A short snippet to see if I can get this started again...
The silent halls of Gowón’no have been my home for many a year, and as I wander through their meandering tunnels, I realise that I have become as shadowy and silent as they. At times I warm myself by thinking that I was special, that I was chosen, to ward off pointless dreams of the things that were denied me. Never again will I feel the warmth of a feather blanket during an autumn night out on the plains; never again feel the thrill of the hunt, the delights of fresh noombird meat eaten around the campfire; never again hear the laughter of children (they could have been my children!) practicing their archery skills on hapless reptiles and rodents.
No, fooling myself that I am special offers little comfort. Better to seek oblivion in my work, the sacred task. Countless hours I have spent bent over the scriptures we guard, copying out text after text to preserve the histories and knowledge of the ancients. Not that I, or any of us, understand much of it. The Great Feathered Ones, the Headless Wars, the Shattered Age... Eons reduced to nothing but meaningless words in a mouldy manuscript scrutinised by an old woman with failing eyesight.
But the Mothers sternly remind us of the oaths we have taken, and of our duty to the Feathered Sun that one day shall return. I no longer believe in any eternal reward, but at times I catch myself looking over the endless plain, far below, daydreaming of that glorious day when a different Sun will rise and the world will be born anew. And, though it costs me a tear to admit it, I see myself, young again, running and laughing under the boundless sky.
Last edited by DesEsseintes
on Thu 16 Aug 2018, 20:58, edited 1 time in total.