Story of the Sands

A shifting sky over our heads,

holding hundreds of stary lights.

The spirits of those before us,

and the souls of those yet to be

bombard our simple senses into appearing as simple lights.

The yellow grain beneath our feet,

hard on the soles yet we find ourselves sinking and sinking and sinking.

Pillars of stone stand so high that they may touch the sky.

It only took one young desperately curious soul to reach for the star.

Instead of grasping the light, his body fell, and the stars grasped his.

Monotonous melancholy replaces optimistic curiosity,

so much so that when great winds rallied against us, we were covered in fear, not in hope.

The winds lasted long, an onslaught of an invisible presence, though a presence now known.

At least these new lands had character we told ourselves.

The windy presence found no interest in us and left.

Replaced with the stale scent of nothing we looked to the souls of the sky for guidance.

We have a strong belief in our clan that the sky speaks for the past, the now, and the future.

A prophecy of old, young, and new.

The stars, our ancestors, our future selves, watch down and help guide this prophecy.

And so when we looked up to a cloudless sky.

After the traumas we had faced,

the weeks that passed,

the stories told over and over and over again.

We were filled with a darkness, a darkness that echoed the sky above.

For the stars were out.

The Moon and its friend gone to.

The sky was empty, and with it,

so where we.

When those who are composed start to panic.

The panic only worsesens.

Our camp in disarray.

Our hope like a candle, weakly blown out.

And then the gift of a God,

The only presence who could ignite the sky so quickly

relit the stars and invited the moons back.

And our foreign sky returned to guide us once more.

—

Tsarra Dornshade

Fey pilgrim

Type

Text, Literature