Unnecessary breath disturbing the fine coating of dust that had found a home on the Darkmoon's robes as he lay still as a corpse in the bones of his inherited kingdom. A hollow triumph, the empty husk of a divinity that was long wasted away into cinders. The sun, the dead visage of the Father, merely an illusion of a victory millenia past. Series of connected one-shots of a character study for Gwyndolin pre and during canon.
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