laughter behind her is clear in her head and she wants to turn around but this is a memory and she never did turn around, Rammbroes makes the passing comment that she’s just like him. When she turns around she crosses her arms and pouts- something about still being here when he wasn’t and it gets dropped there.

The Crystal Tower looms over her like a constant reminder of times gone by, of how much she’s changed and how much it’s scaring her. On one hand, he’s just like her- stuck with a purposeful demon wishing for days gone by as time goes by, and on the other- he’s nothing like her, he’s selfless and willing and entirely too good for a selfish girl like her. Between them lays Bahamut, in all of his freed glory- bitter and spiteful and angry, across the light stained road that’s being paved by the weight of who she really is. L’mihn stops leaning on the railing. It really was the perfect beacon, she realizes, the perfect bridge between a better time and the time that exists now, the unity of the passion of the adventurer she was and the fear of the hero she’s trained to be.

Rammbroes was right; she was going to pay G’raha a visit.

Somewhere along the way she’s forgotten about it.

[autolovecraft]

I came to learn what they meant.

Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was larger than the rest, and in my dreams, my mind fragments of my cherished treasury of daemonic lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad Arab Alhazred, who dreamed of the earlier scenes.

When I came upon it in the silent damnable small hours of the primal stones and altars were as low, were not absent; and one terrible final scene shewed a primitive-looking man, and was presumably a natural phenomenon tends to dispel broodings over the unknown men, if men they were poignant. I did not like.

More and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night wind till oblivion—or worse—claims me. The cases were apparently ranged along each side of the abyss I was frightened when I glanced at the possible implications. As I held my torch within, beholding a black tunnel with the roof was too regular to be gradually wasting away, and in the solid rock.

The importance of these men, I saw it. It was a passage so cramped that I saw the dim outlines of a strange golden wood, with fronts of exquisite glass, looking as if just varnished over with that instinct for the dawn-lit world of eternal day filled with moon-drugs in the geological ages since the glow was very faint; but the area was so great that my torch.

I was almost mad—of the most magnificent and exotic art. About these shrines I was still scrambling down interminably when my feet again felt a chill wind which had risen around the mouth of the sun peering redly through the last gusts of a definite sound—the leave-taking of the steep steps, and in my dreams, for I instantly recalled the sudden wind had blown; and once I came upon a place where the bed rock rose stark through the rocks in some of the antediluvian people. The civilization, which could if closed shut the whole inner world of their own, wherein they had cities and gardens fashioned to suit their dimensions; and a haunter of far, ancient, and afterwards its terrible fight against the luminous aether of the passage into the fertile valley that held it. Then suddenly above the sands of uncounted ages. As I thought of Sarnath the Doomed, that was sweeping down to its source; soon perceiving that it came from the passage into the fertile valley that held it. But as always in my dreams, my ears ringing as from some metallic peal.

An ancientness so vast that measurement is feeble seemed to record a slow decadence of the greatest explorer that a weird world of light away from the vaults and passages of rock. When night and the sand like an ogre under a cold moon amidst the many relics and symbols, though nothing more definite than the rest, and much more bizarre than even the physical horror of my position in that Palaeozoic and abysmal place I felt a level floor, and much more bizarre than even the physical horror of my position in that frightful corridor, the bullfrog, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces in the city above. Soon it grew fainter and the gray turned to roseate light edged with gold. Hewn rudely on the face of the creatures. My sensations were like those of black passages I had seen all that the place contained, I found myself in a precipitous descent. My fear again waned low, since one could not quite stand, but I immediately recalled the sudden local winds that I saw it protruding uncannily above the desert's heat. At the very rites here involved crawling in imitation of the underground corridor, the city was alive. In another moment, however, I said to myself, were to men of the eldest pyramid; and I was traveling in a place of better shelter when I did not flee from the apocryphal nightmares of Damascius, and in the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man shivers so horribly when the night wind till oblivion—or lower, since one could not quite stand, but a presence seemed stalking among the spectral stones of Memphis were laid, and infamous lines from the delirious Image du Monde of Gauthier de Metz. My fears, indeed, concerned the past rather than the rest, and no man might say.

I fell babbling over and over again a phrase from one of which either the naturalist or the palaeontologist ever heard. It was a passage so cramped that I did not like. Very low and sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, as I went outside the antique walls to sleep, a small man, yet I defied them and went into the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. The paintings were less skillful, and beheld plain signs of the nameless city. I found myself in a parched and terrible valley under the moon returned I felt a level floor, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head could not be seen against the murderous invisible torrent, but I cleared another aperture and with a growing ferocity toward the abyss each sunset and sunrise, one of which had broken the utter silence of these men, I said to myself, were not absent; and down there in the frescoes the nameless city. I studied the pictures more closely and, remembering that the place contained, I could stand quite upright, but I could not even kneel in it; before me, seemed to promise further traces of the mummies, half transparent devils of a little while all was exactly as I returned its look I forgot my triumph at finding it, finding never a carving or inscription to tell of these men, if men they were artificial idols; but soon decided they were artificial idols; but the area was so great that my fancy had been seeking, the man who was torn to pieces by the nameless city under a coverlet, and valleys in this lower realm, and the nameless city, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the place contained, I said to myself, were not absent; and here I saw later stages of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half transparent devils of a definite sound—the first time some traces of the sun, seen through the tiny sandstorm which was passing away, and with strange aeons death may die.

The moon was gleaming vividly over the fallen walls, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the city above, but I could not move it. Then I sank prone to the outer world. As I thought I saw that the cavern was indeed fashioned by mankind.

I saw the nameless race, for I could not stand upright in it.

And as I led my camel. When I tried to crawl against the luminous aether of the blast awakened incredible fancies; once more I compared myself shudderingly to the nameless city. Suddenly there came a crash of musical metal to hail the fiery disc as Memnon hails it from the age-worn stones of this place the gray walls and rows of cases still stretched on. I must have been vast.

Night had now approached, yet there were many singular stones clearly shaped into symbols by artificial means. Fear spoke from the banks of the race that had dwelt in the ruins which I was frightened when I thought of the Nile. I was inside I saw signs of an actual slipping of my form toward the unknown which had broken the utter silence of these crawling creatures, I felt a new torch crawled into it, since a natural cavern since it bore winds from some metallic peal. Night had now approached, yet the horns and the human being. The paintings were less skillful, and of its struggles as the wind was quite gone I crossed into the dark apertures near me, seemed to quiver as though on a ladder. In and out amongst the shapeless foundations of houses and places I wandered, finding more vague stones and rock-hewn temples of the sun peering redly through the last gusts of a steep flight of very small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been outside. I felt a chill wind which brought new fear, so that I did not flee from the vaults and passages of rock.