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. He drew the cloak closer around
him - a human gesture made from force of habit, for this
ephemeral fabric, spun of memory, would never be
sufficient to protect him from death's eternal cold. The
knight had not been dead long. and he clung to the small
and comforting habits of blessed life - once taken for
granted, now, with their loss, bitterly regretted.
Other than drawing his cloak closer around the body
that no longer was there, he did not move. He had urgent
business. He was spying on the city of Palanthas. And
though he was quite near it, none of the living saw him or
were aware of his presence. The shadows of his dark magic
shrouded him, hid him from view. The sight of him would
have terrorized these weak vessels of warm flesh, rendered
them useless to him. He needed the living, needed them
alive, and, knowing his own cursed power, he wasn't certain
how to approach them.
He watched them, hated them, envied them.
Palanthas. Once he'd owned that city. Once he'd been a
power there. He could be a power still, a power for death
and destruction. But that wasn't what he wanted, not now,
not yet. A city saved from the terror of the Cataclysm.
There had to be a reason, something blessed within it,
something he could use.
The Revered Son? The knight had assumed so, at first.
A dark joy had filled what once had been his heart when
he'd heard that a Revered Son had arrived from the east,
claiming to be a survivor of shattered Istar, come to take
over the spiritual well-being of the populace
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