Iknowonlythatthebattleisspiritualwhocantellmorebutthewarriorstherenoteventhey.

Air is dry. Not cool. Not hot. It can be felt, but it does not move. It's as if he could lean into it and it would hold him. He's sitting on a rock, a mountains lifted it high. It's not grey, it's almost white. His sword lay on it buy his side. No fighting today. He watches the camp below. Darkness moves with it, within it. The camp, it's searching for him. It sends out scouts, they will return failures, no fighting today. Tomorrow he will go to it. He will stretch out his hand against it. He will consume it, or be consumed by it. Pulls the mountain deep into his lungs. It satisfies. It's rare. For a breath to satisfy like that. When he goes, he won't go alone.