Some where in the dens of morning Aloysius came to me with tales we has forgot. It was of a time of his wanting where ruin took the the southern slopes. Of some deluge that sank low the homes that sailed as idle ships upon the land. In these days those with wits hid with the high pasture steading waiting out the rain. But here I speak of wisdom and well we know Aloysius was without. He would save his own for they were what little he cared he had.
Even in that there was worry, of Nicene, so he cast all away. Casting care aside and not considering chores he rightfully owned, and left. To her high lands bright and choked with light.
Climbing steps that wound around themselves Aloysius was confounded by Nicenes host. And their eyes were not filled by his disheveled shapes; glaring upon him in his need. What was he to take Nicene dry with competense and drowning his in lack.
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