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[Loreroot] It Is The Mystery That Endures.

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There always seemed to be a distance between the man Driftwood, and those that were near him. Amongst salons and throngs alike there was something that hovered around him, shivered about him that kept all others at bay. There were, of course, times where what could be called a guard was dropped. That term however, is completely improper. One could ask The Archivist Pamplemousse, or perhaps the Pirate-Captain Cryxus ( though admittedly, it has been some time since that one has seen it). Ask of them how his gaze sparkles when the dreadlocks are pulled away, or how that same gaze glowers and smolders when the tendrils hide his face.

He smiled softly, one of the moments where he was himself. His wide grin spoke of the first breath of spring, and his gentle look whispered of secrets to be told if only he were asked. " I Was born in Loreroot, though those days are so far behind me that they could be called another life". As always, he was dressed for utility. Tanned-hide leggings that had seen him through so much, and the leather overcoat that showed his chest and arms. An innumerable number of pouches, sewn on pockets, and satchels adorned his figure, and it was here that his hands found themselves. Big tanned hands with calloused fingers, a matching pair that each set themselves to different purposes. One moved with practiced grace to a well worn pouch; pulled from it was his pipe, splinter, and leaf. The other searched frenetically, patting some pockets, fingering through pouches. Throughout the entire ordeal his eyes never left yours, his soft grin unwavering, if a bit apologetic. Finally he pulled out a piece of red silk, a ribbon really, and tied his hair back with one deft hand. " Thank you for your indulgence, Sit if you wish.".

His customary spot was by the fire, two well worn upholstered chairs both facing the flame. Before he found his seat he lit the splinter in the licking light, puffing his leaf-packed pipe to life. " Yes, I can't say as I remember my parents faces. I do, however, remember running barefoot through the woods. I had no friends, I couldn't tell you why; I just preferred to stalk and run through the woods silently I suppose. I worshiped at the altar of Wolf and Stag. I had seen enough summers to call myself a man, had my first shave and offered the shaved stubble to the moon as was custom. That is my last true memory among my people*.

A few had gathered, it was rare he spoke so much in one sitting. He, however, showed no notice; he was lost in the story. " I was hunting for the first time as a man, with bow and knife I stalked Hart and Fox. The moon had long since past it's zenith, a full moon that was unnaturally bright that evening. I remember believing it watched me...how true our idle dreams can become. In my wand'rings i happened upon a cave. I cannot explain my fixation on it, but for so many heartbeats I stood and considered it. Every time i ventured to walk past it, my heart would scream at me to turn back. In my own time i entered into that dark; naught but keen eyes and sharp ears to lead me into it's depths".

It was odd to watch his idle perfection. As he sat and spoke he was at a perfect rest. His spine was straight and his hands evenly on each thigh; perfect balance at all times. Each puff on his burning pipe sent forth a perfect circle, each in turn concentric to the one before it. " The depths of that cave were endless, I lost my way in fact. I was beyond the smell of fresh air and I began to panic. Still, though, i moved forward. I wish I could explain that night, that feeling.....the reason i did not turn and run. If I could tell you how much time had passed I would. Eventually I was beyond panic. My people do not do well outside of the free air, my very bones shivered with fear that I would die in this dank and stale place. In my...fear..in my panic I cried out. With all of me I cried out to whomever would listen. It was not the Stag that carried me swiftly, nor the Wolf that stalked form shadow to shadow to show me the way. No..."

His eyes took on a...harder look. A difficult look to explain. The sort of look you see on a grizzled veterans face when you tell him what a hero he was; when the child says that he too wishes for a life glory such as this warrior's. "He Called himself the Maker. He did not appear as a man, or a flash, or anything. He was an undeniable presence that told me He had led me here. Told me that he had Made me For a specific purpose. He Told me that this Cavern led through the Three Hells. The three realms of Disharmony after this life ends and move on to the next. He told me that was my path home. He said safe passage was assured through it, though I would learn things that I perhaps would wish I hadn't. He offered me the choice of moving forward with certainty of safety of and change, or to turn around and wander the darkness and perhaps find my way home the same man; also to perhaps die in anonymity....What choice was that?

" I WIll not tell you here what I saw in those realms, and I cannot tell you where I traveled between after those hells and before home. I can tell you that I learned much In Dis, Limbo, and Purgatory; the Maker was right, I wish that things hadn't been necessary to learn. There are old Laws that govern this world. There are older rules that one such as I must play by. Rules are the nature of the world. We breathe, or we die. Eat Or die. These are rules. Without these rules we would have no life. It is similar with myself. These rules Give me much power, but define the way it may be used strictly. There are very few that still play the Oldest game. ".

His empty pipe was tapped free of it's ash, his body stretched out towards the hearth and reaching. He stood and stowed the long piece of shaped wood, pulling the ribbon from his hair and letting the dreadlocks cover his features once more. His Dark eyes almost seemed to glow behind the napped tendrils. That aforementioned 'something' hung around him now, perhaps you know what it is now. " It is this ones purpose to remind this World of It's Maker. To wander ceaselessly and re-teach the Oldest game. Rekindle the Ancient laws. This one is tireless. This one will pursue the end, until the end is reached." His features softened, his neck tilting to one side, letting his hair fall to the side to show his face. " Then I will die. My purpose fulfilled, and allowed to return to my true home".

He turned then, without a goodbye, without even an acknowledgment that he was done. Bare feet, calloused hard and road-stained, bore him out of the small building. Silence was all that he left in his wake, that and the subtle crackle of a fire that was soon to be put to bed. Edited by Shadowseeker

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This world, as all other worlds, exists in relation that which surrounds it. It has it's knights, and it's champions. It's rulers, it's gods, and it's shapers. Temporal at best, these are the forces which give name to that which exists here. Before all of these, before The Cross Templars flew their flags, before the chief Deity of this realm sought to put to life what passed through his mind, there was the Maker.

His ways are barely comprehensible, in fact often attributed to other devices. His existence is in question, and often outright denined; but still there is the maker. Every thing ever created, every word written, every idea given life, springs from him. From the void, he brought substance, from nothing something. THe force is undeniable; though others claim to have made this world, they've only given shape to what the maker originally conceived. Nothing passes without his consent, nothing is shaped without his guiding touch. Every act of genesis springs from him, for everything in this world, and all other worlds, are made of him.

You can choose to deny this existence, you can choose to claim for yourself that which is only his. Know this, one day the maker will come in full glory, and he will bring his Rule to this world, as he has to every world before he has walked. I am his servant, his vessel, through me may his Voice be known in this world which remains ignorant of him. Ill-will is not offered, but know that his rule is inexorable; as the tsunami crashes to the shore, as the molten stone pours from the earth, as the storm passes and fades, so too will the Maker come to bring this world under his Gaze.

(OOC: Don't think that i'm claiming ANY hand in what Mur has built here, It's enjoyable and I could have done none of it. I'm simply introducing a new God, and claiming my character as his Servant and Avatar. I'm not a power-gamer, my purpose is not to upset or usurp. What is said here may be true or not, my character believes it all to be true. What is true (In character) is that some power took Drift, protected him through the Three hells, and brought him safely back home to loreroot. The power has little belief in him here, so his strength is minimal. His only form of combat is The Oldest Game; and his goal is to consolidate power of the realm in his hands, by which to rule it).

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