Seifer Rosemont: What is the Meaning of a Soul?

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susitsu
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Seifer Rosemont: What is the Meaning of a Soul?

Post by susitsu » Wed Aug 28, 2019 12:55 pm

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AiWjDNby5Ys

I try not to bother with trivial questions. Questioning my own existence has only ever led to destruction. But of late, I cannot escape the thought of my human soul. It is in now of all times such a question loses its triviality, for the truth of this ritual was to answer this question, which I am sure will lead to another. But such are the demands of bloody rituals like these.

Dragon's blood used to paint an offense upon The Reaver's symbol. Non-mortal blood, that of one of his servants. Death unto death, it said.

So I am left to wonder what the meaning of a soul is, as I prepare to alter the nature of my own. Outsiders are said to have a dual-nature, something I understand very well. But I am not bound by the nature of this existence. Yes, the very idea of a soul seems to be choice from birth. But then again, maybe that means I don't have a soul?

A smile creased upon Seifer's lips as he merrily rounded the murder scene. It could all be a tribute to Faluzure, if not for the fact it was the very rare gathering of a few of his own cultists on the isles of Arelith. As of late, the strength of the local dragons have swelled, and so, others are looking to gain a foothold. He was amazed he even found them, particularly the signs of their slaughter unnoticed by another.

Can't say I don't enjoy thinking something like that.

He moved to draw his rapier from its sheath; a rather simple blade these days. Nothing like his dear Symashelt. He winced in regret at what he was about to do. There were so many meanings behind it. His red eyes drifted up from the blade to the series of bloody symbols he had drawn on the cave with his bare hands. He had removed his gauntlets, and at this point, dried, flaking blood was falling from his hands. He had spent far too long in contemplation after preparing the ritual.

He had lost the time. It happened rather regularly for him. He took a deep breath, and re-sheathed the blade. He hadn't completely taken off his armor, just the gauntlets, and now was the time to do so. The ritual was going to begin once he was out, so he didn't rush. It had been a long, long time since he used the full extent of his powers. He didn't even use them in this fight-and it had been hard-fought for such a reason.

His armor came off like scraps.

The once pristine knight looked like he might fall here, for barely a moment. Fatigue, blood loss not recovering fast enough, days spent travelling and near delirious when his magic failed him. It all piled up against his sanity and yet he still stood. And he did not fall. He sniffed, glancing down at his body covered in wounds nearly forgotten as his magic stopped healing him.

He began to drink a few potions, in a haze at first, but then the warding magic kicked in-and his senses refocused. He had offended his one side of his god. The one that empowered him to be War.

His breath caught in his threat, but he composed himself. He let his guard falter just a little more with no one around. He should be afraid. He wasn't. But he was most certainly an anxious tiefling. That he could not deny. Dressed appropriately, yet with holes in various spots on his underclothes and dried blood heavily staining it, he slowly knelt before a massive, bloody sign of Chronepsis.

"I petition thee. Take my power as a sacrifice. I spurn The Reaver. Change the nature of my pact."

Then, he drew his blade and impaled himself in the chest. He couldn't remember what came next. Red bolts of lightning. Billowing clouds of smoke. Evil eyes that would never forget. That night, a darkness seemed to linger in the clouds of Arelith, Hungering.

If a soul is a choice, then am I only making half of one?

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