Their march could be considered a legendary and a common affair. Rowdy warriors tumultuously inciting discord, making their way through the minds of many.
Ancient ghosts lurk in the shadows, their touch aggravating, their presence directing.
They need to stop the march of Fe(feelings) b(found) for (Sanc)uary.
I dispatch onlookers to line the streets and control the warriors on their march. Their destination unknown but their instructions clear.
Old feelings send their tendrils out to steer, making spaces between my crowd of watchers, common folk "cheering" thoughts of discontent. These ancient feelings are bound to the sanctuary.
The warriors are bound for sanctuary.
The constant battle of control. Simple moments turn into wars, behind quiet smiles and silent eyes. Those bound by Sanctuary plot its demise.
