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Manifest Destiny
What little light the day brought had all but faded as the old, graying sorcerer made his way through the undergrowth.
Once he would have carried a lantern but no longer, the darkness was a comfort now, a warmth of sorts. In his hand
he held a heavy wooden staff, leaning against it as he walked. Once he would not have needed such a thing, but
age had caught up with him, devoured him... He stumbled then, it was unlike him and he paused to put his eyes back
on the goal. A dim light shined far away, it was barely visible through the forest and mist but sure enough it was
there. Panting lightly he scowled and the anger forced him to his feet again, weakness…

“You were strong once, there was a time your face was smooth, your leg was not crippled, your eyes had
not grayed. But now you shiver in the cold…. Pathetic, a shell of what you were, what you could have
been. I am disappointed, Martin.”

His lips stretched taunt a moment, then curled in a sickly snarl and he forced himself from the tree step by step, using
his staff to feel out the ground muddled in roots. Carefully he made a point to avoid getting caught in the brush but his
robes were thick and heavy, coated with mud and worse. Perhaps he would need new ones…

“Why do we practice Martin? Why do we perform this wretched craft?”

“For… Control, Master, to control our path.”

The figure in the darkness shifted, cloth dragging across jagged stone, only his eyes were clearly visible, a pale yellow
amidst the darkness. A chuckle manifested and slowly he drew forward, coming closer now… Still too dark, could only
see the eyes, always the eyes.

“Through the craft we may rip our destiny from the hands of the gods and in doing so, we become divinity manifest. A god’s
power is measured by how he may exert his will upon the universe, some kill with fire, others find solace in the strength
of a sword, the aim of their bow. Each one tries to control their destiny, each one seeks to force their will upon
another, each one seeks to court Death. We are different, we change the outcome of another’s actions, erase their
victories and place their foes back on the field. But just as we can give, we may also take away. We are what many
spend their entire lives seeking to control.”

The Sorcerer was not Death, but Death had spoken to him, he had heard her once and amidst the earth of the grave
he had been held by his mistress’ embrace, known what it meant to be one with her. But it was a fleeting gesture,
a fickle mockery. So far he had come, so far to go.
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