Let Go

Far past Eridu the Broken Land; grey-swathed in the Sea of Dust, there slept in that cauldron a flock of isles that had lost its god and people, and so its name. A domain of tombs. An intestable kingdom.

Fat with the pogrom of Arcadia, his master slumbered. So he the vessel risked all to sojourn in a place beyond places, so to be alone with another god's ghosts, and behold no beauty he must later bring to ruin.

The outer orbit of its principalities were wholly barren, so in his sandskiff he scudded to the crux. No proof survived of its cultivation. He tried to vivify its walls from reefs, its avenues out of negative space, its donjon from a central spar of ashen rock. But he was no more and no less alone.

Would this be the fate of all men?

He was once a drupe in a weald. Now the pit is corrupt, the world denatured.