Prologue
Winter, Chrónia 771
If mortals would look upon me they wouldn’t recognize me, yet I care for them. I have lived in secrecy among the human race and will proceed as long as I can anticipate. Hidden in the shadows I have watched kings and queens rise and fall. I have witnessed maniacs wage war with or without a purpose, yet when a mortal’s eye falls upon me they see a young and healthy man instead of a crippled and worn elder they would expect if they knew my age.
Alas, most mortals don’t know who I really am, omit a few. Only a few know my real identity and even fewer still are by my side today. I have witnessed loved ones wither away, get murdered, be starved and I have even faced death myself.
Some say it is a curse, others say it is a gift. Hitherto I have no idea what to name it. Immortality, it gave me numerous things, both wonderful as terrible times, moral and dire situations and competent and harsh days. Then again, after living an incredulous long life my insight has changed. The forbearance I once despised came willingly with the years due to living as long as I can foresee; the recklessness I formerly possessed vanished throughout the decades; the wisdom I erstwhile relinquished grew onto me and the appreciation of living a life came with every reminder to the ones that sacrificed their lives for me.
Who I am, is a question that mortals and immortals alike tend to ask. Even though I originate from the Immortal houses of Thenarianos, I am neither cherished nor treasured in their halls. They listed me an Outlaw, they appointed me as a Rogue and they consider me a Warlock. Merely do they know who I am, what I stand for and what I have experienced.
I am known by many names, but none associate directly towards me. Mortals tend to address me the Wanderer, the Cursed One or the Forbidden God. They have heard whispers or tales about me, but neither do they know who I am. Immortals choose to ignore me. It is an unspoken taboo to call out my name and to be neglected is genuinely peaceful.
Some individuals have already forgotten my existence, but I will never forget the souls that laid down their lives to give me one worth living. I will never forget their face, voice, smell, and touch even though decades may have passed. I owe them my life. They are the ones that I write this for; while they will never read it I will put my soul and emotions down on the paper.
I am Nathos, an outcast banished from the Halls of Immortals.
This is my story.
