“Hidden away,
In the deep forest, I search.
Search for that which has been lost.
Ohma-ray, ohma-ra.”
Conscious,
Behold the ruin of Delossad.
A place of deeds great.
“Ohma-ray, ohma-ra.
Ohma-la, la, la, la.
Tattered, and bloated, and burned.”
Didst thou listen well?
Echoes not of the past.
They are coming.
Leave me be!
Not here! Not here!
Where is it? Find it!
Not here! Not here!
Silence.
Didst thou see that?1
My eyes perceived a wicked sprite.
Elf… Elf. Elves!
No! No! No…
It are but whisperings in the deceitful wind.
A falsity of the eyes.
It is most unwise to tarry.
“Ohma-ray, ohma-ra.
Ohma-la, la, la, la.
For long unspoken, now admired.”
What once was lost, now is recovered.2
1 Morsarch had been spotted by an Elf from Imladris. She had been able to escape, amidst the chaos in his head.
2 Morsarch’s deafening, cackling laugh resonated throughout Delossad upon his finding. He had found a stack of small, yellowed, indecipherable notes. The contents of which had no meaning, but to Morsarch. It had no other essence than that of a cryptic metaphoric symbol within his fell mind. The medium that connected his endeavour to realism within his sense.
