Welcome to Gray Morality, a blog dedicated to my FFXIV (and GW2) characters. It's mostly centered on my main, Fakhri Man'tik, but you'll find a lot of entries on Katsuro Wakahisa in the archive (previous main). You may also see a switch to GW2 as I picked up the game recently, after a 10 years hiatus.
A man of dubious morals, a con artist, a blue mage (mesmer) but also an entertainer, a musician and oracle; this man is a weird melting pot. One could easily say a jack-of-all-trades. And indeed he has worked many odd jobs in his life - musician, singer, barman, janitor, waiter, cashier, mascot (don't ask), crier, courier, dock worker, fortuneteller, magician, forest guide - but whatever gets coins in the pouch, right?
[FFXIV] You'll mostly find him in Thavnair nowadays, as this is where he works now, being part of Jijivisha. But also because he finally has settled down some, having found that special someone and living with her under the same roof. (@catscratching)
His carrd | https://fakhrimantik.carrd.co
GW2 carrd | https://fakhrimantik-gw2.carrd.co
The Blue Oracle | https://blueoracle.carrd.co
The Hríð tribe | https://hrid-tribe.carrd.co
Character's physical ref. site | https://kurohebi.weebly.com
The note sits, solitary, upon the message board. A letter, its content spilling out of an envelope; an overflow of emotions trapped in ink.
I tried.
To say you haven't taught me anything would be a lie. Even this old monkey could learn new tricks. Maybe I fight a bit better now, maybe I learned a thing or two about myself, my limits, my untapped potential. Maybe I learned to love - and hate - in all new and different ways. Maybe I learned that even my desire to protect can run dry.
I do a lot of things without expecting gratitude. I carry the burden of others in my heart, in my head. Helping them is helping me - am I selfless or selfish? Yet, when one risks their life for the cause, sometimes coins are not enough of a payment. I'm still waiting. It's futile, isn't it?
I tried.
I'm done trying. If a lifetime of expertise is not enough, a few more weeks, months, will not tip the scales.
What I wrote is my farewell.
But perhaps what I wrote may also be a lie.
... even the end could be a new beginning
It was extremely rare -actually, scratch that - it was something you’d not expect to see in a hundred years: Fakhri training in the Coil; Yet here he was. Using clones to fight against oneself wasn’t optimal, however, as the subconscious would always control them to not seriously harm the conjurer. Still, for his purposes, they were enough - that is, serving as moving targets that could retaliate.
Contrary to popular belief (perhaps), a Mesmer’s clones’ fighting abilities were partly dependent on the caster’s own combat knowledge. As an Asura would say, ‘they come equipped with a basic software but, to be really efficient, they need the addons.’ [No Asura ever said that of clones, probably.] Fakhri's clones clearly operated on more than a ‘basic software’, despite him saying otherwise.
A life spent running away and avoiding fights, yet being dragged into them despite his best attempts. He had learned to read his opponents, predict their moves, mastered evading techniques - thus he slowly but surely built his combat knowledge. As such, the man was often just a blur, using his Mesmer magic to blink, teleport and shadowstep within the limits of the Coil, ambushing his own clones. If they came at him, they met one of their own, newly materialized, or found the emptiness left after a mirage dissipates.
If this training would serve him in an actual fight - moreso the kind the Covenant seemed to face fairly regularly - only time would tell. It was one thing to dispatch a clone, and another entirely to raise a weapon against a living person. It wasn't cowardice, nor was he such a pacifist that he believed all lives deserved to be preserved. He simply *felt* too much, *saw* too much.
He was but one man, who had experienced well over one hundred births, one hundred deaths, and how many more hundreds before he'd be freed from it all…
The con man was a very patient man; he had to, as a good con takes time. Thorough research on his target, on the environment, on anything of import that had the potential to affect the play, as dealing with unsuspecting actors that had to remain that way was always a risk. Yet even a very patient man had his limits. One of them: his impatience towards himself.
Fakhri had too many things cluttering his mind as of late, could he truly blame himself for the ‘slower-than-usual’ learning of something entirely new? It’d been two months since he started studying and practicing sign language yet the road had been slow. Being unable to practice consistently, paired with a lack of focus, were obviously to blame but, no… he could do better. He WOULD do better. If the average for learning the basics was three months, he’d achieve this milestone in two!
It’d been two months already.
The milestone hadn’t been reached; at least not with an A+ as top of his class.
Maybe there was a lesson, lost somewhere in there. That patience was a virtue he should continue to cultivate, that since he didn’t expect perfection from others thus he shouldn't expect it from himself, that he shouldn’t place the bar so high from the get go, that he should show himself a bit more kindness. Really, the lessons could be many; He ignored them all.
When the time comes to put this knowledge to the test, he'll be ready!
People of the Viper's Covenant wearing their best for a mission!
Left to Right -
Sivhyr Varindottir, Katsuro Wakahisa, Shakti Forgewill, Astheria Orvana, Josephine Adler, Fjord Silvergait and Caeldeni.
“Here’s to never see yer fuckin’ face ever again. Take care.”
~ Fakhri 1335 AE
================== +++ ===================
Zephyr of 1339 AE
Cantha was… something else. Like stepping into a whole different world, or springing forth into the future, at least as far as New-Kaineng was concerned. Fakhri couldn’t say he disliked it, more like it felt overwhelming. This part of the world had been isolated for so long, humanity had taken a different path towards evolution. What had saved his sanity, however, was the common denominator in every society - its people. Especially the working class and those below, for in every societal hierarchy lies the rich and powerful and those they abuse. One will always find those begging for coins and food in shady streets, those working three jobs to make it through the weeks, the months, the years… and those finding their place in the shades of gray - where Fakhri belonged. It hadn’t taken long, walking that thin line between *right* and *wrong*, to figure out crime syndicates were the true rulers of the capital. Some called themselves Yakuza, in honor of some long forgotten traditions, others had taken different names: cartels, rings, or good ol’ guilds. They were all the same, some with more honor than others, but all ready to fling barely veiled threats to get their protection money. Obviously, Fakhri had to get embroiled with one of those.
Hagane-kai was a bit on the fringe of tradition, its current leader a man of vision. While they still called themselves Yakuza, Fakhri saw them as a strange marriage of organized crime and secret society. Instead of dealing in smuggling, protection money and racketeering, they dealt in information - that is, the acquiring and selling of said information. A glorified group of spies, thieves and assassins. They owned an opium den in the capital that served as a means to contact them, as well as a few underground gambling dens, even a courtesan house of high reputation. Rumors were abundant, but seldom truth. That much Fakhri realized early on as he tried to dig information on the group.
It was also quite hard to hide from them.
And this was coming from a con man, a master of illusions. Every time he lost them, they’d find him again. Until he was in too deep, ready to call his losses and go back to Kryta-
“Reminiscing on the past?”
That voice, that one voice he really didn’t want to hear ever again. Fakhri knew, before he even turned to look at the person to whom it belonged, that *they* had found him, yet again. With a groan, a hand lifting and fingers combing through his mane of gray hair, he pivoted.
“The Black fuckin’ Snake, come in person to greet me as I walk into the city. I feel special.” Fakhri spat every ounce of animosity he could at the Canthan man, who had one of his rare smiles on his lips.
“Blue Oracle. Always a delight. Are you here for business or pleasure?” The man was shorter than Fakhri, but commanded a sort of respect one simply couldn’t ignore. He oozed self-discipline, a weapon sharpened and controlled by the hand of his master.
“I learned that lesson; I be here for pleasure and nothin’ more. Visitin’ a friend, if ya even know what that is. Why are *ya* here? Surely ya got better things to do than check the waypoint in case I showed my face ‘round here ‘gain.” Lips settled into a flat line.
The other man took a few, casual steps towards the Mesmer, seemingly unbothered by his hostility towards him. “Of course not. I was merely passing by. It’s been three years, has it not? Fate can be… quite surprising. But, as I recall, you have a front row seat into such Fate. Unless there’s been some development on that front?”
Fakhri had an urge to just punch the bastard in the face. And urge he wouldn’t act upon; He didn’t have a death wish.”I still got my fuckin’ front row ticket, thanks for askin’. Well it’s been *great* to see ya ‘gain, Wakahisa, but imma be on my merry way.” He offered one hell of a fake smile and turned aroun-
“Could I bother you for another collaboration?” Fakhri froze. “The terms would, obviously, be far more agreeable than they previously were. All debts have been paid, after all.”
Was he serious right now?! Was he fuc- “Are ya fuckin’ serious?!” Well, that got out rather fast. “I- why- THE FUCK?!”
“Splendid. Then let us discuss over a cup of tea.”
Wakahisa’s smile was eerie and dangerous, something you didn’t turn your back to. The man walked past the Mesmer, not once doubting he would follow to the nearest teahouse. And indeed, Fakhri did. What they discussed that day, well, some would know on a later date. What’s for certain, however, is that the con man would suffer the presence of the Black Snake for far longer than he ever signed up for.
Today marked Fakhri's 45th birthday, and his son's 2nd. Fate had decided he'd be born on the same day as his father, in the wee hours of the morning. Ayaz, their little miracle. How desperately his parents had tried for a child, yet years had trickled by, until they both accepted the harsh reality that no child of their own would ever be conceived. Fakhri was quite certain his many years as a slave to the bottle were to blame - excessive alcohol consumption did have a direct effect on human male fertility. Resigned, they turned their consideration towards adoption…
He remembered keenly that moment when Seda ‘skipped a month', and then the morning sickness came in. Was it really happening?! The following months had been a mixture of happiness and anxiety; what if something happened? If she miscarried? What if -
Ayaz was born after many hours of labor, both the mother and child in good health despite the ordeal. And the boy would bring so much joy to their lives.
Fakhri woke up to find an expensive bottle of whisky and a small cake on the side table by the bed; was that a toddler's handprint in the icing? This made him chuckle as he pushed himself to a sitting position. Seda was already up, obviously, and came from the side room with their boy in tow. Trying to get Ayaz to stay quiet a bit longer so papa could rest had probably been a challenge.
The “Happy birthday, love.” from Seda was nearly drowned by a resounding “Papa!” as Ayaz threw himself towards his father. Used to navigate around an energetic toddler, Seda still managed to steal a kiss from her husband before Ayaz attempted to climb onto the bed.
“Happy birthday to ya as well, little man. Come here, I want my birthday hug.” The hug soon turned into a hug pile as a rat joined in, followed by Seda, arms encircling her boys. An endearing picture.
“It's friggin' early but -” It wasn't that early, the clock already passed nine. “- I got a birthday song for ya.” His guitar was swiftly brought to him by his wife, always eager to hear Fakhri play or sing. Ayaz plopped his bum on the bed, eyes wide and smile even wider, as the first notes rang in their small inn room.
The song was an old one, something Fakhri's grandfather used to sing on his grandson's birthday. It had roots in Elona, part of the lyrics in Common and part in the Elonian tongue. It spoke of a desire to protect, to love and to always be there by his side.
I've brought expensive gifts, however
I've brought the gift of love as well
I'll be with you in every moment
I've come as your shadow
Not a single wave of pain will be able to touch you
Any trouble that tries to come will return back to where it came from
Needless to say, Ayaz was too young to understand any of it. The song had a catchy beat, however, and this the toddler seemed to appreciate as the song was followed by excited clapping. The smile Fakhri gave back was beaming, a simple and pure joy that brought tears to his eyes. Tears he would never be ashamed to shed for those he loved so dearly.
He tried to forget, he really did. That's why alcohol became a problem, little by little. Drugs also, on occasion. Did it work?
… Not really.
As soon as his body got rid of whatever substance he'd ingested, the haze would lift, leaving him alone to face whatever memories had managed to bore into his mind. Cursed to remember, to see and ‘live’ through nightmares not of his own making. Even as time trickled by, even when he thought he'd outran them, they were there…
Just there.
At the corner of his (mind) eye.
Ready to pounce.
A predator.
The haze returns and with it the foreboding feeling of a prey being stalked is pushed aside. A bottle hits the table with a dull thump, a hand still clasped around it. He's not ready to face the memories. To remember.
Fakhri walked within a world of man-made miracles that functioned on greed - anything was possible, for a price. Coins could see a rival lose everything, be exposed and humiliated, or be outright killed. And for a bit more coins, the body disposed of in a clean and untraceable manner. Secrets could be kept, or bought. Alliances could be made, or destroyed. People could manipulate, or be manipulated.
As a confidence man, he was keenly aware of the price tag attached to everything. However, unlike many in this walk of life, he also knew their real value. In other words, it was the domain of emotions. Many saw this as a weakness, an unnecessary burden. Maybe it was if you were in the business of assassinations. Even for a con man it was debatable, as they were manipulators yet not necessarily big on empathy - quite the opposite, actually.
Fakhri could argue that he didn't choose the life of a criminal, the life chose him but… that would be a lie. He chose this, wholeheartedly, knowing full well he'd be working against traits of his personality that would make this path an arduous one. Hyper-empathy in a con artist was laughable and counterproductive. How many tried to dissuade him? How many saw him as soft and too good for this kind of job? Too many. He lost count, after a while. Did it really matter? Not really.
Actually… he welcomed it. Let them have a false perception of him, let them think of him as far less capable than he truly was. Let them remain blind to his true goals.
Let them join the ‘too many’.
Too many people know the price of everything and the value of nothing. - Ann Landers
Sometimes life was a straight path - although it seldom was - and oftentimes it was full of twists and turns, of ups and downs, of backing up before going forward. Some would say if you got lost on that path, no worries, life would find a way so you'd find your way again. They lied. Some would remain lost forever. Unless someone happened upon that path, acting as a guide. That someone could be anyone, really. Even a rat.
With a flair for the dramatic, perhaps, the first time said rat intervened in mortal’s affairs was to offer the choice of life or death to one specific human.; A seer. Maybe this was the singular important aspect of said human, or maybe there was more. Regardless, the choice was given, but that was all there was. The will to act upon it was entirely up to this human.
The human chose life.
For whatever obscure or divine reason, the rat remained by His Human’s side afterwards. Maybe the seer saw the threads intertwined, maybe he understood - even if he denied it - that the rat acted as a guiding light, preventing the human from going the wrong way, from getting lost amidst all those threads, tangled inside them despite his best efforts. The rat kept him on the right path.
Was there even a wrong path?
The rat offered life or death; the human chose life.
The rat offered peace or madness; the human chose peace.
The rat offered love or solitude; the human chose love.
The rat offered a challenge… the human took it, faltered, hesitated…
He walked back the way he came…
.
.
.
Arak had brought something back to Fakhri on one of his little rat adventures - an earring in the shape of a snake. It was a cute little hoop earring, likely one of a pair. The alloy didn't look expensive, nothing worth reselling. He'd toy with it absentmindedly over the span of two weeks as he recuperated from the mental strain that came with delving into Caeldeni's mind. Was this another choice?
His pale gray gaze had fallen on his furry companion. Arak never offered twice, as far as he could remember. You had to take the leap of faith before that window of opportunity closed. Some windows remained open longer than others, but he could never be entirely certain how much time was left. Two weeks was a long time, as far as open windows went. Eyes shifted up, to the back of his wife who was sitting at her work desk, busy forging a letter for a client. And then at his son sitting on the floor, playing with wooden blocks and building… well it was something. Maybe a castle? Arak had jumped down from Fakhri's lap and went to help, demolishing more than he built. At least he was trying.
The shape of the tiny snake was traced with a finger as Fakhri looked upon his family. This… he had all of this because of a rat. And because the man, to whom choices were offered, had decided to trust in this unlikely creature. Gathering his courage and his strength, choosing the harder paths - always - but also reaping the much bigger rewards. Happiness wasn't easy. It wasn't handed to you on a platter. It required hard work, sacrifices, blood and tears. And doing what was right also required the same strength and courage. The same selflessness.
He'd been walking the wrong way; he knew how to find his path again.
===
By the morning, a stranger had accosted her at the market. A comely man with a bright smile. He'd fished a small item from a pocket and handed it to her - a cute hoop earring in the shape of a snake. How did he know?! She'd lost it two weeks ago and had told no one. A vision? How peculiar… Could he read her future then? No? Too bad. The return of her earring was already a miracle, couldn't ask for more. He left without asking for anything in return. She smiled. This was going to be an amazing day.
This was going to be the day the Viper's Covenant would achieve victory in yet another fight against corruption.
Yesterday marked the end of our current guild's chapter so we took a little celebratory group pic.
Left to right
Front row | Dalgwynn The Blue, Astheria Orvana (Cobra), Researcher Koumi (Python), The Viper (Ze Masked Boss), Fakhri Man'tik (look it's me!), Diatalis, and Josephine Adler
Back row | Caeldeni (@anamsgith), Vesper Riot (Cobra), Fjord Silvergait (Cobra), and Shakti Forgewill
And all the way behind the whole group is a Zash Armaad that can only be seen on the second image. And his skritt Bimbiz managed to get in the group shot apparently.
The world will ask who you are and, if you do not know, the world will tell you. - Carl Jung
Unless one lives the life of a hermit, they will always be the subject of criticism and insults at one point or another; There's always someone who won't like you. It may be fleeting, or it may last a lifetime. Words have power, however, and one should be careful to not let those words influence what defines them. The same is true for praises as they can go to one's head quite easily. It's a lesson we all had to learn; For some, the price to pay was a night in jail.
Fakhri Narayan was sixteen, good looking if a bit thin for lack of proper nourishment. He'd been on his own for a bit over a year, roaming the streets of the Reach in search of adequate targets or suitable spots for his little scam game. Rumors about him, however, were beginning to spread - the Narayan family didn't have a great reputation. Despite all the efforts of Fakhri's grandfather to remain a man of good morals, his biological father's reputation erased any good attached to the family name. Thus when Akbar died, the weight of the Narayan fell on Fakhri's shoulders.
At sixteen, Fakhri had already visited the prisons twice and subsequently brought to the orphanage from which he fled. This clearly wasn't going to work. A life on the run wasn't any way to live. But what was a youth to do when they lacked a mentor and were being crushed under the reputation of a name. Change one's name, obviously.
Naive and inexperienced, a mere change in name wasn't going to be the key to immediate success. But the psychological aspect of such a decision…? This proved to be more meaningful to the young man than any decisions taken before, a silent oath to himself that he could achieve greatness, that he could become the best.
Thus Fakhri Man’tik was (re)born. A play on mantic - relating to or pertaining to prophecy or divination - as he was perhaps already aware his sleep was haunted by something more than dreams. Regardless of the reason, this new name gave him power over himself, paving the way for what he'd become.
He wouldn't let the world tell him who he was; He'd show the world instead.
Everybody will show you who they are, just give them time.
- Maya Angelou
By definition, he was a crook. He had no qualms about stealing from others, going as far as playing with their heartstrings to coax money willingly out of them. He didn't bat an eye if he destroyed their lives in the process, and he wouldn't lose sleep if they ended up alone and penniless. He'd destroy their reputation if it was needed, or isolate them from any friends they ever had.
By definition, he was heartless; For who could manipulate in such a way without first shedding all shreds of empathy? Who could see another suffer without an ounce of remorse?
Except he did care. He cared too much. His victims were chosen carefully - the arrogants, the corrupted, the self-centered - and they deserved whatever punishment came their way. All of them had money to spare, or something else of worth, something that could be taken and redistributed to those who actually needed it.
To those he cared about.
He was a heartless crook; He was a benevolent figure, with empathy cranked way too high.
He was a thief; He gave more than what he kept.
Everybody saw him in a different light, one was under the stage light - costumes and masks - and the other was under an unfiltered natural light - no makeup, no script - giving away the fruits of his labor.
The market square was packed at this hour, the sun high and offering very little shadows to hide from the heat of mid-summer. More fragile goods were offered the meager protection of an awning while any jewelry, fabrics or eye-catching products were taking advantage of the light - those necklaces and rings were dazzling. The boy who was casually walking the streets, however, knew better; fake gold and artificial stones, their steep prices but a ruse to convey a sense of authenticity to which didn't deserve it.
Thus the boy passed those stands, uninterested. And, like any boy his age, he stopped by the candy shop and gave a longer look at the toys. Sadly, with no coins and no parent or guardian for him to pester, looking is all he could do. This, however, was all pretend. Boys his age were often recruited to steal and thus eyes were on him, despite the innocence his youth should convey. And this is what he'd been hoping for. Practice couldn't be called as such if there wasn't some level of difficulty. He didn't linger overlong, however, and soon the merchants could relax their stance as the fifteen years old left the crowded market.
======
Nine, ten, eleven… Eleven coppers!
For a single sweep of the market, this was quite a haul! With a grin, young Fakhri counted his fortune yet again before hiding the coins inside his clothes. As far as he knew, no eyes ever caught him in the act - he'd have the Seraphs on his ass by now - and he could only pat himself on the back; he was getting good at this. But petty theft didn't make one rich…
Maybe it was time to up his game and use that silver tongue of his. But first, he'd need a mentor. His grin widening, the boy left his hide, resolute to climb the ladder of social hierarchy - or at the very least get out of the streets.
Fakhri stood alone at the edge of the Coil, its gray stones smeared with dry blood and sap - a testament to the intensity of the battle which had taken place here the day prior. The ritual to rid Theri of that damn ghost was a success, apparently; the news traveled fast. The cursed coin, however, had not been needed. Nor this mesmer’s presence.
Many sleepless nights, nightmares upon nightmares… he had been forced to process it all on his own, and he would carry those memories - this trauma - within him until the day he died. All for nothing. His gaze traveled over the Coil and he sighed. Despite it all, he was yet again amongst the last ones standing. Physically uninjured. Unless all the same.
His mind went back to seven months ago - had it been this long already? - when Fjord had invited himself to the con man's gambling table in that shady bar. They'd play (and cheated) a few hands. When the two men went their separate ways that night, Fakhri was the covenant's newest recruit. But there was a small print to this contract - he could leave whenever he wished, without retribution.
Maybe that time had come.
He'd be lying to himself if he pretended he didn't care about the others. He did, he always did. He did way too fucking much. This was the reason he tried to be of service, working his butt off to keep the coins coming, preventing the covenant's coffers from going dry, and assuring everyone got paid. The riches he was promised, half of his earnings given as a voluntary tithe, all this money could be his; He simply had to leave.
The Viper's words echoed in his mind; that single time they met face to face. They met before, in a world not bound by the rules of the waking world.
Don’t fuck up. Just after that grand speech about consequences, given with the warning of a bullet to the head. He didn't need this, he didn't deserve this. Control by fear was something he couldn't abide with. Maybe it worked with others, maybe it was necessary when you had to lead a group of terrorists.
Fakhri wasn't one of those.
Turning around, he slowly made his way back to the waypoint. From there, he could see the path leading to the few buildings amongst which was the port authority office, something he helped build and maintain. Above the ramparts, he could spy the lone masts of what would eventually be the backbone of their shipping company. His gaze traveled to the right, spying the roof of the tavern that had seen so much drama in such a short time. And then behind him, the guild hall… he gave it but a quick look, not wanting to linger. Before activating the waypoint, however, he cast a look at the newly constructed (and expanded) infirmary. It couldn't be missed, sitting right beside the main plaza. Thoughts swirled in his mind - was there anyone inside, was Marian busy tending to them all, how bad was everyone's injuries…
There wasn't anything he could do for any of them, even if he paid them a visit. The waypoint flashed; The man was gone.
+++
Fakhri wouldn't be seen on the island from that day forth, though anyone going to the Reach would find him working ‘his turf’ as he always did. The warm tone of his voice would be heard in bars and venues of all sorts, deft hands would bring forth melodies plucking strings or dancing over a piano’s keys. No coins, however, would be added to the covenant’s coffers, no help given to Fjord as the ledgers remained untouched by the oracle. The frequent trips and the many deals with merchants and providers came to a stop, possibly resulting in a temporary shortage of provisions on the island.
No white rat would sniff about, always announcing their human was near.
Neither his singing voice nor the sound of a lonely guitar would be heard any longer on those tranquil evenings, their melodious notes traveling with the wind to soothe the mind and the heart of those who were around to hear them.
Would the man come back, would he be amongst them to face Berh? Maybe a seer would know.
He'd been in many a murderer’s head in the decades of his life, even a few flavors of serial killers, yet nothing compared to the darkness of Caeldeni's mind. The Sylvari’s twisted memories had invaded the seer's dreams and it took far too long for Fakhri to regain some sense of self. Nausea, nightmares, alcohol and even drugs were his companions for at least a week's time. He couldn't be more grateful for his wife's patient kindness as he worked through a trauma fueled by Nightmare, capital N.
His mind lingered on the ‘what if’ as he tried to apply human logic to something that clearly existed outside of such a concept. Strangely enough - and despite the horrors he'd seen - he wasn't scared for his own life. In retrospect, killing a human wouldn't further Nightmare’s goal. But his pain and anguish… maybe they brought Cael some form of pleasure. The idea made Fakhri sigh. Was he merely a toy for the Sylvari's amusement?
And yet…
There was an undeniable attraction towards Caeldeni - nothing physical nor that fell into anything explainable - that he simply couldn't shake off. Cael was his darkness; the other side of a shared coin. Did that make Fakhri his light? The thought amused him a bit.
Images swirled back into his mind alongside a wave of nausea; a sharp reminder that the being of Nightmare was too far gone to be changed. All the warning signs were there, all were ignored. He should run, avoid him, protect himself and his loved ones from such a being. Let Dalgwynn finish what he started.
The medallion Cael made for him was studied; it dangled on a leather cord at his neck. The symbolism was too strong, too… perfect. Mind, body and soul.
