The Masquerade
Posted: Mon Sep 04, 2023 3:58 pm
Older and Further Away
He knew he was old.
He knew because he had traveled long and far. Not just across physical distance from one land to another - but between realms in the grand cosmos as well.
It wasn't particularly impressive in the grand scheme of things, any competent sorcerer or wizard could conjure the power needed for portal travel. The more exotic spheres of existance demanded more effort, sometimes more powerful magic, sometimes artefact-keys, sometimes more esoteric material. But nothing beyond what time and determination could get you. And traveled he had.
Once upon a realm he had come across the teaching of a Chrono-Wizard who had written that time was relative. There was truth in that, he sometime pondered to himself. You can travel to one realm and live for a year and return to the other where a month has passed. Days are longer in some realms, shorter in other, and if you use the metric of a day and night cycle to extrapolate months and years then those words soon become meaningless.
Being old was relative as well. Most humans fade away in but a century whereas Elves walk their realms for millennia. Everything in between and beyond. Complicated things that he prefers not to dwell on.
But he knew that he was old. He was old for the time spent traveling and he was old for a being of his kind.
And it has begun to take it's toll. The Masquerade hides it - and hides it well. But in the flickering of it weariness and exhaustion can be gleamed.
The Masquerade is just that, a Masquerade. It is a deception, he freely confess to himself, but it is one of necessity and kindness - besides, an open deception is hardly a nefarious one. When it comes to his identity he obscures his own, this is true, but he does not lay claim to another.
Necessity...
Yes, it was necessity he tells himself.
A person looking at him from the outside often perceive his shape shifting, tall to short, slim to thick and back. His voice is modulated and mechanical. No trace of accent or other identifying marker. Colors coalesces and disperse, a slight blur. The tools available to a skilled illusionist is almost limitless. But the Masquerade goes deeper than magic.
He sometimes wonders where the Masquerade ends and He begins.
Necessity...
Such an appearance invites questions by its very nature.
He does not shy away from answering them. To the shopkeeper, the city guards and the odd adventurer the answer is the same: During his many travels he has amassed a collection of enemies. Some deserved, some undeserved and some by his own creation. Enemies he does not want to alert of his presence here in the keep. Necessity and kindness.
And that is the truth.
He thinks.
He ponders, pours through books and documents. Wandering the halls of the Guilds of the Keep collecting notes and observation. When it comes to his past there are sections... missing. Some events have a beginning and an end, but no middle. Some play out fully but with people or objects erased. Years gone.
He knows who he is beneath the Masquerade, but there is a lingering recurring thought that intrudes upon him during his quiet contemplations:
That his memories have been tampered with.
And he cannot rule out that they have been so intentionally by himself
He knew he was old.
He knew because he had traveled long and far. Not just across physical distance from one land to another - but between realms in the grand cosmos as well.
It wasn't particularly impressive in the grand scheme of things, any competent sorcerer or wizard could conjure the power needed for portal travel. The more exotic spheres of existance demanded more effort, sometimes more powerful magic, sometimes artefact-keys, sometimes more esoteric material. But nothing beyond what time and determination could get you. And traveled he had.
Once upon a realm he had come across the teaching of a Chrono-Wizard who had written that time was relative. There was truth in that, he sometime pondered to himself. You can travel to one realm and live for a year and return to the other where a month has passed. Days are longer in some realms, shorter in other, and if you use the metric of a day and night cycle to extrapolate months and years then those words soon become meaningless.
Being old was relative as well. Most humans fade away in but a century whereas Elves walk their realms for millennia. Everything in between and beyond. Complicated things that he prefers not to dwell on.
But he knew that he was old. He was old for the time spent traveling and he was old for a being of his kind.
And it has begun to take it's toll. The Masquerade hides it - and hides it well. But in the flickering of it weariness and exhaustion can be gleamed.
The Masquerade is just that, a Masquerade. It is a deception, he freely confess to himself, but it is one of necessity and kindness - besides, an open deception is hardly a nefarious one. When it comes to his identity he obscures his own, this is true, but he does not lay claim to another.
Necessity...
Yes, it was necessity he tells himself.
A person looking at him from the outside often perceive his shape shifting, tall to short, slim to thick and back. His voice is modulated and mechanical. No trace of accent or other identifying marker. Colors coalesces and disperse, a slight blur. The tools available to a skilled illusionist is almost limitless. But the Masquerade goes deeper than magic.
He sometimes wonders where the Masquerade ends and He begins.
Necessity...
Such an appearance invites questions by its very nature.
He does not shy away from answering them. To the shopkeeper, the city guards and the odd adventurer the answer is the same: During his many travels he has amassed a collection of enemies. Some deserved, some undeserved and some by his own creation. Enemies he does not want to alert of his presence here in the keep. Necessity and kindness.
And that is the truth.
He thinks.
He ponders, pours through books and documents. Wandering the halls of the Guilds of the Keep collecting notes and observation. When it comes to his past there are sections... missing. Some events have a beginning and an end, but no middle. Some play out fully but with people or objects erased. Years gone.
He knows who he is beneath the Masquerade, but there is a lingering recurring thought that intrudes upon him during his quiet contemplations:
That his memories have been tampered with.
And he cannot rule out that they have been so intentionally by himself