Time. How insufferable is its triumph and all-encompassing dominion not over everything. It destroys and creates. It takes and it gives. It dictates our very existence. Its immeasurable conquest only halted by death, the conqueror and inevitable end. Yet, in between, we find ourselves in this quagmire of unfulfilled dreams and ambitions, wants and desires, unrealized and abandoned thoughts, plagued by only the workings of our own mind. Time - The most precious of all commodities. Gorlen contemplated. He was not drunk, again, but confused upon the dark canopy of Bree.
He was sitting on one of the numerous roofs that littlerred the town, more particularly the tailor's for some peculiar reason. Time has always intrigued him, captured him in its complex web and puzzled design. And it was upon which he once more pondered that fated night of resolve, of new beginnings.
His blades was sharp and his resolve ready. Time has flowed past him too luxuriously these last few weeks. It's time to once again live, stand, fight, drink and be fucking merry. He was tired of the ever-present melancholy. Perhaps he should get rich, he scoffed. At least help the poor buggers in Beggars Alley. He knew he could. Perhaps gold is the answer to Man's colossal woes, after all. Yet, however, there could be...
