John Lamphere

Graft John Lamphere

The poisoned will and a fog set upon the reaches were a time to war and what may come of the fairer races. Dwarven strongholds and through the southern lands of the pixie where all their magic is set an underground kingdom could this be to a single grain of sand. The great tree will grow again to a time when men were little and far between and the women left to carry the burden of this war. I do not remember when the tree was whole or when it stood so tall but here to see it cleaved at the trunk and its people like the fruit left to rot in the colder sands. I don't remember many things as I used to or the way was the color in that little girl's hair yet there she stood waiting for me to know how this all would play out. My people, this fruit, or anything left for this rotten world is man, the short ones who live in the east and make money on the backs of the proud native. Death has all that is time left to be and this covering is slow to find what we really must become.