[Solo Flashback] Stone and Ghosts

[Graffius]

Winter, 510

A gaunt figure sits upon a throne of dust. He is silent. He is motionless. Like clockwork a decision is made. There is movement and then, there is fire in his eyes. The Pig Children, Verse 24, Chapter 121 -- Navad sat limply upon his chair, his posture slack and his head tilted upwards, facing the sun. He was a lifeless husk, motionless. Murmurings of a forgotten language emitted from his gaping mouth in an unusual tone, voices overlapping and speaking of nothing. Right now, Graffius was nothing. Then, a flint erupted within his pale irises, a gasp of air filled his lungs and his hair was sapped of its achromatic darkness. Navad was no more and the scintillating green horns which forced themselves from his skull signaled the birth of Graffius. There was no memory of his transformation. Perhaps, he believed he had fallen asleep, succumbing to the vicious demands of his studies once again. He knew of no Navad, he only knew of himself. Wordlessly he roused himself and sat upwards, his body glowing radiantly in contrast with his grimy surroundings. Although not elegant, the area he called home was fitting enough. It was a large room, located far beneath the city and away from prying eyes, an abandoned prism of stone situated within the sewers. The ceiling was raised within his domain, and far above lay a metallic grate which served as a former storm drain. It allowed sun and moonlight to filter into his secluded nook; enough for him to feed if need be while he continued his research. Research was his existence; a life of books and scrolls, ancient Hashmalum texts of Reimancy and lore of the Gods. He took particular interest in his readings of dogmatic lore yet never did he read a single phrase within his books that didn’t cause him to sneer in disgust. Gods, what made them so? Always the same question had plagued his mind, and always, it was met with the same answer. “Power.” That was all. The Gods had power, yet their minds were fragile. They were nothing more than children playing with fire. He knew of their immaturity first hand. He had been a victim of it. Often while musing to himself, he would look upwards through the grate and occasionally watch the fleeting footsteps of the cities inhabitants. Oh how they were sheep. Each was so ignorant and oblivious. Each was obedient to their God; they were no different than the mice which occasionally scurried across his floor. All of them were animals. Sternly his bold eyes peered downwards at the open book before him. Perhaps after a century of reading and a century of trial and error, his means to gain what was rightly his would come full circle. Yet for now, he would study. Relentlessly. He would study.