#somehwere

Someone match pfps with me

These words rose unbidden to his mind, as he stared out from amongst the rotted timbers of an old building.

He was visiting his childhood home. It was as good a place as any to hide the things he gathered. Far afield from any real trace of civilization, at a crossing point of reality.

Here the worlds fell away, and one could end up anywhere.

It wasn’t always like this, of course.

War, inexorably marching forward under the guise of liberation, held forth by tyrants as the answer to all problems. It had found his home, and he’d been away.

He’d been doing his best, to protect the sanctity of life.

But even before his home fell through reality, saturated in magick most foul (though in truth no in particular magick was really better or safer or cleaner), there had always been things in the water.

The truth was hard to find of course. He reasoned that it was likely his home had never truly existed in only one place. That the things he had seen were looking in from somewhere else.

Waiting.

Watching.

As he now did, across all of reality.

Even before his home fell, he’d felt the pull of other places. Seen glimpses of realms wholely different from his own.

Such was the price of magick, he’d thought.

He’d been so very wrong.

They were waiting for him, when he fell.

And like a drowning man, gasping for a handhold to pull himself free, he’d made the mistake, in a moment of fear and weakness of letting them see him.

He couldn’t remember if they’d been friendly. His captors hadn’t been, when they tried to turn him into a weapon.

When they forced magick from other mages I to him, overflowing beyond the capacity for any mortal creature to hold safely. Energy coursing through the frail frame of a man, wrecking havok upon all as it sought out a way to stay bound.

So he became bound to existence, all existence. Every existence. Reality bent, and he joined them in the water.

—

There was a creaking under the worn out decking, as the Summoner walked to the center of his one time home.

The derelict town found in an infinity of realities.

Bogton.

He reached out a gloved hand, dropping a jewelled amulet into the center of the bog.

Something in the water grabbed it, pulling it into the depths, away from where the unwary could find it.

He stood, glowing eyes staring down into the abyssal depths for a while. After what could have been a century or a second, he sighed, and turned.

The hills outside the old town were green with growth today. A nice reality then. Or at least a spring one.

A wide grin slowly split his face, under the pale white mask that covered the upper half, as he trod away.

https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/772297606/original-oil-captivating-gold-leaf?ref=listings_manager_grid

Something to bring back to show you have been there... a photograph of the garden of the spirit. As has been said, the point of travelling is not to arrive, but to return home laden with pollen you shall work up into the honey the mind feeds on.

What are our lives but harbours we are continually setting out from, airports at which we touch down and remain in too briefly to recognise what it is they remind us of? And always in one another we seek the proof of experiences it would be worthy dying for.