'Isle of Oric'

 
My wings and the wind have carried me here.

I have chanced upon a strange and enchanted place, an isle of ethereal mist and timeworn rock. Yet I feel it was the emptiness of the silence that beckoned to me.

Without life, it waits in a wasteland made of an ocean, vast and deep. And it is cause to wonder. What manner of life has walked upon this sand and stone? Who are they, who have climbed the jagged stairs to the gnarled and ancient tree?

Is this but a break in the journey for riders of the sea? Do they worship here? And to whom do they pledge their souls, these mysterious and absent visitors?

I feel the draw of a presence that hides from me. How is this seduction so potent that it calls to reach a dragon who kneels to no one? I feel no malice, yet the surge of power unsettles me.

The tree.

I sense the spirit of the tree and the wanderers who will stand in the temple of its limbs. I wait to greet these travelers so I may know of them. Be that as it may, I feel apprehension in my waiting.

But I am curious.

- © P.L.Scott 2003 -

 

 

 

 

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