DBTyrana

Morning comes in widow's weeds while gloom settles to the bottom of my cup, begging to be stirred, wondering why my chin has fallen over the rim and how come my feet take forever to shuffle over floorboards and dust. I am vacant, worn down - just this mud-bare rug, heels bleeding gray, and so tired I forgot how to say your name or the color of the walls when I turn out the lights. It is just the pain of you settling in again with leftover Sunday evening.

Winter had come again. When the grey skies set in and the first snows fell on Ferelden she always returned. It was quiet then. The people would be tucked into their homes where they could stay warm. She would take the same path up the hill through the silent gravestones and if the voices of the dead whispered to her she didn't seem to notice. The silver and blue armor she wore bore a commander's insignia. It was worn down after years of use but she hadn't replaced them. There seemed to be little point now. As she neared the tomb she pushed her hood back revealing a mass of auburn locks that were now streaked with grey. Time had left its' ma