The Ancestors of All Humanity

By Wolfic

The world was no longer what it seemed. Erion was no longer Erion, with its land now devoid of phozons. All the fairies were claimed by the flames of the Inferno King, and all the winged Valkyrie were slain by the wretched souls of the damned. The land was changing into that of something completely different. And the inhabitants of the land, the humans, were steadily growing in numbers.

And through all of the suffering and tears. All the joys and laughter that came with the shaping of the new world, there existed one single soul to witness it all. He saw these tales with his own eyes, as his hands formed countless words that danced across his many pages. Many years have passed since the Armageddon and this writer was already crippled by time. But his hands were still as nimble as the days he first picked up the pen.

In his small simple wooden lodgings, he sat at a wooden desk, with only the candle light for guidance. Several colored books were neatly placed on the shelves and the room was plain, save for a simple one man bed and the table and chair of which the writer now occupied. Dipping his feathered pen in the ink pot close to his hand, he wrote in the last words of his sentence and dotting the period, he laid his pen down.

Glancing at this newly written addition, the writer wore a mask of sadness. Gently taking the book in his hands, as if it were to burst into dust with the slightest force, he softly closed the book. The book had a white cover and its title written in gold letters, The Ancestors of All Humanity. Pushing his wooden chair back, he stood up and blew out the candlelight, cloaking the room in shadows. Standing up he gave the book one last sad look before turning away from the desk, and speaking a few words.

There was no one else in the house, and yet the writer felt the necessity to offer his thoughts to the silence, and the darkness that conquered it. His soft words, just above that of a whisper, drifted around the room, with only the writer to hear his own words. "If only, it were true." And with that all noise was stilled, all sounds were shattered, as silence drifted across the house, embracing the writer, silencing his tongue for the night, as the shadows embraced him.