3. Nehilanth (The Sleeper Wakes)

Nehilanth (The Sleeper Wakes)

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    Account: Surrealistik
    Name: ~Nehilanth~
    Sex: Male
    Age: 166 (host body's physical age)
    Class: Sorcerer

    Shivering and semi-conscious, a solitary figure hurtles against the bleak nothingness circumscribing his diminutive form. Like a stone cast from some great precipice, he is but a spark lost admist distending chasms of swallowing dark. Lifeless in its entirety, not sound, nor sight or smell was to be discerned within this vacuous locus, bereft and empty, save for the humanoid anomaly on the panorama of forever. Seeing through oblivious, sleep-addled eyes, the halfling thing fails to appreciate the pallid stature of this eternal night, the implications of his endless descent entirely escaping him as he languishes in the surreal demi-reason of the dreamer.

    Though without comprehension of his surroundings, his awareness registers the stirrings deep within his subconscious mind, voices radiant and legible, edged with fearsome authority. With unerring clarity, their meaning transcends the obtrusive stupor, and speak to him of bitter truths, undeniable, ineffable, unthinkable. Diabolic corrosion besieges his sensibilities, bending and breaking where they fail to collapse outright beneath the weight of this dark revelation. As he falls eternally through the maw of void, so too does his mind fall with him, sharing in an agonized brotherhood of lamentation.

    Questions of how he had come to be here, where he was to go, what was to become of him, fade from the tormented remnaints of his rational brain like a dying, lurid sunset, only to be supplanted by now familiar symphonies of anguish. In his mind's eye, a part of him could not help but weep as all that he'd ever known himself to be was displaced and torn asunder in mental excruitation, psyche flayed to skeletal bone, whilst his consciousness remained all too aware of its own torturous destruction. For millenia he suffered in this way, sanity ground upon a millstone of profound agony and psychic violence till finally the rending stopped, and the queries of circumstance became those of benighted vengeance.

    At that very moment, the persona formerly known as Artemus Shadowdagger ceased to be. And entirely oblivious as that agonized speck, drifting its timeless path across the seasons of the abyss, the world slumbered in innocent complacency.

    Suddenly, a spontaneous shock of consciousness overwhelmed him, the comforting dark parting and shattering, yielding to a brazen, unwelcome light. It was the last thing he observed prior to his reinitiation amongst the world of the living.

    It was his doom to return as one of the disembodied, a wraith teeming with resentment as boundless as his eternal unlife. For decades he drifted aimlessly, attempting in vain to satiate the aeons of hurt and misery he'd known for so long, siphoning the lifeforce from all those foolhardy and unfortunate enough to acquaint him. His woe and appetite for retribution seemed bottomless, until one fateful night when drawn as a moth to flame, he happened upon a lone figure, performing various necromantic rites admist an isolated forest valley. The area was saturated with a foul energy, foliage beginning to wilt and wither, earth turning to lifeless rot, the wind howling as if in outrage at the bold desecration. The dabbler's eyes were shut tight in concentration, lips busied by profane forbidden chants as he dispersed silvered reagents, only to open to the sight of the malevolent spirit before him.

    Paralyzed in abject horror, he stood petrified in awe of the spectre as it drew ever closer. The ghostly form considered his imminent prey with a predatory glare, full hungry malice when in a rare, fleeting moment, his faculties returned, and a fiendish, cold logic gave birth to an idea that would forever change not only his own destiny, but that of the world in which he found himself. Sensing great power in the humbled, quivering flesh before him, an unusual potential beyond any he had previously encountered, the apparition studied closely the fragile humanoid he meant to so thoughtlessly quash only moments ago. A peculiar gnome, skin like dark obsidian capsulated a diminutive, hardy frame, eyes bearing an unusual reddish tint as of blood, with a meticulously groomed mustache and beard of a not dissimilar hue. A bleak, midnight robe concealed much of the body, finely woven and obviously of prodigious expense. Of greatest consequence to the wraith however, was the presence of his turbulent aura, teaming with arcane energy, and saturated with raw power. In him, and in his phenomenal unrealized strength, the spirit saw a champion, an avenger, a tool and medium to vindicate the pain that had beset him for so long, and so deeply. In terror the gnome stared, and in terror was his formidable soul mercilessly devoured to facilitate his own gruesome possession.

    Pleased with his handiwork, invigorated by his consumption, and mired freshly in skin and musculature, comforted in the flesh trappings he had left behind so long ago, his new face curled in a horrid sneer. Without knowledge of his past, and in grim anticipation of his future, it occured to him an identity would be required to infiltrate and poison the civilizations he so reviled. It was then a new blight unto the ignorant land was born, memories of his past life suppressed before the countless excruitations inflicted upon him, sanity destroyed and reshaped amongst the aeons of relentless suffering, emptied and hollow of all but consuming hatred, contempt and agony. His name was Nehilanth.


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