Epilogue to Revolution

[Zhaei]

The others had departed, but he remained. Standing over the waning flames of harlequin, the Orc was halcyon in posture but tumultuous in thought. Gripped in his weathered talons was the lupine mask of grey, once proud; its fangs snapped, skin ripped and gaze hollow. The charred ground underfoot was paid no heed; the remnants of a demonic gateway unnoticed; the skeletal remains forgotten. The Orc's mind was, for once, focused on itself. Shoulders slumped in sombre regret. Fists balled in bitter self-hatred. Face blank in empty emotion.

Mantras of sorrow raced around his mind, ripping into his soul at every turn. Anger began to turn to bitterness, bitterness to self-hatred, self-hatred to exhaustion. Still did he feel the distant presence of the incorporeal realm; still did he touch the five aspects of the world. Now did he reject them. Movement: the mask was cast into the flame with a wordless shout of unbridled emotion. His gaze moved to where it lay, the cleansing touch of flame shrivelling the lifeless visage.

As the flame destroyed what was his life before, he turned and left it behind.

[Zhaei]

The glaring heat bore down upon the dry, arid plains: no plant-life broke the exhausting palette of browns; no animals braved the midday sun: in fact, there were but two signs of life. The first was a solitary wanderer: a tall, wiry build and sandy, green-yellow skin; garbed in what initially appears to be rags and, with some inspection, is revealed as basic clothes long past their rightful use; face hidden behind a mask fashioned from the face of an aged wolf. The second was only the path he travelled: little more than an endless trail, worn by endless feet over endless years.

The wanderer trod rhythmically, his every move a calm, meditated one; he seemed not to mind the glaring heat, though a lining of sweat coated his hide. The Orc's mind was not so tranquil: a storm of thought raged inside his mind, questions resounding from every step, queries from every glance and curiosities from every breath. Yet his own thoughts were not the only ones in his mind: muffled whispers and fleeting glimpses permeated his senses.

I heed the call of the Elements once more, thought Jurok, and this time it was not only the heat that glared down upon him.