Do you remember the lost days?
It was by them they named you.
Warrior. Vanguard. Steadfast.
Those days have long since spoiled under a new sun.
It was by what followed that they name you.
Pilferer. Graverobber. Thief.
Need that be so forever?
The time is full for this new sun to set,
But we have need of many hands.
It is no small thing we seek to turn,
For nothing less will do than the world.
Once more take up the sword in our name,
And we shall see to it that yours is restored.
And what of I, you ask?
I am sapper unseen, humbler of towers mighty and small.
I gnaw at the roots of earth and bastion alike.
I am an architect who builds only to later defile the work of his hands, I am an artisan without an art.
My eyes forget the shades of moon and sun,
They remember only the spray of fire.
My feet know not the streams and woods of home,
They feel only the quench of dust.
My name is long washed from my tongue, and these blackened stones alone recall it.
You may call me Gräber, for I have cleared all else away.
My spade breathes life by me, and I breathe life by it.
The Eighth Hour
Originally Posted by higuy
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