Nathrangking

# 46

Strand

Mountains wearing crowns of the purest crystal are alight with infernos ignited by ravenous flames birthed in the most secret places of the world. They dance and leap with a might that no deity could ever match for ferocity or intensity. It is as though each movement is made of the very essence of the primordial fire that spawned all others of its kin. These cannot be held in check by any prison and a roar that tears free ranges and tosses them into the depths sets them loose. Heavens are set ablaze and unending waves of teal and crimson purge all in their path. Laments and prayers fuse with the crackling music that is all that can be heard by those whose tears have unknown sources. Sunsets of gold and peach fuse with brushstrokes chaotic and yet inspiredly applied. None in all of existence can stand before it as it sweeps across the whole of the realms and for a moment all hope is lost. Beauty in carnage is a shroud fallen and shackles that are binding a reality lost for all time. Cities are rubble oceans are empty pits, and forests older than imagination sit silent as shattered shadows. Even gods powerless and stripped of name and kingdom slouch with vacant eyes among the ashes so full of vibrancy.

In the poisoned atmosphere of despair, a sudden pure note rises up and begins to pain its own masterpiece where a bitter master had worked. Slowly life pushes up through ash and death that has taken root as if it was always supreme. Specters so dry in charred bone return to life as their flesh returns and eyes once sightless have twinkles restored. Children walk again where once games of youth existed and bring with them ringing laughter. Sadness retreats when the birds lost sing once again and summons the cacophony of nature from the void that had taken them. Ruin is undone utterly and somehow that which rises is somehow more sublime than it had been before. Oceans flow again when rain falls and shines brighter with a truer warmth beneath a sun whose light is just a little bit mightier than before. Strength does not return to those who mourned after all was lost rather they are left among the mortals to understand if only for the first time. Those raging hands that tore down the songs that now sing fade not to the heights, but into the strains and brushstrokes of that which they would have destroyed. As the tune of creation reumes the quiet magic that rewove all settles into its place subtle and hidden as healer and sovereign.