Iknowonlythatthebattleisspiritualwhocantellmorebutthewarriorstherenoteventhey.

He wonders will He ever fight again? Still dazed. Still knowing the mundane has not set in again. He can't trust his feelings now. But, the question is will He ever war again? This last battle fought, He fought unsanctioned. The elders never knew. No battle lines where drawn, no parameters, perimeters where found. He just fought. Found himself drowning in the wilderness, the faces sought His death. Is this how warriors are born, of whom the legends are told? Was this last fight fought, without a win without loss, reality, a warning, or a sounding in the depths? Did it announce the loss of another or the rise of a vicious hero. When they struck out against him was it desperation in there eyes in there blows or confidence picking each brick away to make the layers fall. Was it his fate or theirs that was sealed in those days. Is this how the lives of those who choose this path are to go. Like a strong strong wind that carries him away. Where have the elders gone. There may never again be another enemy with who the battle lines are drawn. Who are these people what was that place and where has He landed now? All cares with the reminder lost there weight. He was dazed again but he'll find his place.

Set in the peaks of a cloud laced scene there houses hang, laid out as if they put no strain on the ground beneath. They did not clear the ground, it receded before them. Made of thin light wood, and filled with paper walls and paper doors these shelters do not sway. There weapons too, curved slits of wood, there arrows firm shoots of the same. Rival all weapons conceived in the hearts, in the minds of men. The city is to be seen as one built of hard hard irons, and mists that can not hold. The picture of the people here is hard to show. Regarded as fools, but feared they heed there lives to inked words, on paper too. Words like discipline, patience, and self denial. These are words to stand against most others. Used and never practiced so rarely seen as verbs in the places where "men" walk. They, the people here are small and pale. Dark hair and dark eyes that look out through narrow lids. This is why there fools, even there power comes from paper, comes from words. Frail homes, frail weapons, frail people, frail words on which there lives are built. Here will be the last time there called by frail, for this paper place is strong.