40th of Ymiden, Arc 718
Tristan had probably met more Immortals than most people in Idalos. He had been blessed by two, by Zanik and by Vhalar who had shown him that there was still hope for him and that life was still worth living, he had been lied to by two, and he had been betrayed by two, by the mother of his daughter whose exact identity he still didn’t know and by Ilaren, the woman that he had once loved with all of his heart and wanted to become his wife. The memory of what she and her followers had done to him in that village in the jungle was still fresh in his mind, as if it had only happened the trial before.
There had been a competition of sorts. The Immortals had each chosen a group of Immortals to participate in their name. He had been part of Ilaren’s group. They had been teleported into a village somewhere in a jungle. He had begun to care about one of the inhabitants. While Vivian Warrick had fought the savages – that had only defended themselves against the intruders in his opinion, as they should – he had loved that woman. He had looked for a way out that didn’t involve violence - because everybody deserved to live in his opinion, and because he just didn’t want to become a murderer.
When it had ended, a priestess of Ilaren had informed him that none of it had been real, that the village and the savages had only been illusions. She had probably meant to comfort him, but it had seemed like a nightmare to him. He didn’t take well to having his mind messed with. He had liked that woman, he had wanted to invite her to Oakleigh and apologize for what had happened to her village, he had wanted to make amends for what his companions had done and help her. He still missed her, after several seasons, and he pitied her because she deserved more than that. She deserved to live, to be real, more so than most.
He had thought that becoming a masterful alchemist would allow him to create life, but it didn’t. He had considered going to Rharne and talking to Ilaren – because a part of him still cared about her, despite everything that she had done and because he couldn’t forget the time they’d spent together, no matter how hard he tried. He has considered asking her to give him his savage back, but he wasn’t sure how she’d react and if he was even welcome in Rharne. Maybe the woman he’d wanted to marry would just curse him.
There was only one thing that he could do, he realized. He was a sculptor. He was likely one of the greatest sculptors to ever walk the face of Idalos – even Vhalar had been impressed by his skill - and he would immortalize his savage so that people would know who she had been and what she had looked like, even centuries from now. It wasn’t much, but it was the closest thing to a life that he’d be able to give her, for the time being at least.
Tristan had probably met more Immortals than most people in Idalos. He had been blessed by two, by Zanik and by Vhalar who had shown him that there was still hope for him and that life was still worth living, he had been lied to by two, and he had been betrayed by two, by the mother of his daughter whose exact identity he still didn’t know and by Ilaren, the woman that he had once loved with all of his heart and wanted to become his wife. The memory of what she and her followers had done to him in that village in the jungle was still fresh in his mind, as if it had only happened the trial before.
There had been a competition of sorts. The Immortals had each chosen a group of Immortals to participate in their name. He had been part of Ilaren’s group. They had been teleported into a village somewhere in a jungle. He had begun to care about one of the inhabitants. While Vivian Warrick had fought the savages – that had only defended themselves against the intruders in his opinion, as they should – he had loved that woman. He had looked for a way out that didn’t involve violence - because everybody deserved to live in his opinion, and because he just didn’t want to become a murderer.
When it had ended, a priestess of Ilaren had informed him that none of it had been real, that the village and the savages had only been illusions. She had probably meant to comfort him, but it had seemed like a nightmare to him. He didn’t take well to having his mind messed with. He had liked that woman, he had wanted to invite her to Oakleigh and apologize for what had happened to her village, he had wanted to make amends for what his companions had done and help her. He still missed her, after several seasons, and he pitied her because she deserved more than that. She deserved to live, to be real, more so than most.
He had thought that becoming a masterful alchemist would allow him to create life, but it didn’t. He had considered going to Rharne and talking to Ilaren – because a part of him still cared about her, despite everything that she had done and because he couldn’t forget the time they’d spent together, no matter how hard he tried. He has considered asking her to give him his savage back, but he wasn’t sure how she’d react and if he was even welcome in Rharne. Maybe the woman he’d wanted to marry would just curse him.
There was only one thing that he could do, he realized. He was a sculptor. He was likely one of the greatest sculptors to ever walk the face of Idalos – even Vhalar had been impressed by his skill - and he would immortalize his savage so that people would know who she had been and what she had looked like, even centuries from now. It wasn’t much, but it was the closest thing to a life that he’d be able to give her, for the time being at least.
