My Stories
I could remember the first time I stumbled across mention of the ancient city. In a text dated from 410, written collectively by the higher clergy of the Amadaks. The traveling priests spoke of ruins ancient even to them. Laden with theistic fervor, they had praised the city the first of God’s creations, yet spoke also in aversion to things they had not seen but rather felt, though many of those later pages had been long lost.
The place we went as we balanced the line between life and death was not a place easily escaped. To do so, one would have to navigate a maze unlike any other. Entering it on the other hand, was easy. Pass through a single door; follow the call for violence. And we had followed, obediently. We’d followed until it took us to a part of our minds that burned with hot hate. Where the inside walls of our heads were scorched with the will to do one thing alone; destroy those that threatened our home. And so we had.
