A crusade of the unknown embarked, hastened, and claimed his lanky limbs, clamoring, beckoning, chasing across the winds until he’d followed each whim, each impulse, each ricocheting curiosity – rushing past tall oak and vivid, overhanging willows, marching by bulrushes, lakes, creeks, and streams, dabbling and springing amongst the clover fields and lavender beds. When they couldn’t contain his interest, because it billowed, pervaded, and stormed through the measure of his strides and the glow of his stare, he charged onward, a blazing, blue inferno of glee, of merriment, of portended strength and augured opportunities. His forged endeavors and explorations sent him across the plains, and for a few tender moments he thought to find Adelric and his hidden Falls, but much like the namesake, he didn’t know where they were, where to go, or what to look for. The notion was disappointing and dismissed soon after, amidst distractions and melancholies, because as he ghosted and coasted over ancient trails and spider paths, a whole new world sprung before his gaze. Like many before him, he ceased all movement and merely gaped (as he was prone to do in the midst of surprise and wonder), jaw-slackened, eyes rounded, awe-inspired as he loomed in the consuming expanse of the Veins of the Gods.

Siren war-cries: it called and crooned, hummed and hymned, a blistering, corrosive scheme of luminescent foam and debris, a holy, devout ruin of a once proud regime. Eerie, enigmatic, twisted and contorted in mysterious, labyrinthine hues, spilling, brewing, fermenting in the coats and wiles of the divine, the bubbling, blue magma was an open serenade to his frame; willing, coaxing, enticing, alluring, beguiling him closer, so if he peeked over its edge it may froth, sparkle and fizz beneath his maw. The temptation bloomed and stole away at his soul, and he may have composed the actions right then and there, had other senses and materials of the dusky, hallowed halls not absconded his interest. He raised his cranium to piece together the image of the island, broken, disheveled, constantly consuming the cooling, brooding lava, so one day it would be a heady fortress, a brilliant behemoth, a monstrous Colossus, a revival of the haughty, of the mighty, of the audacious. A narrow ledge, a bridge, a pathway to the beatific, celestial, consecrated and sanctified, inspired invitations to touch, to transpire, to gaze upon the sacred and blessed, become one of the many christened and anointed.

But was he worthy to even cross this threshold? He’d seen a God once – one cherished, beloved, licked and devoured by flames, and he’d yearned to emulate the beast with all of its amazing powers, intimidating prowess, and blazing infernos. Pieces of the lithe lad had longed to come apart, had burst within his little frame, had whispered and screamed in the din, but heard by no one else. The Sun God had looked at him, then turned away, as if he’d been unsuitable, undeserving, unfit for the wild, untamed threads of embers and midnight oils – but something deep inside his core, his determination, his resolution, pricked and preened, yearned to find a way to show the world he was worthy. Spurned, adamant, and persistent, a gleaming Cheshire, a seething Machiavellian spirit, the scion’s chest puffed, one breath inhaled, and aimed to set one foot upon the weary overpass.

Take just what I came for