Remembrance Shrouded - Forgot

As you may know, there are many things we don't know. There are things lost in the past that we cannot name, much less hope to ever see. There are things unveiled by man once, for but just a second, that are now forever veiled. There are things among us that we do not know. There are stories long lost in winds of ancient wars, worn paths, and destructive emperors.

There are things that are simply forgotten.

I tell you now, as a storyteller, a story buried with the ages.
A story that you may or may not believe, but will be aware of, nonetheless.

I tell you of Duruk.
Lord Duruk.

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"DURUK FOR DICTATOR!" the land was dead; the mountains pulled down by feverish winds, the hills now flat, and the cities crumbled, leaving the aforementioned feverish winds to bury the crumbles of a once flourishing civilization. Yet there was a human here. A man strolling along, his arms nonchalantly being pulled back and forward by the sturdy tug of a socket in a sunken shoulder. The owner of both this shoulder and swinging arms was Duruk. He was scrawny, much too scrawny to be walking, and much, [i]much[/i], too scrawny to be the founder of that booming voice. That voice that resonated throughout these dead lands, a ghost of what may of been.

"DURUK FOR DICTATOR!"

Again that mouth opened, and we watch, as if in a coma, blank eyes staring still-ly, bellowing words without reason. This man stopped dead. His head rolled on its considerably long neck, distant eyes scanning a landscape ravaged by the furies of past wars and present politics. A expression of pure calm claimed this man's face, the calm only broken by the downward slant of cracked lips. Duruk had realized a non-existent audience was [i]his[/i] audience. As if to assure himself that no-one was here, Duruk's heart stilled momentarily, it's beats slowing themselves, his thin arms glued themselves to his weakened ribs and he listened. The wind blew bits of sand, cement, and, of course, humans.

No sound broke the silence of nothing. Not the scurrying of a rat, not the cries of a ill child or a weakened man, and certainly not the trademark breathing of humanity.

Thin strands of dead white hair fell on this man's forehead. The skin of his forehead was molded to his skull; this man was in no condition to even stand. Yet the man moved on. He seemed to have lost no hope at all after analyzing something so forgotten. As weak heels of a queer man embraced worn paths of forgotten land our ears picked up on the faint, but nonetheless distinct, words:

"DURUK FOR DICTATOR!"