To: Somebody
The bog always weighed down the shoulders, not the legs. Its perennial and literal gloom brought a
chil, a despair
despondency that made the heart seem ponderous. The mire was endless for even departure from the murky depths never managed to shake off the parasite within. It ate on the very being of all mortals unfortunately present, yet it had the most bizarre ability to allow a choice at those very moments. Either the person could dissolve their resolve and flee, steel their potentially stalwart and righteous doings so that they may continue even against all odds, or be consumed by the ravenous hunger of the swamp; an appetite that will never be sated.
The towns built in the bog are shining beacons of hope that civilization may have the opportunity to sprout in even the harshest of conditions, but one may look deeper and see that these towns were not built upon strengthened values. They were established during peace, comparatively, and they have withstood time
horribly
awkwardly. The denizens suffer, those afflicted or not, but they know nothing of the light. A torch or lantern that simply illuminates the paths is a haven from the darkness. Yet, the torch does not stop the hunger. It shall devour those remaining until nothing is left except for the crumbling buildings and the tales. The choice tormented them for the light, the true light beyond flame, keeps them condemned to that very land. A river runs and it runs endlessly. It stretches millions upon millions of miles in every direction and blockades the swamp. They never possessed an opportunity to choose.
That doesn't explain the adventurer that sinks into the water and muck to either be hoisted out, swallowed, or be left to float for eternity. They had the choice and they will suffer for it. Feet will become weary and they will have to decide time and time again if it is worth it. The truth then becomes obvious: the river is endless for a reason.
From: Xel Praven
10-Nov-2019 01:15:10
- Last edited on
10-Nov-2019 01:16:30
by
Shrap
