It was a sound so familiar that he nearly wept to hear it again. The voice had no face, not one he could conjure. Yes, he knew that voice, but he did not yet know her. He still did not stir, deciding to continue in his trance, to perhaps hear the voice again. It was silent, a cool breeze sending his skin prickling from the layer of sweat he’d accumulated.
That was all he’d gotten.
Soon after he had been given his name, he left the temple. He did not say farewell to the priest, opting to simply disappear, his absence marking his success. For the old man, he left his own offering of foraged nuts and berries tied against a bundle of his own hair with twine made from the dry grass. Sustenance for the god who still dwelled here though he knew nothing of it.
Since this discovery, Roemont never ceased moving. He traveled to learn, to educate himself. Often he paused to question why he bothered, he had enough wherewithal to find a role to play in any community he passed through or otherwise. Something was keeping him going, urging him onward with vigor. While he worked in piecing his world together, he learned about the humans and the spirits and gods that lived amongst each other in this realm. An afterlife, purgatory, and space before life all coexisting. Many islands were inhabited by tombs of either long forgotten souls or gods, others still thriving, flourishing.
In another world, he had done something to disturb their balance. That was why he was whole, because he had never died, simply plucked away into another world in order to restore balance. The spirits he encountered were all different, each with their own story, purpose, or realm. They each were some degree of elsewhere. Transparent, or flickering, or illusions of people or creatures. Some were more clear than others.
Beasts, so-called gods, inhabited many of the islands and seas and spaces throughout. All of them were unknowable, terrifying and beautiful visions of death and uncomprehending life. Many of them could kill if they chose, some maintained their own roles they created for themselves, any living god was tended to by humans and spirits. Even forgotten, dead gods were watched by ignorant temple stewards. They knew not who they praised.
Roemont met a few gods in his travels, some tried to make him an unwilling sacrifice as he passed through harbors and across mountain passes, none succeeded. He carried no weapons, but he was gifted as all beings here were. He knew the art magic well, could will himself safe and find it true. Surely, he figured, he must have been a powerful sorcerer before. Perhaps so powerful he could not be rivaled and that was why he had been purged. Maybe he had done something unforgivable that he must be cast out.