7th Day of Spring, 514 A.V.
Pale skin stretched brutally across the withered innards of a corpse that was meant to be banished to the earth long ago. But the unnatural nature of this abominable island was that many things that should be simply were not. Many taboos were totally excepted. Pan walked on.
Anxiety filled him as it often did those days. Undeath was like that for those who clung to their life. Ironic, then, how undeath’s defining characteristic by simple definition was the desperation for continued life. Was he reaping the rewards of his cowardice?
Cowardice?
Pan had not chosen the shadowy existence of undeath! It had been thrust upon him like a dark blade in the night, seeped into his flesh like Vayt’s divine plague. His dead face contorted, with much effort, into a familiar grimace. The muscles were experiencing increasing rigor mortis.
Cowardice.
How else could he explain why he subjected himself to this hellacious reality repeatedly? He could just end it. Pan glanced down at the kris he now wore regularly at his waist. He could slide the cold iron of the blade deep into his heart and simply wait. Would it be painful?
Would he feel the burning agony as the edge ripped away at the decaying flesh that imprisoned him? Could a corpse feel pain? Pan had no idea, which was exactly why he hadn’t pursued the course. Like all cowards and shallow men he feared that last unknown. He was pathetically ill-equipped for the ambitious goals he set himself. Great wizards did not let fear drive them! They boldly overstepped both danger and morality in the pursuit of a higher purpose. Power was the currency of all beings, gods and men alike. It was the only worthy treasure to seek. He would do what needed to be done to acquire his own power… No matter the dark recesses of the world he would have to descend to to find it.
The Nuit stopped his brisk, stiff paces down the shaded passageways of the citadel and knelt.
Uldr, god of the between, heed my plea. Bestow upon your loyal servant the ability to navigate this treacherous place and the drive to find power within it’s dark walls. The prayer, as always, gave him a deep stirring of dread. The god he worshiped was not a benevolent one. His favor was granted eagerly, but for his own reasons. Pan knew he was no match for the god in wit or power, and feared the oppression of the deity. But the idea of death at the hands of Sahova was a much more real fear. Therefor, his world spilled out of him unevenly, but spill they did.
He was upon the door to the Palsa Hydrasa. Bringing his leathery hand up, the Nuit was forced to look upon the ugly, damaged skin of his limb. It was, at long last, time to take that thrilling last step into the embrace of his condition. He would break the last association with his past today.
As he pushed open the door he wondered if Marin would be in, and whether she would be amiable enough to let him avoid the unnecessary discomfort he was beginning to associate with this ordeal.
Pale skin stretched brutally across the withered innards of a corpse that was meant to be banished to the earth long ago. But the unnatural nature of this abominable island was that many things that should be simply were not. Many taboos were totally excepted. Pan walked on.
Anxiety filled him as it often did those days. Undeath was like that for those who clung to their life. Ironic, then, how undeath’s defining characteristic by simple definition was the desperation for continued life. Was he reaping the rewards of his cowardice?
Cowardice?
Pan had not chosen the shadowy existence of undeath! It had been thrust upon him like a dark blade in the night, seeped into his flesh like Vayt’s divine plague. His dead face contorted, with much effort, into a familiar grimace. The muscles were experiencing increasing rigor mortis.
Cowardice.
How else could he explain why he subjected himself to this hellacious reality repeatedly? He could just end it. Pan glanced down at the kris he now wore regularly at his waist. He could slide the cold iron of the blade deep into his heart and simply wait. Would it be painful?
Would he feel the burning agony as the edge ripped away at the decaying flesh that imprisoned him? Could a corpse feel pain? Pan had no idea, which was exactly why he hadn’t pursued the course. Like all cowards and shallow men he feared that last unknown. He was pathetically ill-equipped for the ambitious goals he set himself. Great wizards did not let fear drive them! They boldly overstepped both danger and morality in the pursuit of a higher purpose. Power was the currency of all beings, gods and men alike. It was the only worthy treasure to seek. He would do what needed to be done to acquire his own power… No matter the dark recesses of the world he would have to descend to to find it.
The Nuit stopped his brisk, stiff paces down the shaded passageways of the citadel and knelt.
Uldr, god of the between, heed my plea. Bestow upon your loyal servant the ability to navigate this treacherous place and the drive to find power within it’s dark walls. The prayer, as always, gave him a deep stirring of dread. The god he worshiped was not a benevolent one. His favor was granted eagerly, but for his own reasons. Pan knew he was no match for the god in wit or power, and feared the oppression of the deity. But the idea of death at the hands of Sahova was a much more real fear. Therefor, his world spilled out of him unevenly, but spill they did.
He was upon the door to the Palsa Hydrasa. Bringing his leathery hand up, the Nuit was forced to look upon the ugly, damaged skin of his limb. It was, at long last, time to take that thrilling last step into the embrace of his condition. He would break the last association with his past today.
As he pushed open the door he wondered if Marin would be in, and whether she would be amiable enough to let him avoid the unnecessary discomfort he was beginning to associate with this ordeal.
