"Words are as red hot molten iron; they must be cast with utmost deliberation lest it is wished to scotch a listening human's soul."
~
The Secret Cell of the Under-Ground Dungeons,
Kingdom of Tristendyre,
The first Phrinight of the Second month,
XXI Year of Regency
Jaycob closed his eyes for a few moments, dark despair enshrouding his chest.
He mused over all of the moments he had spent with his grandfather, unescorted by the disclosure of the true chords that kept them bound: blood and sinew.
With the man's passing away, it felt as if a boulder of heart that Jaycob would ever rest upon had crumbled out of his life.
Swallowing his emotions, he looked down to see the calm and rested face of the old man who was gone.
In the plenty that was his age, Oreius Zephaniah had seen a diverse variety of things over the vista of his lifetime: ranging from love to dread, wonders to terrors.
