The last few jagged burning lances of light strike the ground. Rain begins to fall, washing away the scars of war. Off in the distance, where the jungle blazed at Philadelphia, the fire dies down, and even the embers cease to glow.
Yet the storm clouds do not dissipate. I get this sense in my bones that perhaps they never will.
The clouds disperse, seemingly at random, going off to fuel people's own, private wars. With a flash of insight I see the pattern - they will join, greater than before, over Paris, and make it truly the City of Lights.
It saddens my heart to know that another city will burn, but I know that it is inevitable, and will bring glory to Apolytonia. The glory of fire. The glory of Death.
Wars grow ever larger. The Iron in our mens' swords brings the lightning down to earth, where it kills friend and foe alike.
I wake up, sweating, knowing the fate of our nation. I wonder - is this a blessing, or a curse?
Yet the storm clouds do not dissipate. I get this sense in my bones that perhaps they never will.
The clouds disperse, seemingly at random, going off to fuel people's own, private wars. With a flash of insight I see the pattern - they will join, greater than before, over Paris, and make it truly the City of Lights.
It saddens my heart to know that another city will burn, but I know that it is inevitable, and will bring glory to Apolytonia. The glory of fire. The glory of Death.
Wars grow ever larger. The Iron in our mens' swords brings the lightning down to earth, where it kills friend and foe alike.
I wake up, sweating, knowing the fate of our nation. I wonder - is this a blessing, or a curse?
Comment