Final thoughts of the lifelong dying, Atthem Roomyscoop
As my left hand flies of in an arc, I contemplate my recent existence. Just a few days ago, I considered my life to be dead, without meaning. I worked the land, all day every day. At night we would sit in our house, sharing stories of heroic deeds in faraway lands. The stories were a glimmer of hope in a world were the well of life seemed dry. A rare spark of life came over me: to go out, to be heroic, to fight the decay of our world. Now, in my hazy state of near-death, a song of the monks of Damso comes to mind, pounding slowly and rhythmically in my head:
Usmen oma kozi rat
Mistrum oma kozi as
Onra oma kozi rat
Mistrum oma kozi as
Atir atir Omon Woge gil
Kimen kathro enem enem tok
Kise oshok ocba oshok og
Quehlico orub Quehlico xubkib
Usmen oma kozi rat
Mistrum oma kozi as
Onra oma kozi rat
Mistrum oma kozi as
Is this really my destiny? To break with my everyday existence, to break with the bond of decay that has cursed this world? In my attempt to fight it back, did I not just invite it to visit me sooner? Is this really my destiny? Why did the spark to go overcome me, why was I deaf to all around me? In this world without hope, is this the destiny of us all?
Is this really my destiny?
(ooc) So, that went really bad. Saw the museum, struck out, only to be struck down by a group of bandits outside of Dinnerwandered. So not an epic story of great deeds and infinite kills, but hopefully an enjoyable short piece about the fate of the portentous realm. Also, I hope the poem is translatable. I will now make a fort.