Spirit Wielder

393 AC - The scene in front of me comes to life like a puppet show, but one made of light rather than shadow. I snort at the irrefutable evidence. At first, I didn't believe the gossip I'd heard about this over a pint at the Mess. But now that I'm seeing them right in front of me, there's no more denying it. The Spirit Wielder touches all the blocks that she passes one by one. I feel the pull of her Avgrunn, which draws the ideas out of their stone mausoleums like mice being forced out of their burrows. With a simple touch of her hands on stone, an entire area of the underground city springs to life around us in golden, ghostly silhouettes. Homes, people milling around, seemingly going about their daily routines… as if shaped out of sand by the Sandman.

Over there is a merchant at his stall. And there's a student in a hurry, and washerwomen. All these scenes are overlaid over the ruins like memories plucked from the depths of time. I can't stop myself from touching one of the nearby shapes, but my fingers just brush against emptiness, passing through the form as if it were fog. I pass through them and the walls of their homes, the columns of their temple… It's a strange and unsettling feeling, a sensation of lives lost but looking to come back, to complete an indistinct and never-ending quest. Eternal prisoners of a shattered destiny. The Spirit Wielder watches them with sadness and a touch of resentment. I suspected it would affect her, as she was usually the one responsible for bringing the heroes' ashes back to Haven, so they could reside in the Parliament among the worthy. As she would maybe return mine one day so they could rest among the other ghosts of our past champions.

BASIRA