Puppets

[Dronkier]

The sun hung low overhead, lazily trekking across the sky. The prison of ice gleamed and glinted, creating the illusion of magic and warmth amidst the cold reality of the tundra. The wind howled in lonely tones as a traveler ambled down a packed down snow lane.

The man's gait suggested he had no concept of time. Every few moments he would stop, pulling his woolen cloak around him and scan the horizan, cobalt hues drinking the endless blue. As he wandered, his mind did the same. Within his memory (the fragmented void that floated in his awareness) he found only pieces of time- pictures of oddity: a woman's face frozen in a smile, a terribly crafted wooden structure, the scent of blood. So much blood. A broken seal, and the a symphony of pain-wrought voices: moans, screams, whimpers. He couldn't help but catalog them, over and over he turned them in his mind trying desperately to connect them to anything. Time spread out before him, Dronkier (it was not his name, but it was somehow) accessed the only real memory of the present.

The night was beautiful in the mountains, the moon drenched everything in a pale hue, the light was not abrasive- it was soft, unintrusive. The moon was the only illumination his eyes took in.

The first thing he knew was pain. It was nagging, running through him and soaking away the memories of divinity. Pain translated to cold. It was biting, numbing, refreshing. Dron (it was not his name, but somehow it was) reviled in a moment, and turned his gaze to the moon. He remembered the last words he heard within the bliss, before his fall. "Understand our position. We are merely puppets, acting our parts upon the stage of existence. You are born, and your entire lives you will believe we are the Gods, we are in control. This is not so. You will not remember, child of Mine, perhaps this is why I tell you. We control, and we are controlled. Your world is based on this rule. Follow the rules, my Son and the cycle continues. Break them... " Dron always hated that there was no more to the glimpse of perfection he felt. Was this the next act? Was he on stage? There was so much he didn't understand. Perhaps though, he knew where to find answers. If he was going to break the rules, he would have to find a guide first. He was going home. First things first, he would need a connection to this world, something that knew how to live here.

And so it was. For the first time, he felt free of strings. Outside of the cycle, and seperate of it. He would choose eternity. He would choose to assume his place in the Order. It was terrifying- a puppet without strings. What was next?