Regret is a seed nourished by the memories of failure. It is a thick vine with roots that grow deep into the soul seeking nourishment from the pain of despair, heartbreak and lost.
Ror Endor listened to the wind whistle through the bars of the cage that held him. Cold as the hands of death, it snaked its way under the folds of his cloak and tightened a vice like grip around his bones. And yet he welcomed this torment with a twisted smile. The bone numbing cold had been his only friend for the last six or seven months.
He stood and stretched. Boney fingers brushed the bars of his cage. Summoning what little strength he had the monk felt the heat rise in his abdomen before spreading outward through his body. For a moment a blue glow emanated from his palms before dying out. The spell cast on the bars of his cage prevented him from using his powers
Defeated, he lifted his eyes to the sun, arms outstretched as if inviting death to come and take his last breath. He looked out at the mountains thousands of feet below and whished once again that he had done things differently.
