De Vita In Excessum

by wishing@mail.tele.dk

The Ferrymen of Oblivion are often mistaken to be the generals of the Shadow-eaten by ignorant Helldivers and the few other foolhardy wraiths that venture into the Labyrinth. A classification of that kind does them a great injustice however – their allegiance lies not with the denizens of the Labyrinth, yet in some ways they are closer to the nature of it than any Malfean.

The Pasiphae are spectres, no doubt, yet they are unique, powerful, and exalted beyond any Shade or Nephwrack. The reason for this is simple – unlike their lesser brethren, the Pasiphae are pure Shadow, having no Psyche to torment them and make them long for elusive life. A Pasiphae is not a wraith claimed by Oblivion as is traditional of the Shadow-eaten, but is created by a process known only to the society of Ferrymen, a process known as the Ritual of Severance. The ritual has the effect of corporally and permanently separating a wraith from his Shadow. The Angst of the process itself creates a Corpus for the released Shadow, which is physically identical to that of his former Psyche – only the taint of Oblivion sets it apart. The only wraiths who have had this fate inflicted upon them have been Ferrymen, and every Shadow released as a result has entered the ranks of the Pasiphae.

Despite their ignominious birth, they are more than the discarded Shadows of the Ferrymen, much much more. Their foremost purpose is to lead the worthy to salvation in the arms of the Void. The Pasiphae deserve their title Walkers of the Labyrinth, as their intuitive mastery of the Hive-Mind makes every nook and cranny of Hell known to them. Whatever corner they turn leads to the mouth of the Void, if they so desire. Their secondary goal is to spread Oblivion in its purest form, often foiling the plans of over-ambitious Nephwracks or Malfeans if they defy the principles of entropy. They know emptiness of the soul like none other, from their lack of the martyrous Psyche. The scythes of the Pasiphae are feared and worshipped as the chosen tools of the Void, as befits the Pasiphae’s role as champions of Oblivion itself. But beyond these bans, the desire to harry and torment the Ferrymen that had them imprisoned for so long is present in nearly all of these creatures. Knowing that their repressed perversity and worst nightmares walk the Underworld, causing havoc and spreading despair, is the unspoken tragedy of every Ferryman.

Most Pasiphae share similar elements of their appearance. Corrupted versions of the scythes of the Ferrymen are nearly uniform, but the image of these can vary. Some are delicately ornate, some are broken and shattered, yet nearly all are horribly rusted from the tear of Oblivion. Similarly, their robes lacerate and lose color rapidly in the Labyrinth, giving them a ragged and leprous look. Suits of armor and protruding spikes have been seen as well, all tarnished, painful, and deadly beyond mere words.

Saints of the Shadow-eaten
The Pasiphae are a source of fear and admiration in the Labyrinth that rivals that of the Neverborn. They should not be portrayed as player characters, yet they are individuals with certain similarities that make them possible to classify, even within the boundaries of rules and dots.

Pasiphae have the same relationship rules-wise with their Ferrymen reflections as all spectres do to the wraiths they used to be. They gain the same powers and weaknesses from the Ritual of Severance, making them immune to mind control, able to store 20 points of Angst rather than 10, and so on. Immediately after the separation, a newborn Pasiphae has the exact same statistics as his Ferryman. Additionally, the following rules apply:

• Pasiphae are eyeless and voiceless. They can sense their way around the Labyrinth and the Tempest without eyesight, yet their lack of voice is a distinct handicap. They can only communicate via the Hive-Mind, and so only with other spectres and the Ferrymen. This can be done for free, without the need to expend Angst.
• The Castigate score of 5 required to become a Ferryman is converted to a Hive-mind score of 5 in the Ferryman’s Pasiphae. This includes all possible arts within the Dark Arcanos. Also note that Pasiphae are immune the Hive-mind arts of other spectres, as if Unity of Being was in effect at all times.
• Up to 7 points of the Ferryman’s other Arcanoi may be converted to Dark Arcanoi on a one-to-one dot basis following the Ritual of Severance.
• A Pasiphae retains the Dark Passions of his Ferryman. If all of the Pasiphae’s Dark Passions turn out at 3 dots or lower, then the highest is increased to 4 at the cost of the same amount of dots from the lowest Dark Passion he possesses.
• A Pasiphae has even greater difficulty than the Ferryman in reaching the Skinlands, in fact he cannot do so at all. It is impossible for Pasiphae to perceive or affect the Skinlands. Being in the Shadowlands tears away his Corpus at a rate of one temporary point per scene/hour. During a heavy Maelstrom (level 3+) this limitation is lessened, or ignored.

In addition, the Walkers of the Labyrinth utilize many arcane powers and Artifacts fueled and created by pure Angst and Bloodfire. Among these are alloyed versions of the Dark Arcanoi… let your imagination loose.

by wishing@mail.tele.dk

Below and beyond the Shadowlands, in the space and non-space known to the living ghosts as the Tempest, the storm grew fiercer. In the realm of the dead emotions were physical reality, the winds composed of shrieking frustration and despair that whipped the sea of regret and misery, of Shadows, into a foaming frenzy. The few dead eyes that watched the sea saw the storm as a furious writhing mass of currents, like torrent of black and grey, growing and vanishing and enveloping the beholder. The water below the winds seemed darker and solid, but much the same feeling of something you would never escape from.

A wraith was lost in this very storm. Her body was adrift on the waves clinging to the shredded ghost of a mattress, as both had fallen through the cracks of the familiar surface world. Their essence was battered and lacerated. Her Shadow, feeble but sadistic, whispered continuously in her mind of cowardly despair and misery. The continuous assault of the storm was ready to overwhelm her, to drag her to Oblivion, when she felt another presence closing. As it came, the winds grew docile and the sea stopped churning. When she opened her eyes she saw a light and focused on that. It seemed like a small star, but it hung from a curved pole and illuminated both her and the small reed boat that carried it. She felt herself letting go of the mattress, and an arm helping her into the vessel, and with the last of her energy spent she curled up in a comatose slumber.

When she regained consciousness, the first thing she saw was the calmness of the black water below. Next was the small and flimsy boat she was resting in, and the shape that was holding up the light she remembered as her savior. She sat up and backed away to the prow of the small boat, while watching the figure with curious fear. She wondered if what she saw was not conjured up by her subconscious mind to inspire terror, as it matched the image of the Grim Reaper she never saw back when she died. The black robes and cowl seemed to hide a tall and gaunt human male, and the long curved scythe rested calmly in the man’s hands as he used it to pole the boat across the water. His face was covered in shadow.

"There’s no need to be afraid." The figure spoke in a thin amorphous voice, the sound as grim and theatrical as its owner, the accent indistinguishable. "I won’t harm you. Consider yourself a guest of mine, for now."

The female wraith had to examine the words in her head for several long seconds before she was able to accept them. She had not heard words like these for an eternity, she felt, nor had she spoken them herself.

She had to cough a little before she was able to reply, kicking her plasmic body back into civilized function. "Thanks." Her English was northern Britain and middle-class. Her word was followed by a pause, in which she thought she probably had more to say than that. "I don’t know why you pulled me up from there, but I appreciate it and will pay you if that’s how it works." She managed to surprise herself by the last addition to the sentence. She was used to her subconscious playing tricks on her, through the whispers of her Shadow, but this felt different. Her Shadow seemed to be cowering in fear inside her, and something higher having taken its place.

The Ferryman nodded. "Good. But in due time."

The following silence did not sit well with the wraith, and after a while she spoke again, with the safest approach she could think of. "My name is Sibyl."

The Ferryman nodded again. He took one hand from the scythe, and with it made a slow sweeping gesture to draw her attention to the ocean around them. "And where do you wish me to take you, Sibyl?" He let his hand linger for a second, letting her eyes and mind focus, then returned to moving his vessel along.

Sibyl only now noticed that the storm, which she had assumed had died down, was still raging in full force, only the wind and water both became placid as they came within a few yards of the boat and the figure. She was momentarily stunned by the sight.

When she had convinced herself that she was safe, she slowly turned to her cowled benefactor, and answered his question while staring at his pale, though not skeletal, hands.

"I was in London just before we set out… I just want to go back. Can you take me there? The Shadowlands of London. Please." Her voice wavered a little with painful and violent memories, but she remained in control and set her goal with determination. Her host only nodded his head and continued on the course. Sibyl sat in the boat quietly, staring at the lashed reeds at her feet.

After a time Sibyl looked out at the waters and saw jagged rocks breaking the water’s surface, followed by reef and what looked like a small island. The Ferryman stopped the boat’s slow movement and inclined his head down towards her, and spoke. "Follow the path up the shore of this islet, and it will lead you to a portal, a nihil that will take you towards your destination." She nodded her head and felt her head grow light at the expectation of going back, to being able to see the places she knew rather than the endless searing tempest. He continued. "As for payment – I’ll require only a memory." Sibyl tore her gaze from the rocky shore to look at the gaunt Ferryman with a mix of gratitude and surliness. "What kind of memory…?" she asked.

"There’s a reason you ended up where you did, needing my help. You were fortunate, you companions were not. I require the memory of those you traveled with." He paused. "They will not be forgotten."

A few tears started to flow from Sibyl’s eyes while she stared into the boat with fury, but eventually her initial quenched rage at the suggestion was replaced by a quiet acceptance. She stood still, nodded, and a few seconds later it was over. She stepped over the side of the boat and into the low water.

She could feel the carnivorous winds again once she had left the boat, but close to the island they were less fierce, and she stumbled onto the shore feeling less safe but closer to returning to sanity from this nightmare.

The ground beneath her feet felt like porous dirt, and huge serrated rocks littered the uneven surface. Ahead of her was a vague beaten path. She turned her head and looked back towards the Ferryman and his vessel, but all she could see was the storm. She sighed, and started walking.

After a minute or two of walking uphill Sibyl felt that she was reaching the summit of the island, and further ahead she could see a construction against the tempestuous skyline. It looked like a stone cairn, oval boulders balanced on each other to form a heavy tripod. Something else was closer, however, and demanded her full attention. Halfway between her and the cairn stood the figure that had just transported her and left her on this island, or something nearly identical. She recognized the cloak, the cowl and the scythe, only the lantern was missing. Curious but wary, she approached and called out.

"Hello again.. is something wrong?" As she got closer she was certain that the shape of the one before her was identical to that of the boatman, but other details didn’t fit. This robe seemed dirtier, and the scythe was rusty and battered. She paused. "Can I help you?"

The figure made its first movement and looked towards her. Its face, as the other one, was covered in darkness. It proceeded to raise its arm and extend a hand towards her methodically. She noticed the fingers as being torn and rent, the tips being nothing but bone, as the index finger bid her to come closer. Sibyl froze, her senses and spine tingling, struck by a sudden and paralyzing terror.

From within the deepest recesses of her mind, Sibyl felt the presence she had been able to ignore since her rescue well up and sink its claws into her soul, as if her brain was shot through with barbed thorns. Her Shadow’s voice thundered in her ears, telling her to get on her knees and submit. She screamed, but without sound. She wanted to run, but stood still. All she could hear was the slavering hiss of her dark side taking over, flexing her limbs and turning her head to look at the cowled figure. She could feel the mental command of the thing, in the same voice as the boatman, to come closer and follow. She watched as the figure made the ground in front of it crumble, falling into a black pit seemingly leading below the world, below the Tempest. She watched the figure half-walk half-crawl into the hole, and felt herself follow willingly, spurred on by her Shadow. As the Labyrinth embraced them, the ground above them grew closed, leaving the island deserted and only the Tempest to mourn her catharsis.

by darklavier@hotmail.com

I remember my death.

As one of the Quick I lived in Tasmania, an island 40 degrees south of the equator, nestled beneath Australia. Things were changing all around me: the government had proposed the damming of the Franklin River, and environmentalists such as Bob Brown gained their notoriety through placing themselves in the path of destruction. I myself was arrested twice for refusing to clear the area when ordered by police, my arms forced behind my back, cold steel closing over my wrists as I was thrown into the back of the van. For the duration of the long drive to the jail I caused trouble the only way I could: I lashed out with my feet, slamming them into the wall behind the driver in a steady rhythm until the ache in my legs grew too much.

After what seemed like an eternity staring at the dull white walls of my cell, my brother Paul arrived and paid my bail.

"Thanks for this, Paul," I smiled sheepishly. Paul was the richer of us two: his choices in life were the better ones, and through diligence and hard work he’d assured his future. I on the other hand, had pursued my own interests through my school years, usually ones that resulted in violence."Ah, don’t fret over it," he grinned. "I’m sure your time will come to set me free…"

It was one in the morning when I got into the fight that killed me. I’d just left the Hope and Anchor pub and was weaving my way up the street when I could make out two figures walking towards me. They seemed friendly enough, right up until they punched me in the stomach and robbed me as I lay in the cold gutter. Trying to get up, the pain bled slowly into me, just as my life was dripping slowly away. My last thought, at least the one I could remember, was feeling the hole in my stomach and seeing the black blood smeared across my fingers and suddenly realizing that I’d been stabbed.

Then, darkness. Then a dream, of light and shadow, eternity crammed into a breath, pain. Things cleared and I lashed out as I realized I was surrounded by masked men, armed with swords, and even managed to take one down with me before I felt the familiar clamp of iron around my wrists. This was different, though – the chill of the metal seeped into my bones, sapping my will. This time, although I wanted so badly to lash out with my feet, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Just relax, I heard a voice say in my head. Don’t fight. It’ll all be over soon.

The men marched me along a road nowhere on earth, a road that wound through a howling dark mist and lead to a city I could only have seen in my nightmares. I was sold for a handful of coins that seemed to weep at my fate.

I spent some years as a faithful slave before my master succumbed to his own darkness, and I returned to to the city of Hobart. I was shocked how much the city had changed in my absence – the buildings I recognized seemed grimy with the weight of time, and new ones stood stark, glittering and utterly alien. I walked through streets full of haggard, drawn faces that stared through me, passed by cars in odd new designs. Soon I came to the place where I had been informed the Citadel was located: in life, the Women’s Prison of South Hobart had been little more than four sandstone walls and a memorial to the horrors of the past, but now in death the building loomed as foreboding and forbidding as the day it was built.

Service in the Grim Legion was pleasant enough for me. I learnt how to make my sword scream as I swung it: I learnt of the horrifying Spectres, the creatures of oblivion that would emerge in the city as harbingers of sorrow and pain. Every week I would receive my Oboli, the coins still weeping for me as I took them. I watched friends fall, enemies rise, all concealed behind masks. Between patrols I would sit and watch my younger brother (now older than I ever was) go about his life, and I would devour his joys and sadness like fruit. Sometimes, when he was alone and drunk, he would whisper my name, bury his face in his hands, and weep. My fingers would not dry his tears, my arms held no comfort.

I wasn’t there the Sunday afternoon he went to Port Arthur, and what if I was? It would have been illegal to intervene, it would have cost me everything. Martin Bryant took a Russian sniper rifle he had trained himself to shoot from the hip with, entered the Broad Arrow Cafe and killed twenty people in as many seconds. My brother, I heard later, had thrown himself in front of a young girl: the bullet had plowed through both their skulls, shattering them like porcelain. Women, children, elderly, my brother. More souls for the Grim Legion. The echoes of the gunshots reached the citadel, and beyond that rose the winds of a storm. My troops went about sealing the Citadel as efficiently as they had been taught.

Holding the position of Regent enabled me to pull certain strings, and I was able to both investigate if my brother had been reaped and by whom, as well as quietly stand aside while enraged victims took their vengeance from beyond the grave on the mind of the man who now sat giggling quietly in a solitary cell. But neither the Empire, nor the local renegades, nor a heretical cult seemed to have claimed my brother as their own. Even more puzzling, after I had spoken to a woman who had not survived the massacre, she claimed to have seen my brother swallowed up by the tempest itself.

Wracked with grief, I retired to my private chamber to try and plead the voice in my head to stop. I wished I could cry real tears, I wished I could bleed. "You were never there for him, you just sat and watched like he was an actor in a play. Well now the show’s over, and guess what? You missed the end…"

The voice stopped abruptly, and it took a moment for me to realize that my aide Steven was in the room.

"Pardon my intrusion sir, but I feel we must talk about something."

"Not now Steven, please. Some other…" I looked into Steven’s eyes and stopped – his eyes seemed to smolder darkly with a force that drove a chill into my spine…

Inside my mind a voice sighed happily.

I leapt out of my chair and drew my soulsteel sword, edging around my desk waiting for the imposter to attack, but it simply cocked it’s head to one side and smiled. Reaching up to it’s face, it molded and shaped it’s features until I could see the true face of the assassin who had come to claim me.

"Peter?"

"Hello David."

I couldn’t speak.

"You haven’t changed at all since you died." He smiled again, a hollow smile, predatory and jealous. "I came to you because I need your help."

"Peter… you’re a spectre… I have to kill you…" I hefted my blade, ready to strike. "I have to kill you…"

"David…" Peter stepped a little closer. It was him, it was his face, but it was drawn with lines of pain and anguish. He walked bent forward as if there was something eating away at him inside. And his eyes, once the a rich brown like our mothers, were now holes as black as grief that seemed to suck the warmth out of me.

"Please David… you don’t understand how much this hurts. I don’t want to feel anything anymore: I don’t want to care anymore. I want it all to end. I want Oblivion." He walked towards me, gripped my shoulders. I stared helplessly into his eyes, once the color of a summer sky, now black as despair. "I can hear It in my head. I can hear all of Them in my head. It promises to take me if I destroy the Silent Book. You said you’d set me free once, remember?"

I remembered the manacles around my wrists.

A Regent is not questioned. A Regent has access to keys, rooms, equipment. A Regent is not questioned, except by those higher up the chain who are easy enough to avoid. The Silent Book was a vital tome in use by the Castigator of the citadel: He was the last of his philosophy, and he and the book were all that was left. The loss of it would mean no means for spiritual cleansing in the Necropolis.

A Regent is not questioned.

Peter stood facing me, the roaring of the tempest echoing from the black chasm behind him. When I gazed down into the abyss, I almost felt as if there were eyes looking back at me. Peter took the book from me, held it to his chest and began to weep. I held him close to me, feeling the cover of the book squirm between us.

"Peter…"

"Mmm?"

"You said you could hear Oblivion… what does It say?"

He pulled back and smiled at me, one last sad smile. "It said we’d be together soon," and then he threw himself back into the tempest, and I lost him again.

Without the book, darkness looms all around. The Castigator himself was the first to go. The laughter in my head grows stronger every day, and it is now a race to see whether my shadow or my superiors destroy me first. But I have found a solution: I will go to the Nihil and throw myself into the Tempest, and I will sink beneath the screaming winds into the cold embrace of Oblivion.

My brother awaits me there.

by boswok@aol.com

I thought that I had led a basically good life; there was no reason for me to show up here, across the "shroud". I wanted so much more, though. My lady and I had been married for three weeks, but we’d been engaged for two years and together so much longer. I wanted to give her the world, to turn life into a fairy tale. That wasn’t going to happen like I’d planned.

It was odd to be engaged for so long back then, but I had no money; and I couldn’t take the life I wanted. Mother had raised me to be a doctor; father was a clergyman who devoted everything to me. Things would have gone well if I’d had a keen eye and a steady hand. The profession just wasn’t a practicality for me. After a few years of business school, I learned that my professors thought that I had no potential. I was disheartened but not destroyed. Not so my parents. Father grew weak as I took a job as a clerk; he died in his sleep after I’d been working for three years in this position. Mother grew bitter after father died; she disowned me when I met my Elisabeth.

She was, quite frankly, the best and most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life. The daughter of a rural landowner, she was nonetheless considered to be of privileged class. We met in a café by chance; we fell in love by what I call design. I worked hard to be worthy of her hand in marriage. It took a long time, but after many long months her father finally did accept me. It took time to save enough to pay for the wedding, but she was even more patient than I. The wedding was small but dignified; her parents were pleased despite their former dreams. My mother didn’t even respond to the wedding invitation.

After all of our toil, we were finally rewarded with the bliss of marriage. I loved her more than I could have said; I was happy because of her and for no other reason. I wondered for the longest time why it had to end so suddenly. When our honeymoon had concluded, I received a message telling me that I was needed out of town for a few days. It seemed odd that I’d be requested for work outside of town; but I was told that the city I was being called to was short-handed, and that I had been well recommended. I wondered who had recommended me, but was excited to hear that I would be compensated with a sizable pay bonus for making the trip. Elisabeth didn’t mind and I had a mind to save a bit of extra money; so, I accepted in earnest.

It was a two-day trip by carriage in which I surveyed much of the land. At some point during the second day I dozed off in the carriage. I never woke up.

The next thing I saw was a distorted view of the land. My vision had been warped by something translucent, covering my face. I found that I couldn’t move; my covering stretched across my whole body. I seemed to be floating; and I remained there, dreaming, for quite some time. At some point, the curtain parted; and I was free to look upon the world once more. It was different, somehow. Darker and more decayed, these "Shadowlands" were the lands of the dead. I knew this because my benefactor informed me of my current situation, soon after releasing me from the caul that had covered me.

I didn’t know the specifics of my death, but the fact that I’d arrived on top of a lake was an indicator; and the carriage was missing, aside from some deep mud tracks beside the water. My reflection on the surface showed me to have a strange marking on my forehead; and my body seemed to have the characteristics of drowning. I was pale and slightly blue-tinged now. The world showed me signs of decay everywhere and I heard strange sounds on the wind. My benefactor told me that Spectres were near and we should move on.

I learned that I was reaped by the Legion of Fate of the Hierarchy. I learned of the differences between ghost and man, the underworld and the physical one. I came to understand the basics of the Hierarchy, of the Renegades that opposed it, and of the Heretics that had betrayed it. I was told a history of the world from a new perspective, and learned of a terrible force called Oblivion. My life was over, and death would be quite different.

I found my passions and fetters easily enough. Of course Elisabeth was the most important of these; my wedding band buried underwater was something I had to have; I felt the urge to visit my father’s gravestone as well. I felt a need to continue making Elisabeth happy. I also regretted failing my parents after all of their attempts to make a better life for me; I would have a better life now that I was dead, I swore.

The Hierarchy was accommodating enough; I took to the merchant business with a new gusto and was much needed for the soul-trading business. I found it odd that souls had to be sacrificed to avoid Oblivion; but I grew used to the fact, after a fashion. A voice in my mind began to tell me of my weaknesses; told me that I was a failure and would join the souls sent to the forges. I would never rise to prominence, it said; I would fail my wife and my parents in death just as in life. I always thought that this Shadow-self kept me on my feet throughout the years.

I did my duties to the Hierarchy; suppressed the Shadow’s urgings; took care of Elisabeth, in my way. I eventually found ways to interact with the Skinlands. I made sure that my wedding band was returned to Elisabeth, at great cost. I avoided Oblivion without, but steeled myself against its ravages within. My few harrowings throughout the years yielded few successes for my Shadow, and I became careful to avoid them. After I became important enough in the local Hierarchy, I found more leisure time to spend with my widow.

She had mourned for seven years, but I eventually worked up the courage-and wore down my Shadow-enough to finally influence dearest Elisabeth to pursue her own happiness again. She remarried to a noble gentleman, and seemed to have moved on. My Shadow began to tell me that I had abandoned her, that she didn’t need me anymore; it said that I had failed myself and failed my widow, as well. My visits to my favored Pardoner became more frequent thereafter; my Shadow became persistent and worked my nerves beyond my personal capabilities. I wondered if he was right, sometimes, if I was truly making Elisabeth happy by giving her up. I always watched over her, though; never did I yield in my devotion to her.

The years wore on. I watched my Elisabeth grow old; I felt her slipping away. I still loved her, but now I had learned to take joy in her life, with or without me. My visits to the Pardoner were fewer than they had been and my Shadow was more silent about Elisabeth. It seemed as though it was at peace with her as well. That was when everything changed.

Elisabeth eventually grew ill in her age. I stayed by her through the whole mess, watching her deteriorate. I could see the sickness throughout her body and knew that she didn’t have long. She had a fever and was fading fast. I offered what comfort I could; she was in the throes of delirium and I was well received. I had learned many arts in my time and I used one such to caress her hand and cheek in her final moments.

In the end, she opened her eyes and leaned toward my ghostly touch. She told me she loved me, after all these years; she had never stopped loving me. Then she was gone forever.

As her life slipped away, I fell through a Nihil into the Tempest; Elisabeth no longer fettering me to the Skinlands, I faced my own unraveling in the Labyrinth. My Shadow seemed as though it had never forgotten all of the discouragement aimed at my widow. It wracked my emotions, calling me a failure, saying that Elisabeth would now join Oblivion. I saw her, screaming, reaching out to me and falling away. I had lost my love, my light, to time. My inspiration was gone and I had failed her in the worst way. I wanted to succumb.

No. Elisabeth died fulfilled, as I had never been. She was in heaven now, happy with God to watch over her. I had not failed her; I had succeeded. It was time to move on. My Shadow raged and screamed as it lost the battle with me. I returned to the bedside, next to the wedding band I had returned to Elisabeth so long ago. I was forever changed.

I resumed my work with the Hierarchy; but I felt a need stirring in me for something else. It was as if there was a calm within me, left by the absolution of accomplishment. A voice of stillness left by Elisabeth to give me peace. I needed to explore this feeling in its entirety. The tranquility was obvious to others. I was asked many questions from my fellows as to my condition. I had stopped seeing the Pardoner and had become mildly distracted from harvesting. My mind wandered to tales of the Far Shores.

I felt that truly accomplishing something in death would have to be more than merely enjoying the benefits of a well-placed station. My harvesting duties continued, but I began to travel in search of some unknowable thing. Oblivion and I met more often; I fought Spectres in the Tempest and at the Necropoli gates. My Shadow helped them attack me; it seemed to have changed as well since Elisabeth passed, now being more introverted. It was ironic that my Shadow helped set events in motion.

I spent much time near the Harbingers of different Necropoli in order to learn to travel more efficiently. After a long while, I was flying the Tempest solo; my eyes had darkened and had taken in many odd wonders of the realm. It was in the tempest that I met my first Ferryman.

The Shadow had decided to toss me to the Doomshades during my expedition and I was ambushed. There were three huge shades in the inky mirth of the tempest when I was lured down there by a strange light. I could have died instantly if not for the Ferryman. Her name was Khevara, I later discovered; she was an amazing sight. Seemingly from nowhere she appeared, engaging in a fatal melee with the creatures of Oblivion. Her huge scythe dashed the animals asunder before my eyes in a few short instances. I flew over the waters, amazed at her killing power. She beckoned me with a wave of the hand to join her on her wooden raft; I could not refuse.

The trip must have lasted several days; though I could not have told how many in the depths of the tempest. Eventually she spoke in a low, hard tone.

She informed me that my quest was far from over, that my search for Transcendence had many more turns to be taken. I wondered how she had known what my quest was; I certainly had not known. Khevara told me that all wraiths quested for Transcendence, but I had found the path that many others would deny.

My journey was far from over, though; I did not have all of the knowledge I would need to move on from this realm. As the trip bore on, I noticed more and more spectral entities dancing around the raft; I wondered how we had found such a high concentration of sentience this far into the tempest. Finally, my curiosity was answered; and the Labyrinth stood before us, in all its dark glory. It was the cave of Oblivion, the sinkhole of the underworld, the den of evil. The Labyrinth was a nightmare that I had no interest in traversing. I had heard terrible tales of the mining expeditions to the Veinous Stair, where they take raw Oblivion ore back to Stygia; abnormalities and abominations abroad-and that was only the entrance.

Khevara told me that I had not yet learned to accept the darkness in the underworld, nor the darkness within myself. If I wanted to escape this place, I would need to accept all of it and all of my own faults. I needed to let go; I needed to know what I was letting go of, first. In the Labyrinth, I would be forced to understand the creatures that represented the darkness I struggled against. She told me that I would find a man to help me along the path, if I searched long enough. His name was Rudvert; he was a Masquer Helldiver, an infiltrator of the Hive. He would show me the world of the Spectres.

It took quite a while to get close to the Helldiver community. I was forced to join the Doomslayer association called the Order of the Thorn while simultaneously trying to find connections in the Masquers. My days appeared to be numbered now. I had traded off all of the security of station that I had earned in the empire for this. Now I had the luxury of close and regular contact with the denizens of darkness and the duty of chasing enigmatic figures that I knew nothing about. Mother would not have been proud.

I did achieve my goal, however. As I participated in countless missions of genocidal abandon with the Thorns, I kept my Harbinger allies informed about the spectral activity in certain areas I was frequently in. After countless missions of stealth and battle, reconnaissance and maneuvering, I was considered an asset to the Thorns and given a good word or two with the Helldiver community. I learned my basics of Moliation and studied the art rigorously. I was exhausted by my battles, but I found a kind of solace in the knowledge that I was striking Oblivion and releasing souls from its terrible grasp. My abilities eventually led to a connection with the Helldivers. I treated it cautiously, of course; I learned new skills of stealth and maneuvering, doing more reconnaissance and less battle. My strikes against Oblivion were now fewer and more decisive in nature.

This took me years to accomplish. I had grown even more divorced from the Skinlands and was fettered only by my father’s grave; the bonds of my family were hard to let go of with the absence of the family. My ring eventually became just a reminder of Elisabeth, who remained in my fondest memories and my heart. I made certain that the ring was given to someone who needed it most; a young woman entering marriage with a rather poor painter received a mysterious family heirloom after I knew I needed it no longer. I had changed a great deal over the course of the years and was now older than any living man would ever be.

Finally, after assassinating a crafty mortwight-the leader of an Oblivion purity cult, I gained enough recognition in the Helldiver association to be treated with respect. My queries were answered now more readily than before and I could investigate my true objective in the business of Doomslaying. Rudvert was eventually revealed to me after an extensive hiatus in which he was supposedly hunting the Shadowlands for converts to the cause of Oblivion. He was on a very important mission in the depths that I would not be informed about until later, on pain of destruction.

After pulling some strings and begging some favors, I met him. Strangely enough, it was in the Labyrinth. I was told that I would meet him when he finished his mission and that I would proceed on myself in another mission of my own; I was to infiltrate a spectral barrow community. Apparently, these kind were more docile than the Spectres I had met before, a change of pace that I welcomed.

It so happened that after a few weeks, I came to realize the leader of this community to be my supposed benefactor himself. Rudvert was a man of contemplation and action, all at once. In this barrow community, the Spectres concentrated on the dull, black emotions of humanity while worshipping the unmaking force of Oblivion. It was quite religious, but seemed less fanatical and more meditative in nature compared to the other Spectres; I learned that those ones I had met were called Kindlings for their fiery nature.

Rudvert had progressed along the Spectral arcanos of Hive-mind; he must have had a strong will to use that terrible art to subjugate at least twenty monstrous shades and any number of young Spectres looking to find some breed of dark enlightenment. I myself had learned a bit of it from the get-go just to survive; and when I began my infiltration missions with the Masquer Helldivers my skill naturally increased to accommodate deep cover security. Rudvert was a master, though, pure and simple.

His agenda was a divided one. Officially, he was vying for the attention of a Malfean against a particularly promising Nephwrack, his intent to see the latter destroyed to prevent his ascent to power. This would weaken Oblivion just a bit more and further the Doomslayer cause. Unofficially though, Rudvert had been seeking Transcendence for some time and found that by communicating with the Psyches of those Spectres in his community, he gained a further knowledge of the Shadow. This information might have been useful to the Doomslayers, if they had the tolerance for such attempts–but he found that it gave him a personal insight into the motivations of the Shadow as an entity. With the help of those trapped Psyches, he could come to understand the motivations of his own dark half; such knowledge might eventually teach him to let go of his Shadow and Transcend.

Of course, he eventually met others with the same basic agenda and would not hide his findings. Over time, many pupils found the courage to seek him out. Those who had made it were stronger for the journey and had hopefully found their motivations that much more rooted. Others came to realize they enjoyed the battle with Oblivion too much to let go of themselves; and still others fell along the way. These he mourned silently, but there are always trials on the path to enlightenment and he realized this.

My path had been made known to him through the negotiations I’d made with the Doomslayers and Masquers and by way of Khevara. He accepted me and taught me how to behave in his realm. The place was a refuge of meditation by advertisement and a chamber of study by design. None of the Spectres knew it, but deep in their meditations they underwent catharsis on a regular basis. They gained the composure to do so through subtle applications of the mind caused by the keening powers of Rudvert and a concerted effort by all resident Psyches.

We discussed their meditations while we could, and Rudvert and I took the lessons to heart. I grew to understand that my own Shadow had been weakened by the resolution of my ties to Elisabeth. I hadn’t been controlled as much lately, I didn’t know why. I thought that it had to do with my studies of the darker emotions, rather than outright denial of them. My Shadow hadn’t been playing tricks because I was starving him since my search for Transcendence had begun. He-I had begun to think of my Shadow not as a set of mental mishaps but a separate part of myself-was focusing more on my denial of my parents’ dreams now. He used this twisted devotion as an excuse to try to send us both to the void; it was a buried loyalty I had almost forgotten when I died that he now gave as penance for us. The Shadow also seemed to have a lingering need to exploit a sense of failure in me.

I remembered from my mortal years feeling that I would never accomplish anything in my life. These thoughts I repressed as I pushed on, especially after I met Elisabeth. I pushed aside loyalty as well for Elisabeth as I had abandoned my parents to be with her. This too I pushed aside to make room for the good things in life. I wondered then if my other half had hated Elisabeth because I had chosen to forget the things he so loved for her. It made me wonder how to ease his pain; for the first time that I could remember, I sympathized with my Shadow. He was made of buried hurt that I would not confront before or after death.

I learned this and more with the help of Rudvert and was thankful for the lessons. I also learned new methods to communicate with the Psyches in the Labyrinth on the sly. I eventually came to wonder how much I could learn locked in the cavern; I needed resolutions that could not be found here. I felt the need to see my father’s grave again. It seemed to be essential, the key to unlocking the pain of my Shadow. There was another key, though, and I would find it soon.

I checked in at the old gravestone and remembered my father somewhat fondly. Apparently, Spectral activity in the area was increasing lately for unknown reasons. I knew why; it filled me with a dread I hadn’t felt in so long, but I knew. I watched the gravesite until it became obvious that I wasn’t going to be disappointed. My mother was a Spectre now. She might have even been a Nephwrack, for she had a contingency following her. I don’t know what they were doing there, and I never would, but I didn’t run. I had the appearance of a Spectre and no intention of being chased because I fled. There were a couple of people in the cemetery, doing who knows what, but they would certainly regret it soon enough.

The world had progressed since I had died, and cars were an everyday part of life now. Smoking was still in fashion, though, so not everything had changed. I regretted these facts after mother recited a crackling prayer to Oblivion and took the body of one of the innocent bystanders. The other one fell dead in a few moments with stunned surprise; the two young men were probably friends. Mother had taken over the smoker and piped away contentedly inside of her new body. After some experimentation, she drove his car directly on top of father’s grave. I watched helplessly from the Shadowlands as she dropped her cigarette into the gas tank of the car.

The young man burned shortly and she was again with me for a few moments. She knew who I was and smiled the venomous smile of eternal hatred. She told me she would send us both to the everlasting comfort of Oblivion, just as she had always wanted. Then the gas tank exploded and sent us both away. She went home and I to another harrowing as my last fetter was consumed in the pyre she had unleashed.

The Shadow roared his triumph. I was weaker than he and would fail. I could never be better than Oblivion and had given up all for a goal that didn’t even exist for one such as me. In the end, I had struggled against my destiny and now was faced with it on a cosmic scale. I was the fool of the universe; opposing my parents, my Shadow, my annihilation, and more had led me right to where I deserved to go. My dream, the Eidolon, was nothing; a trick played by an overly imaginative dead man, it had served well to send me off to my final rewards whimpering for mercy. The universe loomed over me and all was a great swirl of lack. My mother had known all along; she cackled her glory and watched me fall apart. I could do nothing to escape my fate.

There was a dawning then. I knew I truly was nothing to the universe. I had never forgotten myself in all of my experiences and all of my travels and trials could never remove who I was. The time to think of my own goals was over and the fetter of my own mind was past its usefulness. The dark of Oblivion faded into a shimmering ray of hope. All the things that pulled at me faded. I knew what to do now. My Shadow had nothing to stop this sense of purpose. I didn’t matter; that was why I was going to succeed. The Tempest opened up before me and I was spilled out before the gently swaying raft of Khevara. I had come a long way; it was time I saw the Far Shores.

The next period of my unlife was all forgetting. I forgot the color of my mother’s eyes, the names of the cities I lived in, the place I died; I let it all go. I stayed with others like myself and did everything I could to show my gratitude for their company and devotion. We were all walking the path to enlightenment and lived in compassion and grace. The Shadow tried to rant at me once in a while, but found my lack of angst and receptiveness to his speculations detrimental to his own resolve. We were both going away. I spent a long time that way, probably longer than my whole unlife-but it was all a blur. I felt a connection to an unknown bliss. I was different, then. My thoughts were not my own, exactly; they were of the world, from another place, a higher place.

I was ready to move on. There was only one thing left to do then. I finally got my one last wish, today. The Spectres outside of the isle gate are no coincidence. I had to tell someone my whole story before my departure. I’ve been waiting all of this time for one last confrontation; then I can move on to whatever lies beyond. I’ve known about the Spectres out there for some time now, which is why I chose to share with you so conveniently before the arrival and the call to arms. There are others here who know what I know, and our privacy was assured. Remember this day, friend, for I won’t. I’ve told you all I can remember of who I was. I hope you enjoyed the story of a passing piece of history.

Mother was out there in the storm. She raved and screamed across the Hive-Mind for my destruction. There was an amazing force brought here just for me and I found it odd. It was time to say goodbye, though, so I began to move.

The storm rips at my corpus and drains my vitality. It is all right, for I won’t need it for long. I fly past the oblivious Spectres until I come to my mother. I release the shroud of shadow and face her one last time. I tell her that I loved her, and that I’m sorry she was disappointed in me, and that I hope she finds peace some day. She rends my corpus apart symbolically enough and I face the end.

The mouth of the void calls to me below, rippling and wavering. I sense that I could lose myself if I reject that place of destruction. I feel the pull to nothingness, but I have nothing left to fight with. There are none here to sway me, only myself and Oblivion. I forget both.

They all watch as I climb back up through the Maelstrom winds, flaming like a star. My eyes burn with the fires of absolution as I meet the crowd of Doomshades. It is time to go at last. Elisabeth, here I come. Mother looks at me with fear, for they all know what is coming. On the island, all eyes are upon me as none can avert from my radiance. My purity erupts in all directions, like a hurricane. The Spectres are devoured in my final passing; the island is safe from Oblivion, for now. I am no more. The story of my existence has ended perfectly, and I shall never have to mourn it.