Once again.
In the loneliness that came with ethereal captivity, a wall of darkness on all sides that impeded sound and sights, Sila could only sigh in self pity and rage.
He was frustrated and confused.
His war-driven soul, built as such from the experiences preceding his capture and imprisonment into Fulgardt's prison, couldn't make peace with his previous story as well as this one.
What was right?
Was he even in the correct mind to make this choice?
Pathetic!
He wanted to blame it all on Skullius but...
That would be foolish.
His tale was written in the annals of Direction long before the tomato flinger came to be in Aigas.
If he was seeking someone to blame, it would have to be existence itself.
'Magra...' Sila called in the silence, nought but a vibration giving proof as to the fact that he had actually spoken.
This word...
This name.
