Abandoned was honestly the only word that jumped to mind when one looked at the Keyblade Graveyard. Devoid of life--a constant reminder of what had passed.
The w a r.
The brave warriors who’s blood had been spilled and who’s lives had been ripped away from them, their weapons still piercing the ground in large groups. The wind would send the keychains of each jingling, like an eerie melody for the fallen.
Perhaps it was why the wind blew so hard, calling up dust storms and twisters alike, the element merciless as it ripped across the landscape.
Abandoned by all but one.
A figure who never seemed to move when the winds blew past, catching the fabric of a cape behind him and sending it sailing out like a flag before it would flutter back to its position.
He sat almost ceremonial, hands crossed atop the hilt of a keyblade, the end sunk within the ground. His head bowed and his figure unmoving. Not a breathe left the armor. No sounds escaped him.
Like an echo in time. He was nothing but a lingering reminder, refusing to leave until he finished what had been started.
But something wasn’t right--he could feel a stranger’s entrance without stirring. Someone was here. Someone who didn’t belong.