zel

The eternal blanket of sweet, unbroken relief guides you along your woeful respite. Truly at peace, you must be, to finally be given the time, patience and respect that affords a forged blade their reluctant, contemplative quest for absolution.
The mane unfurls, and a new sensation drifts in under a familiar wisp of life.
Atonia lifts her heavy head up and away from your side. Like a startled companion; something is wrong.
More, the shadows turn away from you, neglecting your repose. Their comforting weight no longer shielding you from the blooming crisis on the horizon.
Restless and Uneasy, you surface from your slumber.

Reaching down to manipulate the stone beneath you, the bricks are worn and brittle from what appears to be a century of decay. Overgrowth litters your territory, as it should, yet your bed of timeless content remains yield to the curious foliage.
"Why?" you whisper steadily to nobody, but perhaps the timeless not-warm bosom of a tyrant's sanctuary.

…