Disillusioned

[Nozgoth 2900]

Spoiler

 

 

 

DISILLUSIONED

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Recall Saevel, the young elf raised within Haelun’or, and all his wonder and curiosity of the world, his prosperity in the scholarly fields as he grew older, and ascension among the ranks of the Illumiran guild of magic. All the ambition in the world was fostered in his heart, but in those days it lay primarily dormant, like an heir waiting for power to travel down the line of succession. And in those long days, as he became more adept in his scholarly workings and crafts, the ambition called out to him. Sleep was lost, morals were questioned and circumvented, and the elf became distant from all, even himself. An elegant and pompous visage was created to hide the festering darkness which usurped his mind.

 

Evil things stole him away and kept him as a slave for his brilliance, but even then he would come to rise above in the end (yet not untainted). Years were spent, here and there, and the darkness continued to creep. His eloquence turned to ravings, and the knowledge which he sought and attained he knew not what to do with. This was until it possessed him; the realization of himself and the happenings around him. The goal of ascending and bringing purity upon the world. The goal which he would later refine to be “The Filius Philosophorum”; his magnum opus. And all the things in The World would not stop him.

 

The spiraling descent accelerated rapidly until there was no further place which he could descend to. But in the end, it was ironic, for the things of his own doing and his own creation would be the ones to drive him beyond the brink of madness. Each moment was like torture, looking into his own twisted face as if he stared into a mirror, and some how he had convinced many others to follow him to the damnable path which he walked. “The Spirit” he thought, and thought only about. There were many nights where he preached and raved about the occult teachings of truth, and many nights where he sought things unobtainable - to little avail but the progression of his own delirium.

 

Recall Saevel… he was now nothing but a symbol of iniquity, an ode to the sin of man and The World; a parable. And though many never found out what the wondrous truths of his miracles were, his work had been done. His purpose was served, so he ventured off to someplace far, or perhaps finally found the enlightenment which he claimed - none know where he went off to, for he abandoned without a trace, leaving all things behind as they were. Saevel was disillusioned.

 

Some letters were sent off, items left behind, but most importantly of all, in the deepest recesses there lay certain scrolls, destined to exist and be passed along.

 

The First

 

The Second

 

The Third

 

 

 

 

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OOC: 

This character truly has been a wonder to play, and the story I’ve created is something I’m proud of. Thanks to everyone who has contributed to the character and the stuff I’ve done with him. It’s time to move on now.

[Reckless Banzai Screamer 11945]

A foreign alchemist would venture through the Under Loc each and every day looking for Saevel after the last Filius Philosophorum meeting in search of the man himself and the secrets he kept - albeit futile, the young man would not relent.

[Hephaestus 1317]

                                            

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

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FAR from the bounds of the descendant realms, across a sunless strait which died into moors and firths in Old Rh'thor, a moribund contingent of YULTHARANS in the reaches west sulk. Their sullen faces did reap anaemic pallor, with dimples met at their jowls: their smirks razed, maws dilapidated wholly in nigh-unending melancholy. A mennirous odor boded the sea-girt grotto, that of GORE, as vestiges of the winter's gelid frost festooned the entrance to the hallowed cavern: ringstraked with viscera from corner to corner, in piquant vermeil rings. Word of the metaphysical had been in the tide, kept at bay no longer, sending the sages and learned men into their mania's throes.

RAIN rilled and trickled astride the mountainside: autumn was in full swing, as a pallid red and tawny bled into the trees, and all life which enswathed the bounty, in all four corners of the peninsula. For, in the pits of their spirits, their melancholia reduced their once-busied spirits to naught. Ensheathed 'twixt the digits and dactyls of a long-inanimate cadaver, the final issue of the FILIUS PHILOSOPHORUM bade its stay — the root of the litter's tumult.

THAT eve, the gaggle took sorrow and lament in the demise of their felled, discarnate god, who brought no fruits but the root of lunacy and delirium. They would mourn the SPOKEN SPIRIT.

 

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Spoiler

Later days, my son.