Golden Blood of long lost Majesty

Golden shine flows through their veins, liquid blood of long lost majesty. His hand clenched thightly into a fist holding in the magic mana overbearing in urge to overflow and taint all tiles on the floor, shimmering the reflections of his own stern face he thinks for once and for all to smash them, break them, free out from this caged up pain. 

But slow exhales start to water the raging flames as calmness sets back into it's place like meditation for the soul, like tranquilizer for the heart, like malpractice of magic healings used against one's self.

Steady breaths and small exchanged glances at the people surrounding the scene behold him as unsettled as though stepping on glass shards. He forces an apologetic smile, denying of the truth and simply letting free of conversations lacking comfortability to seek another's ears or heart.

Undoubtedly, No one would understand the burden on a closed up heart like yours, truely. No one would take the time to read the explaination stated in an open book.

So now he stands between a dozen judging stares of people hoping to mind their own business. Chatter and laughter crossing his mind as thoughts grow louder and reality starts to shift away once more. A heavy cloak to hide away the scene, beneath white-silvery threads of fate he pretends to be someone else, or no one at all.

Where one might see a light shining up open their heads with answers following more questions, he stands there denying of connections to the truth. Rejecting any reached out hand for shelter while malpractisig on his own life forth and back. Like a ticking time bomb sheltered inside a treasured wooden box trilling beautiful ancient melodies.

Vermond, oh so they call him,

He is an open book, while at the same time, he is none at all.