(As always, play and listen while you read!)
The lone figure stood, cloaked in large fur cloaks to combat the bitter cold. He looked out over the land beneath him. From atop the snow covered mountains he could make out lush valleys far below. And although he could not see it, off in the distance lied a tower. The sole reminder of what remained of a town long forgotten. He wondered if the ash still piled up around it or if it has blown away over the years.
You see, it had been nearly 4 years since the man had seen the tower and its residence. The last time he rememembered seeing it was as it faded into the distance behind him, embers still glowing. He couldn't face the tower or its people then, believing he had failed them. Much time had gone by though, and now he was ready, that was, if any of them remained. He did not know for certain anything at all was left, but something inside Told him to hold out hope. In fact, he felt an odd sensation running through his body the closer he got. His blood ran hotter and faster as he drew closer each day; carrying him forward.
After so long the Wanderer of the North was ready to bring back the message of the Ancients to the people of the Spire. While he wandered the northern wastelands he had seen visions. Visions of the north returned to glory, of a new era of prosperity for his people, and even of the return of the Ancients themselves. Whether they were in fact glimpses of the future or not he was unsure. Either way, he had grown to trust the Ancients that whispered in his ear.
His thoughts constantly drifted to the prophecies he had heard whispered in chanting tones at the back of his mind. Each one written in fancy script on parchment scrolls in his pack. The man didn't recount writing them, and yet after falling asleep he woke up beside them. The prophetic scrolls, written with such skill and beauty, he wondered if he really had written them in his sleep. No one else dared live as far north as he had, so despite his doubt, the answer was apparent.
For a long time, he thought himself mad. Voices in his head? He must have gone crazy, driven to madness by the loss of his friends. In time, however, he had come to accept the voice as not his own, but instead something or someone else. It was then that the rambling noises and voices became clearer. They told him about the world around him, secrets that no one knew of. They guided him through the years as he learned about and saw the world as if for the first time.
As he stood, now a top the mountains of Kalros the voices no longer whispered in his ear but offered him guidance only when needed. His head quiet and his mind sound, he spoke aloud the last word the Ancients had spoken to him nearly 2 months ago:
"Home"
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