The depravity of my rage keeps hurling up to the surface. Somewhere far away, the enchants are slowly turning.
With what shall I do? Where am I? Goes unnoticed.
The dried leaves on the pedestal keep churning with nothing to focus.

The horde of people enchanting something with rage.
What is it though?
My ears don't seem to cooperate.
A silent echo, The whispers of the dead.
The silence defeating, My mind can't seem to grasp.

Shall I try to turn my back? To run away from that horde?
Why is it I cannot move?
My hands bound with a wooden clasp...