18th of Fall, 513A.V.
Port Silence, Sahova
The stillness was unnerving. His lack of a need for air, or sustainment, maddened him. What was life if not the jumble of working organs and pumping blood. Was he still real? Did his actions and thoughts effect anything, or ultimately was he a dead man walking. Pan’s being was torn in conflict.
He stood on the shoal of the Harbor, staring out at the dark waters arrayed vastly before him. Such an open emptiness reflected with uncanny accuracy the loneliness within his own heart. A heart that was dead, leeching up pale ichor instead of blood and giving it’s owner a shadow life spawned by dark magics. Pan scowled out at nothing. And nothing scowled back. As always there was no willing witness to his troubled soul. He was forever alone in the world.
Humph.
Pan laughter darkly at his own inner melodrama. The humor failed to rise in his mirth. Pan turned away from the depressingly empty ocean to face the dray landscape behind himself. The salty air accosted his nose as his boots crunched softly in the shoal. He walked along the beachhead, lost in reflection. Somewhere in Ravok, in Zeltiva too, a boy his age was getting his first kiss, or starting a job for the first time. Somewhere young men were starting to piece together the chaotic bits of their life. And what was he doing? Walking along a beach stuck in-between life and death. With no one to keep him company.
Oh no! Not true, Pandaemus had the eternal wisdom and knowledge of the Sahovan wizards to stand beside him in his purgatory. The Sahovan wizards who would neither look upon him, not deem to speak to him. They were apparently far too important to speak to someone so insignificant, so young. Pan had thought his life had been rich and full. Living in a multitude of cities and seeing much of the continent in the process, he was decently worldly. Well, he had only lived in Ravok and Zeltiva. But that was twice as many cities as most men live in. But his eighteen years was but a second in the face of the centuries of soul withering numbness these stony cadaver’s had endured upon this harsh island.
Was the price of immortality the slow and unerring evaporation of everything one is passionate about in life? Would the color of the world eventually drain out for Pan? Was he doomed to bear witness to history, but not have the will to care?
Immortality did not, in this moment on this beach, seem very appealing to his undead soul. And an eternity with these corrupt, conniving wizards. Their lair was a shadowy place of intrigue and barely concealed hatred for one another. Pan still wanted to experience the world! He had thought coming to Sahova would equip him with the knowledge he needed to do that. But it turned out that all these people were concerned with was their research and those who can further it. What was all that even for if not to be shown to the rest of the world?
Here Pandaemus was, being chased down by his own judgement. As if he had not been judged enough in life. Judged worth his one hundred and twentyy five gold mizas as a child. Judged not worth the money time and time again by his master. Judged not worthy of the magics he aptly learned. Judged not qualified to live without his master… He had made him undead.
The only remotely merciful thing the man had done for Pan, was save him from death with this gift. And now, as Pan looked upon the world with an outsider’s eyes, he knew it for what it really was. The trick played on only the most cowardly, the most greedy. And he was cowardly. Pan hated himself for his fears, and blamed anyone.
A mother who was not strong enough to keep them from the slave pens. A Father who abandoned his family in their time of need. A brother who was taken before the memory of siblings could be strong but after it had taken root in his aching heart. A master. A master who had lead him down the path of magic. A master, who had taught him the vile worship of Uldr. And a god who had finally taken him into his fold, after nearly thirteen years of terror. Uldr.
Port Silence, Sahova
The stillness was unnerving. His lack of a need for air, or sustainment, maddened him. What was life if not the jumble of working organs and pumping blood. Was he still real? Did his actions and thoughts effect anything, or ultimately was he a dead man walking. Pan’s being was torn in conflict.
He stood on the shoal of the Harbor, staring out at the dark waters arrayed vastly before him. Such an open emptiness reflected with uncanny accuracy the loneliness within his own heart. A heart that was dead, leeching up pale ichor instead of blood and giving it’s owner a shadow life spawned by dark magics. Pan scowled out at nothing. And nothing scowled back. As always there was no willing witness to his troubled soul. He was forever alone in the world.
Humph.
Pan laughter darkly at his own inner melodrama. The humor failed to rise in his mirth. Pan turned away from the depressingly empty ocean to face the dray landscape behind himself. The salty air accosted his nose as his boots crunched softly in the shoal. He walked along the beachhead, lost in reflection. Somewhere in Ravok, in Zeltiva too, a boy his age was getting his first kiss, or starting a job for the first time. Somewhere young men were starting to piece together the chaotic bits of their life. And what was he doing? Walking along a beach stuck in-between life and death. With no one to keep him company.
Oh no! Not true, Pandaemus had the eternal wisdom and knowledge of the Sahovan wizards to stand beside him in his purgatory. The Sahovan wizards who would neither look upon him, not deem to speak to him. They were apparently far too important to speak to someone so insignificant, so young. Pan had thought his life had been rich and full. Living in a multitude of cities and seeing much of the continent in the process, he was decently worldly. Well, he had only lived in Ravok and Zeltiva. But that was twice as many cities as most men live in. But his eighteen years was but a second in the face of the centuries of soul withering numbness these stony cadaver’s had endured upon this harsh island.
Was the price of immortality the slow and unerring evaporation of everything one is passionate about in life? Would the color of the world eventually drain out for Pan? Was he doomed to bear witness to history, but not have the will to care?
Immortality did not, in this moment on this beach, seem very appealing to his undead soul. And an eternity with these corrupt, conniving wizards. Their lair was a shadowy place of intrigue and barely concealed hatred for one another. Pan still wanted to experience the world! He had thought coming to Sahova would equip him with the knowledge he needed to do that. But it turned out that all these people were concerned with was their research and those who can further it. What was all that even for if not to be shown to the rest of the world?
Here Pandaemus was, being chased down by his own judgement. As if he had not been judged enough in life. Judged worth his one hundred and twentyy five gold mizas as a child. Judged not worth the money time and time again by his master. Judged not worthy of the magics he aptly learned. Judged not qualified to live without his master… He had made him undead.
The only remotely merciful thing the man had done for Pan, was save him from death with this gift. And now, as Pan looked upon the world with an outsider’s eyes, he knew it for what it really was. The trick played on only the most cowardly, the most greedy. And he was cowardly. Pan hated himself for his fears, and blamed anyone.
A mother who was not strong enough to keep them from the slave pens. A Father who abandoned his family in their time of need. A brother who was taken before the memory of siblings could be strong but after it had taken root in his aching heart. A master. A master who had lead him down the path of magic. A master, who had taught him the vile worship of Uldr. And a god who had finally taken him into his fold, after nearly thirteen years of terror. Uldr.
