The Accounts Of Bryndan Black

The engine roared down the road like some kind of beast, quaking the ground beneath it. It’s frame, sleek and ebony, was a sharp contrast to the dusty hills of Westfall. The vultures shot high into the air as the machine passed them, tearing through the serenity of the country side.

When Bryndan Black rode, it was not always for the sake of reaching a destination. His was a mind eased by the bite of the wind, and the vibration of an engine at his hands. In these fleeting moments, his world was his own, unfettered by the trappings of some idealistic societal bounds. Indeed, he was truly the renegade upon those paved lanes. Memories of times since past plagued him most nights, moments of horrid realization as to who he was, and what he had done. In the midst of home, family, and friends, Bryndan could never remain long. The warmth of their company only seemed to ignite darker thoughts. Thoughts unbelonging in those moments, but yet reared their heads no less. It was a dark cloud, and not oft did he rid himself of it.