At the Edge of Nowhere

            A young man with a wartime mask covering his face entered a shabby tent, located at the hilltop of a desolate landscape in neither day, nor night. Inside was a shirtless, skinny old man behind a fire, the delicious smell of stew in an enclosed pot hanging over top it. The masked visitor sat down with the clanking of dark armor, rubbed his hands together with the heat of the flame, and asked, "Where is left to go to stop my power?"
            "You can go into ethereal places, but you can't stay if you intend to." He said, remaining still; his eyes were shut to the visitor, his mind open to something else. Dirty, grey strands of hair dangled across the sides of his face, while his surroundings left him something more pertinent to ignore. Now, he spoke from his throat, "You don't bury yourself in heaven's dirt."
            There was a brief silence before the old man took a cup, and scooped it full of soup.
            "Tell me the location." The young man replied, his mask covered in writings, old symbols locked in fear and hatred; his hand on the hilt of a bloodstained sword.
            "I will." The elder sipped some broth and returned his cup to the ground.
            A few minutes were spent in strange quietude, near broken by the visitor's impatience.
            The old man continued, "I see the constant vision of a face with long, jagged eyes of black emptiness-- reaching past the nose and the mouth, crooked and kin to what dim surroundings one might linger in."
            The warrior held a blade at the throat of the elder, which made the old man smile and his eyes squint open.
            "It is a face that holds the screeching and screaming of invisible monsters, who exist within, to hold it in place." The old man strutted between whispers.
            "Creation met with necessity." From darker shades of metal than a soup cup, nor the voice, nor the blade wavered.
            "As clear a necessity as it is always presented." The frail man shut his eyes again, steam still rising from the last inch of his soup. "I mourn for necessity through an empty silence."
            The man lowered his blade as if to stab the elder in the heart, "Those overtaken by their gifts."
            "Buried.. behind us." The frail man said.

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