Ignotus drifted, his consciousness unmoored from his body, falling through his own history.
He didn't have a choice in the matter. When a Runebearer's Soul ran dry of Divinity before a wielder of Illusion, they became vulnerable to direct attacks, ones that used the Runebearer's own mind against them.
Ignotus fell to such, and now...
Like a creeping mold, the complete reality of his existence threaded its way through his mind. Birth, death, birth again. Decay and bloom. A million stitches from a million microscopic wounds he'd inflicted on everyone he'd ever met.
With every muscle he'd moved and every word he'd spoken.
Ignotus's very existence hurt himself.
A lonely Soul in a void by itself.
It lived for decades, and then it was gone.
And then it was there once again.
A reprieve. A fulfilling life. An attempt at love. A steady path. Recognition from his people. Respect and admiration. All here one moment, gone the next...
The worms have found their orifices.
