The Aged Man
She had seen him, sat by his lonesome self, his raisen face and dim eyes communicating a sordid truth. A beggar, a ghost to society, this man was often overlooked and classified as a burden to the realm. And though his vision might have been snatched from him, Surayyah queried how this affliction might have conferred a unique perspective. The world often spurns men and women who, despite doing no ill, find themselves meandering alone in this arid domain. The caravan of performers sought refuge within this farming community. They were stocking up on supplies, offered a few days of repose from that dusty road. While many sought escapism from the bottle, this fortune teller instead found herself compelled to approach.
A coin of gold bequeathed and while generous. This charity toiled solely as a way to wedge herself into his heart. Sitting next to him, the two chatted as this spirit deprived of warmth resonated with the gypsy's sincere intrigue. He was a veteran, a former explorer who lent his strength to safeguard the realm. His wife and children were lost to him due to the plague of yesteryear. That quintessential sense of sight robbed of him in service of the crown.
The days advanced, and for hours the two bonded. Eventually, Surayyah extorted a few chuckles from an otherwise lost soul. As their tethering strengthened, the aged man verbalized how he felt himself to be a burden toward his family—lamenting how, during their terminal hours together, he could not ease their passing or witness their faces.
From there, he boasted of former accolades, worldly attainments while the two resided by the fountain. The starlet smiled, and though his lanterns were long since snuffed, the infectious merriment facilitated a jovial atmosphere. Throughout the months, the roving band of bohemians would happen upon that hamlet. Each time, she'd donate coins, eventually plucking some strings and crooning him a song. The money others awarded her proffered to the elder as she unearthed more and more about his past life. Memories were the melodies of life. And while these recollections were not her own, the performer found herself vicariously living those faulty snapshots of time. And while to the world, he was a fetid bum. In those copper eyes, he was a mystifying flower sprouting from the soot of misfortune.
One day, upon returning, she noticed he wasn't at his usual spot. When inquired, the locals brushed off her inquisitions, curious why she'd care for such a pitiable man? Scouring those sun-bleached streets, Surayyah eventually was met with failure. Daydreaming at the fountain they frequented, she remembered how he mentioned his past residence was set ablaze. Moving to the outskirts of town, following the road that hugged the edge in the quaint village, those amber orbs beheld the ruins. Stepping in, she saw him lying on the floor, lifeless. Bottles of opium near his corpse, as it appeared the aged man had enough and ventured off to seek greener pastures. This apparition, deemed unworthy of consideration by his neighbors, as the bereaved wanderer wrapped him in her linen and disinterred his remains.
It is said that every so often, there within the desert. If one listens hard enough, they can catch a lute being strummed and a woman singing this nobody a song, leaving flowers by the piled stones. And while the world may have passed him by, Surayyah wouldn't, cherishing the memoirs that was his life.
For there within this expanse of knolls lurked the barren womb of this forsaken wastelands. Underneath those rolling dunes, were immersed edifices of a bygone epoch. These structures, each a noble prize in their own right, heralded a grisly lesson. That civilization, for all its grandeur, wasn't essential for life. And given the emergence and collapse of empires, nature would keep progressing, almost undeterred by that sudden vanishment. And while the sun hung overhead, scattering forth blistering rays, the heat did little to dishearten this caravan. This scorched province, while Darwinian, was still their motherland. And this joyous collective had long since embraced the heated zephyrs.
The scattered shrieks of sandworms reverberated; while a thick haze from a barrage of granules thrashed across this abandoned patch of ground. Dustdevils tore athwart the land, as it appeared their hubris had provoked a higher being. This family had meandered so far from the trail, a gamble, but the temptation of fortune bore with it a certain allure. Surayyah, far from a cartographer, was at least proficient at reading a map. A skillset that kept the mobile community on the right trail, even as that dusty smog thickened. The bohemian wrapped a scarf over her face, squinting, as she endured the pelting from whisked particles. It was there, within that bleak hour, that they blundered across the gaped gullet of one such ruin.
Its entryway and vestibule, enormous, boasting of the Elven empire's former opulence. The band sought refuge from the sandstorm inside, as bolts of lightning struck outside of that sactuarary. Congregating within the main chamber, they ignited a fire and exchanged tales of old. Oral retellings of history, while unreliable, at the very least, contained some wisdom. Such recitations were pausing as the sound of a few footsteps approaching taunted their ears. Shrouded by darkness, a few pairs of glistening eyes perforated through the shadows from within that narrow passageway. The undeads' faces, gaunt, loyal guardian stills servicing their ancient masters as they patrolled and secured such tombs with fervor.
Surayyah rose to her feet, snapping those fingers, shaking those broad hips as the deck of fate was caught within her orbit. Her fellow gypsies taking out their caster rifles, aiming it, as they let loose a barrage of fire. One by one, the undead forces fell to the ground as even more crawled from the tenebrosity of this structure. Its heart contaminated as the starlet joined her family in this onslaught. Those fingers were snapping, invoking a card from the spinning pile, flicking those wrists as she flung one after the other into the shambling masses of dead. Limbs were ripping free as the ribs and sternums caved in from the concussive explosive force of her attack. Revenants, and Necrophages alike, had nested within this necropolis.
Their former leader, drawing his blade, directing the charge as they pushed inward, while some stayed behind to fortify their position should they need to fall back. Surayyah accompanied their commander. Their combined might tore through the scourge of monstrosities. There, a pulsating crystal heart mired with the blemishes of time hovered within an antechamber. That Khopesh was glowing bright, its radiance dazzling the living and dead, as he thrust the weapon into the weathered source. An eruption followed as the bodies of those slaves fell to the floor. Their spirits freed while Surayyah was thrown to the ground. Her ears were ringing, as she grappled with rising, looking over to see their leader inert, jagged pieces of crystal impaling across his body. Crying, as he breathed his last breath in her arms, she returned with the others to their family, carrying the corpse of the martyr. What wealth they plundered, not worth the cost. She was scribbling down this melody so that his noble sacrifice should never be forgotten.
Life without roots. A dream that appealed to a broad spectrum of people whose hearts were as distinct as their cultures. This bohemian rose, which to many was fair, had a habit of charming men. The way she danced on that stage, while provocative, was equally captivating. Art, while hard to define, had a way of making itself known whenever observed. Most of these suitors would discover themselves left with broken hearts or unappeased hedonistic aspirations. Yet, every so often, two souls meet and kindled a pyre. It was there, within that dreary city, as she performed a yearly festival, that those honeyed eyes saw him. A man, while unsightly on the outside, had a glimmering spirit betrayed by that smile.
The way he gazed upon her flesh while harboring lust, reflected something more heartfelt. His timidness, inexplicably attractive, as her mere strut alone, inspired anxiety. There, within the flickering light of a crackling fire, the two bonded. This wayward wanderer explained he was a noble. Born of quite the illustrious house, he cast aside that privilege to pursue a fantasy. Once fed with a silver spoon, this rough to behold fellow now worked underground as an enforcer. He was fulfilling contracts for clients with dubious intentions. That night, the two shared a bed, delighting in the fulfillment of their bodies. What started as feasibly a single evening of licentious activities blossomed into quite the love affair. Whenever Surayyah stopped by, the two met, savored a meal and company. It quickly became apparent that this caramel temptress had fallen for the man.
His keen eyes perceived beyond that mask, witnessing the grief she often screened with a tender simper. It was then; the bard learned that relationships broadcasted not only joy but also misery. That buried gloom inflicted a wound, developing a schism that ultimately unfurled into a monumental chasm. The performance of this Canary, holding little sway, as the voyager began to question a great deal. Finding it odd, she rarely slept and only appeared to eat whenever in his company. Being a Djinn, she panicked, frightful he would exhume the truth and haul it into the light. Foolishly, she broke it off, incapable of handling the intricacies of such bonds. Those brown pools, peering at the horizon, privately musing what if she hadn't turned left? This introspection, guiding the fortune teller back to that metropolis.
Once she had arrived, Surayyah slinked into those impoverished streets, hoping to find her kindred traveler. But, no matter how many stones she overturned, no trace ever graced those eyes. He had moved on without her. With no one to blame but herself, the dancer retired to her mobile home, weeping to herself. Come daybreak, after the tears have been shed, Surayyah discerned a lesson from this story. That fear can lead one down a foreboding path. And while intimidating, one shouldn't shunt their gaze. Putting this to parchment, she regularly plays this song, hoping that someday, he will hear her melody...
Permanence without borders, while idealized, did come with its inherent appeal. Although, underneath all that veneer, the actuality was scarcely so wholesome. The depravity, unable to infiltrate the cities were commonplace. Bandits, an agitation the government disregarded, fixating their attention one more "prevaling issues." These criminals were riding the currents of chaos, surfeiting themselves on those less fortunate to grovel behind barricades of stone. If there were a sin more so responsible for the troubles of this world, it would have to be envy. The coveting of another's possessions, the jealousy steered toward an individual's personage, produced a kerfuffle of disharmony. This song, while not one she practiced, was anything but alien.
The homestead the last eve was immersed in flames. Their carts were passing by the remains of that farm. The depilated husk of what was once a picturesque abode now persisted as a testimonial promoting a strident certainty. Overhead, the birds circled, those winged fowls ravening want to strip flesh from bones disheartening. There, within the branches of a cedar tree, three bodies were hanging. Their head, covered in a burlap bag of their stiff carcass, swayed in that heated breeze. Their band, coming to an abrupt halt, while a few of her kin ran off to ransack what lingered for any valuables. This disagreeable deed, not resting well with Surayyah as she clutched the reins of her centipede. While the dead did not need belongings, it still seemed of ill taste to plunder from those freshly deceased.
The embers had freshly cooled as the musician hopped off her cart. A few Gypsies, scaling the tree, sliced the ropes so that the bodies fell. Those ravens and crows, who had fattened themselves on a fresh kill, scattered, delivering their eerie calls in protest. That thud, reaching her ears as the actress watched their descent to the earth. It was there, standing over the dead, that she ascertained they were all children—teenagers whose bodies revealed signs of trauma and abuse. At this time, the bandits returned to the scene of the crime—their leader, threatening these performers. But, having braved this scorching hellscape, these unassuming misfits were unwilling to join the farms preceding occupants as casualties.
What ensued was a battle.
The skirmish, thankfully, was short-lived with few casualties on their side. Casterarms, spells, and martial weapons made short work of the arrogant criminals. Her cards were connecting, exploding, bursting their soft organs, and fracturing bones. Employing her rabbit to shade down the fleeing leader, who, the last thing he heard, was a soft squeak before a mighty concussive blast. Returning to the bodies, Surayyah saw the ravens picking at their dead flesh. Shooing those winged beasts away, this now disheartened caravan buried all the dead. Standing near the tombs, she'd sweep those digits across the strings of her lute. Performing a dirge, not just for the innocent, but also those aggressors, one that till this day, branded itself onto her consciousness for perpetuity.
To the north, far from their motherland, resided a vibrant jungle. This exotic realm, so divorced from what they've known, that it might as well be alien. Their centipedes, fatigued from that arduous odyssey, these mounts lightly scuttled across the dirt road. Those ferns thick, trickling from the dew of morning's kiss. While the sun dangled overhead, its radiance snaking through those towering trees branches. Beams of light scattered throughout while the harmony of unknown life resounded across this dense wilderness. All manner of beasts kept their distance due to the commotion of their wheels spinning against the wet earth—this soil, marred by their marks, as Surayyah took in this greenery with unbridled wonderment.
Strewn throughout the jungle were vines more vigorous than roped, covered in a sorted array of vibrant flowers. Their petals unfurled, as they were already in full bloom, exhibiting with pride their mesmerizing hues. Giant insects, the likes of which she never considered possible, zigzagged between those columns of lumber. The shade these earthly edifices bequeathed provided respite from the heat. While fleeting, this lively band of troubadours was appreciative for that relief. Surayyah had overheard stories of this domain, anecdotes of monsters beyond description, tribes of savages who feasted on voyagers for sustenance.
This virulent patch of earth, where only the bold or senseless dare to tread lightly, persevered as an echo from an age long since departed. The roving band of minstrels stumbled across these conjectured eaters of sentient flesh. However, while others saw a lot of savages, Susrayyah beheld an eccentric culture. Their ways, while bizarre, were teeming with mystery and allure. Life, no matter wherever it may reside, were merely stories that have yet to be told. And so, with an open heart, she embraced their customs. Standing nude, having her caramel skin painted, she danced amongst the roaring fire. Her stomach, filled with exotic meats, savoring meals her inexperienced tongue couldn't pronounce.
Music, a universal language, held quite the sway over these giants. While they banged on skinned drums with those bone sticks, the starlet matched their compositions with her hummingbird engraved lute. Flutes, tambourines, and stringed instruments juxtaposition fortuitously with their song. Despite being born worlds apart, these contrasting souls melded into one via their passion for the arts. Intoxication flowed as slowly they cross-pollinated, earning some degree of mutual respect. Come morning, Susrayyah and the others joined these Giants for a hunt. While not her theatre, she felt compelled to tag along, lest she risk rousing unnecessary ire. A deer pranced into view, only to be impaled by that long arrow let loose from their bow. The organizer of this hunt, grinning, handing her a knife and motioning for her to deliver the killing blow.
That shade flushed from the skin, as somewhat hesitantly Susrayyah gaited close. Plummeting to the knees, holding that blade, she gazed upon its terrified face. That hand stretched forward, brushing the beast, before crooning a mystifying cradlesong. The bone armored tribesmen, stepping close, confounded why this foreigner didn't claim the kill. In her copper eyes, all life maintained value, and, while essential for their survival, its passing shouldn't be handled so callously. Eventually, once the beast became still, she quickly ended its misery. One of them was angry, seeing her as weak, as that finger raised and addressed the hunter.
"This wilderness whispers, do you not hear the trees as they creak? The call of those birds and the buzzing of insects? We are just another instrument within the orchestration of life. All is one, and one is all. And before I claimed its life, I felt it prudent to be grateful for the flesh it offered. Suppose the world is indeed a carcass? A cycle of birth and death, as you believe. Then shouldn't we respect what it affords us? For what are we, but inevitable game, soon to be claimed by another predator?"
She stood as they collected the body, heading back, while this bohemian scrawled away her thoughts. Putting it into a song so those to the south might yet experience this unfamiliar world...
Tucked within heartless stone walls, this prison of earth had robbed the Djinn of any sense of time and its passage. Her mind was recollecting the soothing breeze, those warm suns, and soft sands between her toes. How long has it been since she had been plucked from that trade hub? Why haven't her captors slaughtered her yet? The longer she waited, the more time the mind had to fabricate dismal possibilities. The anticipation, exceeding any horror that might manifest, leaving this often mirthful canary to let out sobs of sorrow. Those bonds of metal, cold, much like the prospect that was her future. In muteness, Susrayyah deliberated if her family had even marked her abscence? And, if so, could they possibly track her down?
The last thing she remembered was strutting alone down those streets, as the spectral moonlight was suspended overhead, while the faint rustle of an approach ridiculed those ears. And while she strived to peek, the songbird was met with a burlap bag being pulled over that head. Susrayyah tried to count their steps; however, they were far too numerous. Though, she did feel ash falling upon that mocha skin. The soot of which still adhered to her canvas as those honeyed orbs took in her spotted exterior. Vampires, hapless souls afflicted with an incurable disease, these victims, forced to consume blood in the hopes of replenishing their iron. Somehow, they had ascertained her heritage, an idea more profoundly terrifying than one might assume. Djinns noted for being mischievous spirits were seen as two things. Either a blight upon society or batteries to fuel impossible magic.
The door opening, as these pale-skinned kidnappers used chalk to draw symbols onto the floor. They were dropping to their knees, bringing their arms to rest on the lap, as they spewed forth various incantations. Bewildered, she watched in fright, hesitant to guess what motivated these men. Hours passed, and thankfully, their efforts seemed as barren as the kindness within those hearts. Susrayyah opened her mouth, trying to reason with these afflicted men. Only to be met with a sturdy slap across the face. They were lost souls so absorbed by their anguish that no amount of warmth could reach them. This realization, budding forth pity, as the gypsy wished she could cure them and gives these people a second chance. Alone with her thoughts, she meditated, trying to stitch the pieces together in some squalid effort to understand why?
How she missed her cart, that loyal steed, seeing the smiles of the people as she danced, juggled, and sang. In her mind, there were few things as nerve-racking as clipping a bird's wings and locking it within a cage. Its voice unable to grace others. Those wings were incapable of carrying it across the realm to spread forth psalms of joy. There was nothing but the occasional drip, her captors' diabolical plots, and weeping to pass the time. That makeup that once embellished her face, long since streaking downward, resigning herself to the assumption that death was all that awaited at the end of this incarceration. Remembering those tales of Djinns in bottles, actualizing the genuine despondency such a fate must have conferred, querying if they too felt weak and powerless when shackled?
Just before she considered suicide, it was then that the sound of battle ricocheted against those stone walls. Could it be? Had her people never abandoned her? While the heart drummed with hope, the songbird began to sing out loud. Her voice, haunting, permeating beyond the narrow passageways. Whoever was behind this disturbance couldn't be as cruel as these masters? Eventually, the racket desisted, yet, this wouldn't dishearten Susrayyah from chirping louder and louder to the point, her vocal cords seemed feasible to snap. The door kicked open as familiar faces flooded the room, removing those bonds as she feebly crawled into their arms and wept. Their warmth, their fragrances, produced a smile that spanned across her face, mixing with tears, not of sorrow but relief. She was home, and with this harrowing exposure to the world's depravity, she took solace in one epiphany gleaned. That this bird will never be caged again...Yet, one final question lingered. If someone had listened to their story, could all of this misery and wasted life had been circumvented?
The life of a fisherman, while visibly quaint, was a vocation riddled with perils. The sea was a merciless mistress, dispensing little clemency to those caught within her cascading surface. Each angler had a story, a fiction they fabricated to illustrate their mastery over the ocean. There were tales of giant fish, imposing sea monsters, mermaids who harmonized on the rocks to entice lesser men to their demise. While doubtful in their authenticity, such regaled accounts did much to rouse forth one's imagination. Surayyah, having spent most of her days on land, often sat by the shore and wondered what mysteries beckoned to be discovered across those blue waters? Undoubtedly, somewhere beyond the horizon, another soul deliberated over the same proposal as they grew weary of their mundane reality.
Befriending a few of these hunters of the sea, she ultimately persuaded them to take her on board for what they regarded to be a simple voyage across placid waters. The rocking of that ship made Surayyah's stomach a bit jittery, as the others derided her lack of sea legs. Rather than take offense, the gypsy accepted their mockery and directed it inward, accompanying them in this mirthful exchange. Coasting across the surface, they picked up their nets one by one, receiving quite the generous bounty of fish. Such hardy men were quick to revel in prosperity, using it as a mechanism to forget the hardships they endured so their families and towns could eat. In this starlet's eyes, such individuals were heroes, unsung gallant men risking the ocean so others could relish a prosperous existence.
Far from the land, the sky blackened as the waves crashed against the boat. A fog enveloped the sea as they lost sight of navigation. Adrift, they bobbed without a direction, quarreling amongst themselves. It was then, they heard it, a cradlesong echoing from the film. Horrified and being stricken with superstitions, they frantically scrambled about the deck. The sails raised as they desperately strove to steer their craft in any direction. Yet, they wouldn't move; it was as if some concealed horror had marked them for death. Now dead on the water, they each raced to seize their harpoons, preparing to defend themselves. It was then, in the distance, Surayyah saw them.
Cephalopods, sitting on the rocks, wiggling their tendrils as they let out that haunting call. While the others saw death, this bard beheld fellow practitioners. Maybe they couldn't utter the same tongue, yet, music and its composition was a universal dialect. Those dainty fingers elegant plucked the strings, releasing a few chords as her voice replicated their pitch. Perplexed, those many eyes gazed upon the gypsy, retorting the note almost as if amused. Together, they performed back and forth, each aspiring to bewitch the others as the rugged men watched with confusion.
Surayyah smirked, those hazel lanterns meeting the light their beady obsidian jewels reflected. She wasn't alarmed, for, notwithstanding their distinctions, they each played from the heart. The ship shook, as finally control had been ascertained once more. Murmuring amongst themselves, not wanting to wait and question, the anglers immediately prepared to set sail. Looking toward the sky, Surayyah smiled, perceiving a crimson star that hovered aloft as if guiding them. Racing across the still surface, they eventually found themselves exiting the otherwordly cloud. Once freed, the fishermen glanced over their shoulders to see nothing but clear waters and sky all around.
Once more, Surayyah stood at the shore, looking over the ocean. She often returns to this very spot, querying if she'd ever again hear their chime across the distance. The artist wasn't shaken from dread but instead derived gratefulness. For now, the roving gypsy understood that, exceeding that horizon, there were others just like her. That be they of the same species or wholly apart; they were still one of the same heart...
War, that perpetual cycle begetting long-lasting effects and a ubiquitous reach, had reared its horrid self once again. While lords fought over wealth, their people were left to quarrel over the scraps. The badlands, already scarce in resources, was made all the worse by this conflict. Women mourned their fallen sons, while fathers raised banners for house and king. The consumption of life, the film of trepidation blotting the sky had become routine. Black, a seldomly worn color, adorned many weeping widows. Yet, from such anguish, the need for escapism proliferated. The denizens, longed for a distraction, anything to ameliorate the extensile fear hovering aloft. Her people, those roving Gypsies, found quite the bounty. Their coffers heavy in tarnished gold, forever tainted via the profiteering off suffering.
Carts wheeling the dead were a frequent sight, as with this civil conflict, pestilence stalked close behind. The sands were saturated in blood, the road no longer safe, while civility became but a distant memory. Most considered the consequences contained, localized. However, roaming this desolate wasteland, Surayyah knew better. Those wheels spun, and the centipede mounts scurried, all the while, this sea of morose expressions only intensified. The sun had finally begun to set, and while twilight had yet to project its shade, the faint pinkish glow exhibited quite the nerve-racking epiphany. What this starlet had witnessed thus far was simply ripples heralding an inescapable tsunami. It was there, standing upon the shore along that breadbasket, her face shrouded in a veil, that she beheld the truth. Ships, not from this land, bearing unknown sigils and colors, traversed those erratic pools.
The conflict continued. The heaps of carcasses kept growing as those dainty fingers had become crusted in blood from handling all that coin. Eventually, the eye of that hurricane approached, given the wayfarer enough time to take it all in. It was there, staring on the shrouded corpses, she noticed the remains of children—Innocences, deprived of a chance to frolic in this world. Their sacrifices were meaningless next to the greed of the elites. She couldn't turn back the hands of time nor alter the hearts of men. Surayyah did what little she could so that the world may never forget this needless loss of life. That myriad of woes now accumulated was arranged into a ballad.
Her hope? That through the resonation of her voice, just a single conflict of tomorrow might be avoided. There, comprising her song, perched on the rocks by the waters, she stared into the heavens as that sun finally set...
The turmoil had concluded and from the edges of our world. The warm kiss of the sun caressed against brown skin. As those sandaled feet moved across the grains, befuddled by the horrors she experienced, the Djinn struggled to put those thoughts into words. The aftertaste stripped her freedom of expression, while those distinguished travesties had provoked this minstrel to question. This world was wicked. A certainty, while previously snubbed, became irrefutable—a spiral of despair, leading the formerly jubilant spirit down an iniquitous path. The former leaders cut asunder, their lineage laid bleeding. With their demise, the troubadour pondered if a new, more altruistic line of succession might bud? The number of orphans had grown, each battered face, roused forth a uniformed question. Could war have been avoided if only they opened their hearts?
Hallucgenics and alcohol, while deplorable vices, led the Gypsy down quite the rabbit hole. She annotated wholly new exposures through their ingestion, lines of thought not achievable without this narcotic-induced lucidity. Surayyah was guided down this twisted path of enlightenment by a fellow member of her commune. This Kitsune, abandoned as a pup, found acceptance within their diverse flock. This female was exotic, a jezebel in her own right, the sort of devil that you would sin just to see again. While under the influence, it was there with those senses elevated that the versifier tasted true ecstasy. An amorous affair, while taboo, was genuine. The touch of a woman differed significantly from a man, each presenting laudable degrees of carnal indulgence. When she didn't have the extent of her flexibility experimented, the pair of maidens meditated.
Her third eye released, those sealed gates opened as the flowing of chi surpassed articulation. Sitting within her cart, it was there as the two women pierced through the veil shrouding the physical domain. Those rust-hued eyes stumbled on a revelation, one that shook Surayyah to her core. The universe was cyclical, a parable that spun and weaved around repeated experiences. The body anchoring them, while fallible, toiled as a stark reminder. That while they might feel mortal, they were, in fact, eternal and that the pain, merely an illusion. That all life, from governor to a lady of a night. From man to the smallest of organisms were interconnected.
The fox, seeing her sweat, approached with concern. While her heart might have been racing, this awareness sent a deluge of optimism. Aroused, clairvoyant, and possessing the need to feel something new. The starlet pounced on the fox, their lips locked before eventually rubbing their nether regions together. Whether it was love, unbridled lust, or the drugs, she didn't know. But, there was one thing Suryyah did know, that orgasm was heavenly. Getting up, looking on that scratched, exhausted siren, the Kitsune collected her things and vanished. A note left behind, sealed with the mark of lipstick-coated lips. The bohemian rolled over, crawling on all fours, reading the parchment. Inside was an account of how she had been dispatched to assassinate a supposed child. The offspring of a former juggernaut, her mother.
It appeared the Kitsune fell for her, describing the voyager as an enchantress. And that everything they experienced was a lie.
Yet, despite such falsehoods, the killer couldn't bring herself to finish the job. But will return to her group and inform them this supposed child had died during the war. While not a foolproof solution, it meant that for now, she could enjoy more of the road before the woes of her parents' past came back to roost. An out of body memory, put into limerick, and song with the hope of spurring forth enlightenment.