The well has been dry for a while now.
Results show on the weary, cracked faces of the characters, once full bloodied and hearty.
No one knows who took the fluid, or if it will be returned.
Our people can do nothing but wait and waste away.
Too weary for tears, death must come soon, unless, unless the fluid could be given back.
Time passes slowly here. A relentless wind carries the screams
and moans of characters suffering new blight.
No one has died yet, but all are growing weaker.
My heart feels low, knows not which way to turn:
to rise, to preach, to lead the people forward...
or to join them in slowly crumbling inwards as the very life drains from my pores.
I know which is easiest.
copyright max rael 1999 All rights reserved