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Tower

He starts to build a tower Half of dream and half desire While others live he's digging He so badly wants to be. He struggles to fuel the fire Finds the dreams burn up so fast But he labours on regardless Days slip by until at last. He's in love with what he's crafted Won't see this cage he's made is he Stays up till sunrise thinking Picks at meals alone and free. He is sad sometimes, frustrated No one ever taught him That his tower's to return to, Not to dwell in, endlessly. Still struggles to fuel the fire Till his dreams dry up at last But still he sits in silence Too proud to leave, to flee. Because he knows there's something to this, He just knows it, must be, So he labours on regardless Forging  must be, must be.
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Circles in the Dark - Part II

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At midnight the dunes appeared endless, long curves of shadow folded into a deeper dark, like the frozen swell of some inky ocean. Hectar plodded on, mechanically, one foot rising before the other. The difficulty , he brooded, is not the pain in my calves, or the weight on my back. Fatigue is bearable. No, the trial is this endless monotony. It crushes the soul. Above him a breathtaking span of stars twinkled their indifference. The effect was hypnotic, as if he were treading water in a black infinity, moving towards a bejewelled hemisphere which never drew any nearer. The only distractions were his thoughts, and these were no less muddled than under yesterday's moon. Isn't this what you wanted? Shacruna had asked. Are you not searching for meaning, for something greater than yourself? But he had found only a growing list of questions, and no answers. His life had suddenly been thrown into a chaos far deeper than ever before. Am I truly a Shaper? If so, then t...
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The Heart of Yptah

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He passed under the thirteen guarded arches, six of clay and seven of silver, until he reached the golden doors barring the entrance to the Seat of the Sun. There he paused, facing the spears and shields of two-score of Yptah’s most hardened warriors, their faces inscrutable behind helmets scored with the permanent marks of war. He became intensely aware that the only thing between their blades and his skin was thin a summer robe. But the swordbearers were expecting this visitor. The golden portal was opened and he entered. Wordlessly they swung the heavy doors shut behind him. He stood alone in the innermost heart of the palace. It was silent as a cave, and the night air hung hot and heavy in the moonbeams. He ascended the thirty-three colored steps, their subtle spectrum barely visible in the dark. At the top were several chambers, each lavishly furnished, and each utterly devoid of life. If there had been any manservants here before him, as there often were, they were gone now. To...
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