NEOROMANCE
ILLUSTRATIONANDWRITINGSOFSKYE SKEN

















Alas, the vicissitudes of life are evanescent like the evening wafture, and the time of Havean glory has faced it's final inhibition - for brine shall be the last to sing our swan song. Once in my quarter market, I saw a sibyl imprisoned in a cage of godsweave. I queried her: "Sibyl, what is to happen?", and to my surprise she replied: "Inundation, compleat and inescapable shall be preceeded by your first fall of a white strand". On this I pondered, but my thoughts were most cruelly stifled by the slave-taker, who had heard the telling, the mordant portent, and had begun to assault me with his stick! Obviously, his intention was to belie the propecy by beating me to death, and thus I ran as only an urchin may to evade his fate.

Ten cycles have passed since the sibylline malisons were muttered. After the decadence of the Black Rain, which whisked away the colours of that wonder we once called radiant, leaving it anaemic and miasmal, many have fled, but alike those of the patrician caste who dream high in their spires of safety and luxury, I stay. My hair yet retains it's hue, but the despair I have harbored over that divination so long ago fills my heart as ashes fill the hearth where once a great fire has died. The watchtowers of that age of dynasties long past take part in my solitary vigil, as I abide nigh the accumulations on the eastern shore, awaiting endlessly for that last wave that shall claim the city for it's own.

















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