[Interia_Discordius]

Satari, Novlar 14, 1440
--

There was, she found, something fundamentally wrong with that tree. It was bleeding, but it was not hurt, and she had a feeling that if you could press it hard enough, it might even bear fruit.

Layers... What did she know of layers? What did others know of it, in fact? This was not a tree. This was anathema, born and bred, a spawn of the stone giant's womb in which they traversed day to night.

So what layers?

Many years ago, she discovered memory. T'was a fickle thing, equal parts solid and fluid at the same time, flowing through the caverns of the mind in places quite obscure. Perhaps, at the time, she was looking for perfect memory - She could not recall. It was no riddle, she felt. She was being perfectly clear. To understand the most simple of words, there was a need to dream. She had held entire discussions with others, even strangers in the square, that sometimes, she felt they hadn't even acknowledged being a part of.

They were deign to those burnt by a passion. Of course, she knew that a generous axe was no different than velvet, suggesting everything and promising nothing.

So it went.

~ Llane S. Anetheron
Of a promise far from kept.