Origenal writing

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Original Writing

Shŭzen examined the desolate wasteland that had once been his home.  His eyes, like ice.  Like fire, flicked from deformed trees, twisted to grotesque shapes, charred and ruined, rent apart by fire and dark will.  Once elegant structures, decaying like their inhabitants before them, nothing had been left untouched.  

He moved swiftly through the long grass unheard by any creature.

Searching for the one thing they had not been able to take, searching for the only thing that would make life bearable.

He passed a cracked window, splinted by some unknown projectile, his  

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reflection gazed despairingly back.  He had changed.  His blonde hair, grown long, obscuring the angled face and staid expression. His eyes bloodshot due to lack of sleep.  

His muscles ached with months of travelling through vast deserts and festering marshes, over enshrouded mountains and crystal oceans.  And now he was here, his life shattered around him like the glass of the window.

He watched, and waited.  There was no hurry now, the sound of those final words, echoing and falling in his head. He sank to the ground, overcome by painful memories stepping out of the darkness to ...

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