Iilarius
A lone figure stood shattered upon a dusty plateau, her whole frame distraught with loss. Her immaculate robes fringed with the finest Orbis gold silk fluttered like abandoned window shutters and were dirtied by the thousand year-old dust swept up by the wind. Tears rolled down silent cheeks, collected the earth in them, and fell down the cliff face, propelled by eventuality and bitter reality. It was nearly poetic, the way the wind tried to purify her, as if her pain could be wafted out through her auburn hair. Earth and wind. “Stubborn change, why do you, even now, continue?” she thought, adding to her tragic collage of reminisced moments. He, buried in Perion soil, now spoke to her, his spirit becoming the very grains that cut at her face and kept her from falling into oblivion. Why, Dokren?