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The Last Herald Mage
The Rage
Fingers walked idly along bookshelves. From there I recovered that which I had thought lost. I have rediscovered the crucible that fed my dreams fire. Awkward ages return, memories fashioned in that otherwordly sense of a time and a place; eleven, twelve, thirteen, and ready to burn. Hands open to flames. The cool mists of water that carry me now began in fires like these. Things are not as subtle, finely-honed or well-pondered. Emotion crashes through and demands to be felt. Like all my nighttimes of late. To bring him back to me is a most welcome chance taken by idly walking fingers.