The rise of the star on the morrow bares fear; this one rarely walks sans precession of change, a force omnipotent, with aspirations to pacify, and levy paralysis upon those that might, by will or happenstance, find thy gaze affixed to it. I sit at the threshold of it’s domain, sleeping in anticipation of an end to the quest raging on within my inner sanctum, a quest which pits instinct against necessity, and determines my fate.
Within the sanctum, there are two poles, in the north began the quest of fear, in the south the quest of progress; as the star rises, the penultimate division shall be nullified, the two shall battle, in dependence on blood spilled. I will either walk past the skeleton of the defeated by will of progress, or retreat by will of fear to safer lands.
Conflict, by tradition, is a slave of strategy, and some degree of favourable coincidence of circumstances, bestowed upon a single party by chance; this battle will pay no homage to tradition in shunning such bondage in unwavering submission to me. Blood will course through the vixens of one contender, who shall stand victories in the blood of the other, deciding who lives and who dies is my responsibility and privilege..
Concealed by my inability to render my verdict, I have made my determination; progress must prevail over fear, it’s blood shall burst forth coating the plains, to serve as an obelisk to the new ruler, a deterrent, with eyes to impress the futility of a challenge to his reign