And so, the poet and mercenary treaded softly along the burning streets
of the radiant city.
Rapture gone from the heights, and all around flames consumed the life,
this was a city unrestored by a deity.
Longbow, bare hands, and mere strength of will, these are the weapons of
the two of the Burning.
Deep in the painful and pleasurable middle of night, the days roll over
a-turning.
"The war is done, gone, forever finished, " the mercenary claims.
"Not yet, there's more, we are not yet done," says the poet, caressing
his longbow, stroking the grains.
Firing once, twice, now five times at last, four innocent children fall,
their game come to an end.
With deadly speed the mercenary darts from shadow to flame, hands
striking swiftly, speed of a viper's godsend
Trudging along through shadow, the two pale figures move, surrounded by
flames that cause a hellish light upon the two
Slaughtering innocents as if toys, granting them the chance for a life
anew
They reach the final destination, and set light to the church, and smile
in satisfaction as flames devoure all
The two, their quest accomplished, turn 'round and begin to flee. But an
arrow pierces one's chest, the mercenary, and, "Go swiftly, run now."
says he.
The poet, stricken, turns with a rage, drawing his bowstring, for one
last shot.
He cannot miss the target, the arrow's the last he's got.
He releases the string with a sharply-resounding 'Twang', it's shaft
guided by brilliance, piercing as if a fang.

Swiftly, softly, he flees the Golden City, smiling in satisfaction as it
bursts all into flames.
And pats unaware slain children, dead in their games, as he streaks by,
as cold as the night.
Turning swiftly, he flees before the acursed dawn, leaping past
caravans, streaking by peasants.
A being of the shadows, made purely of dark essence

This proves what a mere train of thought can do.
Make a wish come true

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Chakros, in the year 108 MA.