Syran-Night

The Memories of a Forgotten Turk The sword sat slanted in the plateau, its edge deep in the soil. At that angle it resembled the way it slung across the back of its former master. Tseng could just barely see the man. Sometimes he was blonde, others he was a raven. At points he was tall with skin touched by the Gongagan sun. Sometimes he was a simple countryman with a love for purple apples, or even a shy young man from the small town lost in the Nibel Mountains. Tseng could never pick, but the sword was always the same. It was sturdy, meant for a man that relied on strength more than speed, and its handle was torn and weathered, symbolizing