The Colors that Never Come

[GSM]

Lyseroth’s defeat came with a reckoning unlike it had ever seen, up to that point.

The war against Grisha’s Dragonspire.
The destruction of Varrach’s reviving obelisk.
The attack against the Crimson Keep.
Its siege upon Aphros.

None compared.
Humanity united.
The beast was put down at great cost.

The Nascent Primordial, the Sin of Gluttony, had briefly achieved a strength not unlike a deity’s.
Lyseroth had consumed, and consumed, and consumed.
Perhaps that was the absolute zenith of mortals, ones that bore the power of Aether within.
Perhaps that was their destiny, if left unchecked for decades upon decades, accelerated by an all-consuming hunger.

It knew of Perfect beings in other worlds.
Perfection truly did exist.
Gods had interfered with the rising of a Perfect being, striking down the aspirant with a vengeful zeal.
Perfection’s price was the End of that Perfection.

It wondered if it had bore witness to Lyseroth’s Perfect state.
And how the mortals closely in twined with the story of Lyseroth were inclined to… pray.
Not just against him, but… for him.
And yet, it was silent.

If this was the End of Meranthe, it would have beheld it in complete silence.

But it was not so.

---

Slumbering. Sobbing. Suffering. Struggling. Screaming. Squelching.
Sundering. Strangling. Slicing. Scarring. Suturing. Shifting.
Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.
Silence.

That is our natural state of being.
Not as those who wish for change, but as a kin of Hel, as demons.

We are borne of change.
But that change lingers as our End, one and all.
I know that my End will be one and the same as others.
Death does not make me afraid, for another shall take my place.
Such as with Varrach.
Such as with Sak’noth.

The blood of our fathers. The blood of our sons.
One and the same.

No doubt, when it is I who joins the dead, another will rise in my memory.
I have already marred and named myself as one who will change Meranthe.
But they know not just how far we are willing to go.
We shed our skins so many times before we even think of assuming the guise of a false son.

And avatars of change like Lyseroth were much of the same as us kin.

---

It surges through us all,

A lack of self-control.
A sighing, vacant soul.

Plunged headfirst in the deep,
Nothing for us to keep.
Only sounding a weep.

Can you help me find my way?
I've been lost for so long.
I don't even know where it went wrong.
Can you help me?
Can you help me?

Find strength to armor me,
To face my enemies,
A whispered, draining plea.

Can you help me find my way?
I've been lost for so long.
I don't even know where it went wrong.
Can you help me?
Can you help me?

Those who lay with the sons of man lack aspiration.

So few shoot so high as to declare the Gods their rival.

Yet I can name a dozen of us who wish to do as I have.

The only son of man who truly lived to that title, and stood against us, is the living legend.

Jokul.

One day, I will be in his sights; one day, I will avenge the prior Imperfects and lay claim to that Aether.

One day, I will prove that I am more than my heritage.

Father.

Sak’noth.

You were correct.

Change is the only way forward, but now I know just what a glimpse of that state beyond Imperfection might be like.

And I must know more.

If you are truly a father of mine, if you are still with us in more than just Fateweaver.

I will tell your story.

I will sing it, as I will with those before me.

And I will surpass every single one of you.

Even if it means I meet my End.