it was, within the olden world's first century, well in Imber Sol's grasp, the Karl of Fridsaelt ventured South to the Summerlands endless. During his stay several findings came about; These being mostly of civilizations long fallen, eroded and apparitions of a past remembered only on nights of great toils and loneliness. On one such night it was that the question rose within Hyssir'larhaa. This wasn't the first time, rather a periodically resurfacing tap upon his mind which forbid him from rest for the remainder of that night: "If not identical, then how so am I to be distinct?" And he peered into oblivion; not longingly, neither in thought… it is as simple as waking up in the morn or fulfilling hunger or thirst. Brooding, unable to take those otherwise blind eyes off the Volcano in the sandstorm ailed distance. His frozen digits quiver, eventually melt further. Golden locks of hair once crimson gain more over him as he week after week, month after month understands more of what he is looking at and for:
Every so often, that one word falls from his lilac lips. The rising roars of the sandstorm a music to his ears; The flowing ribbons and flags about a reminder to his mind; Yet there is naught fire, no cries, nothing that would bring him back to that moment in still time. That time is gone, so is the future… But now, in realization, he speaks the name he feels drawn toward most and has some comfort with:
“This is… it. As all should be yet, fighting stagnation and decadence. I feel at ease.”
Then and there, his lids fell shut and he inhaled deeply before the storm arrived. He spun once, twice… thrice… Tail whipping the very ground he stands...until he found himself on his back. Empyrean creatures, cloud castles, critters and other dwellers of the high realms paced hastily across the skyline. And when he came to, the storm was already there, raging and all consuming in its path.
“Here, in this fleeting moment, in this exact song, I am at peace. Rohana… Veltes… Now, as one. This is my worship...”
And the world whirled without cease… Essence unfurled, apparitions and shapes of olden draconic creatures danced and pranced about in a circle around the four horned man. Peace, he was at, and his aura reflected just that. Dreams, aspirations and the gentle ambition he had pursued for decades now. And Sahyl; his grimoire, took on a mantle of fire… Arcane hands weaving a web until a dense, yet gentle material concluded. By the end of the storm, the night and haze… An arcane mist veiled the four horned dragonling. He was fast asleep, exhausted, but content knowing that his efforts are coming to fruition at last. And with a soft smile across his lilac lips, he lounged and slept until the next eve.