I walk among statues of the people I swore I’d defend. They all stare at the center of the city, the Citadel of Lost Dreams. A group of cloaked men walk to the entrance but stop to look at me. One of them in the back touches their shoulders making them collapse lifelessly. Shadows cover his face and still I could see his eyes. In his eyes radiates a white, illuminated fury.
When a darkness manifests from our hearts
Into existence it’s a blight of the World Tree.
We tried living on green plains and to be free
But we burned it all away. The story repeats.
Twelve blights forsake the roots fighting to live
Among desiccation. We only take and never give.
So will you change before it’s too late?
Vasha'Lakar 