The precious metals that rot to feed the brawls

Hold the record, hold the trophy, with both hands. May it not fall. The truth of the race was a bit unclear, but I know that they had won. They told me and bragged in the holy trial. Under the ring, on top of it, flying around it, they danced and crawled, jumped and sang.

I know this and much more, to my shame, and to theirs if they could see from my eyes. They will wonder what happened when the nuke comes. There is still a long time until that moment and you shall suffer a bit until then. They wil perish and you will live, thrive and grow.

Grow like roots in the dry sand of the frozen desert of Carrip. Take me to the place where you will stay. The cold sky will bring emotional discrepancies, but you will know that the moment is there, just as I know all of this.

In a little hole in the ground, the frog dug a hole. The underceded sapling reeked of alcohol and the blue onyx smelled of hunger. Traveling south, I supposed, but nothing would come from assuming directions. With a finger in the air, the wind passed and came to a stop right beside it, telling me the direction.

Is it the ground or the mithril lakes that seem to take the shape of a reborn messiah?

^{Image source
For Marianne's freewrite}