We are who once we were,
but never again the same,
as the world changes do we,
and cycles pass without name,
rely not on man to alter his way,
nor on the individual to remain,
we ghosts are believed eternal,
yet even ageless,
I have changed.
– Writings of Theseus Moria, circa 410 E.R.
Estae 7th, 647 E.R.
The room was lush yet stark, dripping with showy regal splendor, from the tapestries on the walls to elaborate carpets with floral and geometric patterns. Fine rare vases held flowers along the walls, if their ancient cracked surfaces could bear water. Others – often in prominent positions – were clearly too old and fragile for actual use.
A blond haired man with a soft olive complexion considered the priest pacing his quarters. His expression was hard to read, but seemed perhaps concerned for the agitated older man. The priest, Idolus, wore a grey robe, and had recently shorn his hair down to the skin. This in itself was arguably an improvement, as he had been balding for years. Still, it seemed part of a larger, more unnerving pattern. One that included the way he was pacing frantically, his arms behind his back, his hands wringing fervently.
Continue reading “Chapter 3”