3rd Trial of Cylus -720
Identity ebbed and flowed in his mind. It was an odd sensation, losing one's grasp on reality. Physically it was all the same, the same cobbled ground, the same wind blowing, the same black Cylus day. But within him, all was at odds. Was he a man? Was he still that boy who had fended for himself in Etzori alleys and learned his craft on the bodies of rats and cats and vermin? Or was he the collection and amalgamation of sparks coalescing inside the cooling corpse of a clumsy and ignorant mortal? Sometimes he felt one way, at others he felt another.
Was he both?
Was this insanity? He had known mages sometimes went insane -Often went insane- when they reached certain levels of power. He thought it might be, apprehension quickening his unnaturally slow heartbeat. He could lose his humanity and not bat an eye, but a little thing like his mind and he was worried. He blew a light breath out of his nose, snorting at the sour humor. He grimaced under the cowl of his cloak. Humanity had seemed such a weakness when he could find little of it. Not on the streets of Etzos, not within the ranks of the Al’Angyryl, not in his parents. So he hadn’t been able to find it in himself. He had thought himself a cold and apathetic creature. Until the spark had come into its own. Now he knew what a true lack of humanity was. His emotions and his physical weaknesses, breath, nourishment, rest, brought agitation and pain. Here he had found the rigid apathy of the inhuman. He was a duality, and one without balance. He found himself wishing he had not been ignorant of the value of humanity back then.
That is self-pity. We don’t do that.
He walked with certainty down the narrow street. Despite the lack of light it was more than familiar. It was his. All of it was his. This city, this street. His entire life had been encapsulated in this damn city. All the way up until a few arcs ago when he had to vanish, hunted by the Coven. Vuda had been toppled, Sintra was in control now. Etzos had changed.
And it had not. He turned onto the alley and stepped over the slightly uneven cobble he knew was there. Light spotted the street from fires inside homes. Little pockets of warm yellow to illuminate his memories. He stepped through one. Anyone looking out at the street would have seen a near skeletal form in dark clothes and cowl. Greying, sickly skin covered his body and black veins crossed his arms and face. Perhaps an observant viewer would even see the glow of a rune on his forehead, but that was unlikely. No one on this street was prone to people watching. It was one of the reasons he had liked living there.
He came to the place. His first bout of freedom. The charred timbers were covered in dust and grime. The mage stepped through dilapidated doorway onto the blackened wood flooring. This had been the home he had purchased after fleeing from Gavrel. It had been the first, and last, place that had truly been his. He had made it his sanctuary, where he could practice his passion in peace. It had been the first place he truly felt beyond the struggle. He had been employed, legitimately, and had a roof over his head. Then he had met the Al’Angyryl and believed their promises of power. The free reign and risk free corpses had given him visions of power. Power to challenge even Gavrel if he should show up.
Identity ebbed and flowed in his mind. It was an odd sensation, losing one's grasp on reality. Physically it was all the same, the same cobbled ground, the same wind blowing, the same black Cylus day. But within him, all was at odds. Was he a man? Was he still that boy who had fended for himself in Etzori alleys and learned his craft on the bodies of rats and cats and vermin? Or was he the collection and amalgamation of sparks coalescing inside the cooling corpse of a clumsy and ignorant mortal? Sometimes he felt one way, at others he felt another.
Was he both?
Was this insanity? He had known mages sometimes went insane -Often went insane- when they reached certain levels of power. He thought it might be, apprehension quickening his unnaturally slow heartbeat. He could lose his humanity and not bat an eye, but a little thing like his mind and he was worried. He blew a light breath out of his nose, snorting at the sour humor. He grimaced under the cowl of his cloak. Humanity had seemed such a weakness when he could find little of it. Not on the streets of Etzos, not within the ranks of the Al’Angyryl, not in his parents. So he hadn’t been able to find it in himself. He had thought himself a cold and apathetic creature. Until the spark had come into its own. Now he knew what a true lack of humanity was. His emotions and his physical weaknesses, breath, nourishment, rest, brought agitation and pain. Here he had found the rigid apathy of the inhuman. He was a duality, and one without balance. He found himself wishing he had not been ignorant of the value of humanity back then.
That is self-pity. We don’t do that.
He walked with certainty down the narrow street. Despite the lack of light it was more than familiar. It was his. All of it was his. This city, this street. His entire life had been encapsulated in this damn city. All the way up until a few arcs ago when he had to vanish, hunted by the Coven. Vuda had been toppled, Sintra was in control now. Etzos had changed.
And it had not. He turned onto the alley and stepped over the slightly uneven cobble he knew was there. Light spotted the street from fires inside homes. Little pockets of warm yellow to illuminate his memories. He stepped through one. Anyone looking out at the street would have seen a near skeletal form in dark clothes and cowl. Greying, sickly skin covered his body and black veins crossed his arms and face. Perhaps an observant viewer would even see the glow of a rune on his forehead, but that was unlikely. No one on this street was prone to people watching. It was one of the reasons he had liked living there.
He came to the place. His first bout of freedom. The charred timbers were covered in dust and grime. The mage stepped through dilapidated doorway onto the blackened wood flooring. This had been the home he had purchased after fleeing from Gavrel. It had been the first, and last, place that had truly been his. He had made it his sanctuary, where he could practice his passion in peace. It had been the first place he truly felt beyond the struggle. He had been employed, legitimately, and had a roof over his head. Then he had met the Al’Angyryl and believed their promises of power. The free reign and risk free corpses had given him visions of power. Power to challenge even Gavrel if he should show up.
