The world, the light.Black. Darkness... where is the light? Consciousness is hard to grasp, the fingers of concreteness gone. He is floating, drifting in the nonentity of this between universe swallowed in deceit. He is a phantom set free to roam, this hellbourne kingdom his awaiting throne.Pressure. SLAM. The earth... the wind is knocked from his lungs, he is wheezing, it hurts. The air rattles from his dark lips to end a convulsed hiss. He staggers in his gait, he is walking uneasy. His head is throbbing, his headache is ungodly. What is this place he has been thrown into? A shudder runs from the base of his feet, it shocks the muscles of his body.He falls, he is now unable to walk, though he fights. He refuses to crumble. His body is feverish, the heat eletrocuting the feeble fibers of his confused temple. The exiled King searches for a threshold -- anything that will allow him to rejuvenate his wanning strength. Amoung these rocks and the pressure of the unforgiving heat, he was becoming exhausted, be it the begining of his journey his body was tired, his mind strained and abused with his thinking. Ungraciously he clings to what shadows he can from the towering monuments, he is breathing to heavy, unlike a prince he is beaten. He closes silver eyes with gratitude it is only then when relief floods his senses. Parched lips expand as he curses, damned be this earth he is not familiar with. It may look like Egypt but it is not.
" words of a god"
