Davus sat at the edge of the ruin, looking over the Lone Lands. The view was remarkable, though it was desolate. From this height, he could see all about, from the Midgewater Marshes, to the ruined fortresses of old, and almost as far as the Last Bridge. The sun began to set, shadows crept in, and his pen continued to scribble in his book.
Weathertop.
Weathered lands, with a weathered peak.
Once proud, now not so.
Yet more reminders of the cost of shadow when its slender fingers reach out
Like roots of a twisted, gnarled tree.
How does one ever stand against such force?
Such inexorable force that crumbles all it touches,
Weathers all until it stands as a monument of that defeat,
That triumph for darkness,
A mere statue that reminds all what might have been.
The Lone Lands.
What does it mean to be truly alone?
Does this land mourn its desolation,
Or does it stand proud in its solace?
Does it remember hurts that had gone before?
Deciding to stay barren and free of war and pain.
Were the wounds too deep?
The rips through the soil so carved that nothing now wishes to grow.
What of the people?
Do they prefer isolation to companionship?
Is it from memory of ages ago,
Passed down by their ancestors in campfire stories,
Until grudges are brought forward into the present.
Or is it that they prefer the open air,
Whereas towns have listening ears around every corner,
Here there is only the howling wind that whispers your secrets,
And there are no ears for miles around to listen.
And what of the ghosts?
Ancient spirits that haunt the ruins,
Remembering when the land was once great,
What would they say? Would they look upon this land with pride,
Or would they wish its fate were different.
Would they rather it, and those who share its fate,
Stand alone, weathered,
Or do they see them as once mighty,
But now only a shadow of their former selves?
