Words were unnecessary. Not in this place. Not with this woman who stands at the centre of Tsol'teth achievement. The pinnacle of their ceaseless striving.

For now.

The silent movements of the industrious swirl about Ama-maalier's still, calm form, carrying out the needed tasks with assured efficiency and bared excitement.

One by one, they finish. One by one they exit, eyes lingering upon the intricacies of their work with pride. Then she is alone, though never truly. Waiting and watching as the power gathers. Waiting and watching as the future takes shape.

----

In another place, words of hatred tear free from a ragged, wounded soul. Cursing his fate. Cursing his loneliness. Cursing his kin.

Cursing his God.

Madness creeps ever closer, offering solace in submission.

Not yet.

One legacy that denied him had been destroyed by his hand. It was time the other met the same fate. This reckoning was overdue.



Penned by My hand on the 12th of Scarlatan, in the year 728 AF.