This is the truth of it.

This is the truth of it.

I'm making my way northeast

through the emerald fields and verdant forests of the lingers straits.

One morning, fresh from another good night's sleep in my mother's house.

Before I sent her once again to her gristly death last night,

I told my mother that it would be a beautiful morning out here today,

a clear and empty sky,

and crystallined you upon the fresh grass, and so it is.

Perhaps that's only a coincidence, in fairness.

How powerful can one saint be?

Am I really so arrogant to believe that the winds and clouds can turn on a single word from me?

But even if it is only coincidence, why not revel in it?

What is a saint, if not the unshackling of possibility?

What am I, if not, limitless?

So I walk on, ignoring the occasional buzzers in my ear from the command center back in Glottage,

the politicians and generals who want to scold me for not moving fast enough, for killing

the wrong sorts of people, for not reporting to them frequently enough. These reports tell the

commanders back home nothing they can meaningfully act upon, but my compliance reassures them that they're in control of me.

They're losing their wall, so they're leaning on me.

I cross an empty highway.

I descend into the valley.

...