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| 6 Fourth Age: b l u r r i n g at the [ e d g e s ]; ;; open | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: 16 Dec 2008, 01:12 PM (222 Views) | |
| Deleted User | 16 Dec 2008, 01:12 PM Post #1 |
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Deleted User
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Minas Tirith was so…broken. Walking cautiously and slowly through the white city, still unable to actually leave under his healer’s orders at that time, Esril had taken to sneaking out of the room he had been provided for fear of going utter crazy. So he had decided to walk around and see how much the grand city had truly changed in the last few years, but it seemed he had picked one of the worst times to visit the place. The illness that had been infecting the lands had such a strong hold over the people in the form of fear and panic and distrust, that Esril almost preferred his room of one window and blank walls. It hurt him more than he thought it would, seeing this pain and suffering, and being so bluntly reminded of the pain his mother and his sister had gone through years previous, it was a image that struck him like an arrow, impaling itself into his chest and straight into his already wavering heart and faith. The apparitions did little to ease that pain, glancing up from the white stone ground Esril paused and frowned as a figure which he knew was not there, smiled at him from across the street, swinging on the wooden bar of a stall with a soft giggle that he could literally hear. Then, in classic haunting style, a group of young people walked in front of her, and when they passed, she had disappeared. It had been happening more often recently, since his fall and his injuries that Diore had been healing, his dreams would be haunted by the promise of her helping him, and when he was awake, on his own ad thinking, her form would briefly appear to him, and break whatever train of thought he had been riding at the time. Although this time his train of thought crashed not only at her image, but also at the sudden pain in his still healing shoulder. Wincing and putting his other hand over it, pushing down to relieve whatever pain he was causing himself, the wandering Dunedain pressed on forward. It wasn’t long before he was on the peak of the white city, and he could look over at the horizon, be reminded of where he fell of his horse a weeks earlier, glancing further down to watch the actions of those who lived in the city, those who were so affected by an illness that may never touch them. Simply haunt them forever in their dreams. Dull blue eyes rose again to the sky as he massaged the wound in his shoulder underneath his usual riding wear - as it was really his only wear, having lived within the wild for so long now – and reminded himself why he hated cities. Yet here he was, still, within Minas Tirith, bound by something he didn’t quite know as of yet, unable to really leave the city, simply waiting for this unknown force to reveal itself in his mind, so he could deal with it. And move on. |
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