The Empty Wanderer

For sixteen long years I have wandered these plains—lamenting, praying, and practicing my craft. I have learned to conceal myself by sight and by sound. I have probed the deep regions of mind, found myself pressed against the hard and rough shell of the Source. I have known truths long forgotten by man. I have bled. And I have killed.

It has been ten years since I have drawn another’s life. Ten years since I last met force with force. I have learned, since then. I have let go and I have loosened. I do not struggle, I do not sweat. Now, when challenged, I need only step back and let the fiend destroy himself.

I carry no gun; I wield no long sharp blade. There is no place in me for claw or pike to catch. I am an empty conduit. Strength and fear alike pass through me and scarcely leave a trace. Indeed, there is scarcely enough left in me of man to know the meaning of such things. Those who oppose me doom themselves. Those who tread in peace needn’t fear me. I have become a polished mirror. I know no fear and I know no hope. I know only the surges and decays of an endlessly unfolding time.