The seed... this is the first paragraph... the inspiration for things that I hope will grow to more.
It has yet no title... the characters are merely sketches, and the plot is ever twisting in my head... and yet I believe that for all the theatre that has played before my eyes over the last couple of years, there deserves a tribute be paid, to the truth... to the players... and to the undying faith that fairy tales really do exist... and my warrior has never changed. For that I merely chose to look upon the false countenance and believe him to be the right man thereby missing the point... and the plan... and the bus... and very nearly my mind. And all the while, my warrior stood, awaiting the moment when I would have the veil taken from my eyes to see... but indeed... on with the story...

The truth is a wicked thing; a two sided sword that never sleeps. The harshness of truth ruins lives, speaks words that should never be spoken, and gives the illusion of relief to those who commit acts of unfaithfulness. The truth does not tell stories. As I sit here curled next to the fire that rages on the hearth against the bitter cold of the winter wind whistling outside my window, I find myself not searching for truth, but trying to forget it. I try to forget the acid heavy in my throat as I listened to a woman take a sword and cut the very heart out of my chest, lay it beating in the ashes to be burnt with the fiery embers and return it to me as charred remains of a life that could have been. It is not the truth I want to remember now, it is the dark tale coaxed from my imagination. The fire sparked by a series of horrible, life changing, tragic events that spurred forth a story worth telling. For a storyteller does not live by telling the truth, but by the regaling of a tale that captures a spirit and holds it deep within the treasure chest of time itself.