asylum
Help me, cried a voice in the darkness outside the pub. The people who heard it paid it no regard, and continued inside the establishment. Because of that the crier will die within a few minutes. Does the bar visitors who ignored him have his blood on their hands?
Begin the ceremony, the ceremony master said in the gloom of the torchlight. The fellow ring members looked wearily upon him, still as statues. The wind howled and fickled their fire. The master looked on them with suspicion. Well, what are you waiting for?
The pen stoked the paper smoothly, it's feathered end swaying in the wind and by the movements.
The young author sat underneath a tree in early spring, thinking of the woman he loved, and wrote a story to her honour. It was filled with all the love he had for her.
Little did he know that it would be his masterpiece, the one work of his art that would be remembered and celebrated by the world after his death, making their love eternal.