This berry has nearly turned. I plucked it only yesterday, and ate several of its brethren moments ago. They were all fine, tart and rich in texture. This one is softer, its color duller and darker, and the sweetness within the skin is too much for me. I set it aside, regarding it morosely. If I hadn't taken a bite out of it, I could give it away to a friend. There are those who delight in life's honey, and for some of them, nothing is too sweet.

It's a shame to waste things. Only yesterday, I relinquished old weapons and armors long outgrown. Hardest to part with were my spoils from the grotto of the Deathlord. I wanted to give the scale-wrought items back to the Sea Dwellers, but realized such a gesture meant nothing. Instead, I cast them into the crashing tides near a forsaken lighthouse. The ocean may move them, or destroy them. Perhaps a silver fish will take the helm for a crown and become the king of the sea. I carved my initials into it, so I imagine the fish shall call itself Shimble Shoaler, and rule over many shallows.

The bitten edges of the berry darken further in the sunlight, and the cloying perfume of its flesh annoys me. I'm sure it has a better purpose. I dig my fingers through the dirt, burrowing past white rootlets of grass and tiny pebbles. An earthen grave for my yellow berry friend, a place for it to rot or grow as chance or sunlight chooses. I push at the soil and tamp it down, smoothing the surface gently. Now nobody knows but me.

Shallow secrets grow, and are easily unearthed. Some of the deeper ones might never be shared, not even in the course of a lifetime. There's a thing or two I don't even whisper in my dreams. I figure, many are the words worth keeping, and the thoughts worth hiding. Silence is bliss, like shadows on a cool expanse of grass and your own bare feet chilled with morning dew. Speech is nearly always brash, direct as noon's light and equally bereft of comfort.

All about me, flowers bloom in crimson and butter yellow, and riffle at the wind's suggestion. The warm scent of grass makes me dizzy, and soaks into the pages of this book. I soak into the pages of this book. In time, I will exist nowhere else. I've left no other mark so deeply etched, for my footprints on the earth don't outlast a season's rains, and what I leave in dreams is lost forever. This square of plant-pulp squashed flat, bound with leather and filled with all my nothings, might survive a quarter year of harsh conditions. If treated well, it could remain readable for quite awhile longer but eventually, it'll decay like everything else.

Even crystals fade. We most often find them when the spark has gone out forever. I know of no way to kindle a dull crystal. Nor a heart without fire. I know only how to fade away, to join the shadows and the ghosts that throng these lands. Except...I'm not quite ready for that again. And giving up isn't in my character. Many are the things I won't even try, but once decided on a path, I rarely abandon it. Somehow, I chose this land and my endless hunt. Once, I even loved it here.

Now, as I rise and stalk away from the sounds of ogre revelry to travel all my old roads again, I find there's nowhere I desire to be and nothing that engages my interest. Somber thoughts slipping into melancholy, I round a bend and see, pressed into the dirt aside the path, familiar footprints. She's always had monkey feet, and a chaotic stride. I stop to study the marks. I feel a brief flash of joy, and then uncertainty. Tisran's not the only person who walks funny, and I was sure she'd walked clean out of Valorn long ago. Well, at least now I have somewhere to go, something to do.

Perhaps I'll even find her. She can't be nearly as good at hiding as my next spell. She's a clunky warrior, after all.