Mystic Mountain Quest Hard Rock Type Beat
It was like my eyes had been torn open to two realities at once—
the past, whispering in echoes,
the future, burning in visions.
Between them, a voice emerged.
Low, resonant, ancient.
It called itself the Chronicler.
"You stand at the threshold of memory and prophecy," the voice intoned,
"and before you lies the Tree that is not a tree at all."
I turned, and there it was.
A colossal trunk rising into the heavens, roots plunging into the abyss.
But as I stepped closer, bark became stone, branches became jagged peaks.
The Tree was a Mountain, vast and eternal, its summit lost in clouds.
Legends whispered of the one who dwelled there—
Mew, the wizard of shifting forms.
Some said he was older than the mountain itself,
others claimed he was the mountain, dreaming itself into being.
Finding him was no simple task.
For Mew could become anything:
- A falcon soaring above the cliffs
- A serpent winding through the roots
- A weary traveler with eyes like yours
- Or even the shadow of your own reflection
The Chronicler’s voice warned me:
*"Seek him not with your eyes, but with your soul.
For he wears the faces of the world,
and only those who know themselves may know him."*
I climbed.
Through storms that felt like memories,
through silence that felt like prophecy.
Every creature I met, every stone I touched—
I wondered: Is this Mew?
And perhaps that was the wizard’s true magic.
Not the shifting of forms,
but the shifting of certainty.
The mountain itself became a riddle,
and I realized that to find Mew was to lose myself.
At the summit, the wind carried a whisper.
"You have already found me."
The Chronicler’s voice fell silent.
The mountain breathed.
And I understood:
Mew was everywhere,
and nowhere at all.
Comments
Post a Comment