One soul can have many bodies. The Gods above blessed the spirits of mortals with the gift of death, to avoid oblivion one may cast off the shackles of the flesh in an ongoing search for a vessel that will never know decay. Yet only by the cruel machinations of these Gods can one body have two souls. The bone and blood of a body was created to be the armor of the soul, not a prison. Yet the Gods answer to no others, and one man was cast into a prison of flesh. 

There was a boy you lived in a world that taught few lessons, all of them harsh. The first lesson he learned was that one is always alone. His birth was quiet, only the cold shrieks of a woman in an empty alley. He himself did not cry, the first short breaths of air were soft and delicate. The child could hear the night, could hear the wind giving warnings of silence. The stars in the sky whispered to the baby for it to never cry for then the world would notice and the he would be forsaken. Asking a babe not to cry is asking a mountain to move, it may happen over time, but for the moment it is impossible. The world took notice of him, and while his mother placed him at the foot of a sleeping executioner, the world took notice of its son. 

The boy grew in the stone womb of Midgaard. The iron gates where his parents, the city guards his brothers, and the vandals his peers. Yet he was restless. Everyday he found the constant struggle to take, to scrape, to survive a bore, as if more called out to him. He would sleep uneasy in the stoop behind a faded brick inn where he could hear coins fall, drinks crash, and women working. He had passed his mother several times at that inn, and he never knew his face. Yet his sleep was uneasy because his memories were uneasy. He thought he could hear singing, whispering, like the half-song half poem language of the pointed-ears, yet older, subtler, softer. He could hear it in his head as he slept, and only when he would sleep off a night of thieving or drinking in the stone jail would they cease. When the songs stopped, all the boy could think to do is hum the tune. He had no peace is sleep or in waking. He took what he could from the small amount of loot he had saved. Buried under several rocks in the park, he took what was his. A small dagger, a torn leather jerkin, a belt to hold his dagger and a strong swagger stick he had stole from a drunk dragon knight. The boy was off to find the song, and to find his peace. 

A decade of life in the wild can show a man what they are. It showed our boy what he could be, a killer. He would watch as the wolf hunted the rabbit, and the great spiders hunted the wolf, and how the lizard men hunted what they could. The songs in his head told him that is what it means to be: A killer. All things kill as all things must die. Freedom through death, theirs or yours they’d tell him. So the boy watched and learned, watched how the wolf was strong with its jaws but the praying mantis could fall foes three times its size with two fast claws. He followed the insects, and with his dagger and club he made their way his way. He watched as the bear would swing fast with one paw to crush with the other, he watched as the spider stalked and pounced, and watched as the eagle went cruel and cunning. He watched them and the songs in his mind applauded. Soon the young boy practiced his art on the lost travelers of the realm, merchants that strayed too far, adventurers that help more esteem for themselves than skill, and even the bandits that haunted the paths he had come to read. The boy was gaining peace, in his mind the songs were no longer faded memories but growing voices of counsel. Yet he hungered for more. 

A small army invaded his homes. Several pointy ears, men like himself, even a few armored covered long-beards, all of them brandishing weapons. They marched at brisk pace, a particularly grim looking pointed-ear leading the way. The boy followed, intrigued by the war party. He tracked them for several days, they were making steady progress towards the dark woods. He knew never to stay there long, for the creatures that walked it were fierce. At night the boy would sleep close to the campsite of the army, they were never aware under the brush he slept, protected and ignored by them. Then with the rising of a red sun that kissed the boy’s cheek and told him death was coming, the army found the cave. They bent to their knees and prayed for strength and called out to the cave. The lead pointed-ear began muttering strange words and the cave seemed to fill with a foul smelling fog. There was a deafening roar and the boy took shelter in the tallest tree, ignoring the constant bites of the spiders that inhabited it. The green dragon Loth Lorien emerged from it’s slumber, and the war party did not hesitate. They surrounded the creature, wielding spells and axes. The pointed-ears moved fast, cutting the legs and tendons of the beast while the men and long-beards kept its head busy. But the dragon was not a foolish beast, not a great bison to be herded slaughtered. It gave its battle cry and bathed the area in green flame. One of the men was dead before he could take his dying breath. His corpse seemed as if a strong wind would make it flutter away like so many butterflies. The dragon swiped side to side with it’s massive talons, forcing the pointed-ears to fall back out of striking distance, it’s cruel teeth finding the side of one of them. The crunch and cry was all that could be heard, the red spray blocking the boy’s view of the battle. The long-beard charged forward, axe in hand. He buried the blade into the dragon’s skull with a triumphant grin. Yet the beast lifted it’s monstrous head and the dwarf went up with it, still holding on to his precious axe. The dwarf finally let go, and he fell the tail of the beast knocked him across the clearing into the tree the boy was hiding in. The dwarf twitched, blood trickling from his lips. He tried to move but his legs seemed to have no response to his mind. The last two pointed-ears and the three men continued the assault. They threw bolts of light and blasts of rippling energy at the beast. It in turn breathed it’s emerald fire and swung it’s mighty claws. The dragon was failing, it’s hide cracked and bleeding, it’s eyes losing their shine. But as victory for the party seemed certain, it gave another vicious cry and the lead pointed-ear went stiff, the color falling from his cheeks. The blood stopped flowing and the dragon moved with uncanny speed again. It was not a matter of minutes before the party was destroyed, the dragon screaming it’s victory. It returned back into it’s nest, leaving the bodies for the giant spiders. 

The boy wasted no time. He gathered what he could tell was valuable and fled. He ran all that day until he was safely back into the woods he was familiar with. That night, as he marveled at the might of the dragon, he dreamt. He dreamt shadow clothed women were holding him down, dripping hot oil on to his body. He dreamt they took small blades and made cuts into his skin. He dreamt of the songs again, and they were loud. When he awoke, he starred at himself in the pond and watched. He watched the still hanging moon wink at him, and the ripples of the water spell his name, long sense forgotten. He took a smooth stone from the bottom of the pond and rubbing it against another. He did this for hours until finally the searing stone was as sharp as his dagger. He looked into the pond and started to cut into his arms. He made no noise, only watched the design the blood made as it mixed with the clear water. He kept cutting, and cutting. Until the moon rose again in the sky and looked down at the boy. She sang to him and gave her blessing and the boy began to feel the world surge with power. All the untamed, uncomplicated hatred of the trees and stones and water of the world filled the boy. He understood, and he was hungry for more. 

He first learned, through the whispers of the world, to wrap himself in the energies he felt, and soon the weapons and spells of foes he fought would not touch him. Next he learned to harness the same energies into a wave, one that harms not flesh but the soul. The boy was becoming a killer, wielding his weapons and his magiks, the pain of the world. The moon led him to her mistress, the Lady Bliss. The boy found the whisperer and the boy found a home. 

But he could not be satisfied. He fought against others, but he was not always the better man. His pride, his lust for power consumed him. He wanted to be the strongest, to be like the great dragon, feared among all other beings. He wanted power. 

*********** 
The body was strong, and the soul was lazy. The body was very strong. He was larger than the other specimens, stronger. This is why he survived the tests. This is why he has survived so far. Yet his soul is weak, his mind a waste for such a gift. No other beast was as strong as this one. None so tall, so broad, so capable of dealing death. Oh the Lord Nash would be proud he thought, but it must have been his sense of humor that the soul would be so weak. 

The body had survived the process of power, infusing a living creature with the blood of vrocks and fire demons, mixed with the Master Alchemists own formulas. The researcher found it interesting, all but three of the ten subjects died during the procedure had survived, this body and two others not as worthy. However, the other two did not survive the next process. They had not survived the Arch-Lich’s own caresses, the blessed formula of poisons and filth. Only this body had, and it was because he was meant too. Yet the soul would not come forth. It would not take the reigns of the machine it was given to smite the enemies of the clave. Oh but it would, the soul would break. The manor will rattle with the bellows of the beast as it’s pacifist mind would be torn apart. The Torturer was ready, if they could not magically warp his mind perhaps pain itself could still be a tool. This is what he thought. This is what the others thought as well. He will be ready. If the pain, the spells, the torture would not break him, Isolation in the chamber would. 


********* 

The boy woke up, and he was no longer a boy. The room was dark, it felt thick and heavy. He body hurt, that is what woke him up. He was not dreaming, merely sleeping in a void until the pain. His eye, it burned. His eye burned. He tried to touch it, but his hand was bound. Both hands. His feet were bound too. He felt the cold vice around his throat, chilled and damp from sweat and blood. It smelled like sweat and blood. He stomach was bleeding, he could feel something warm running down his leg. He moved again, feeling the weight of the chains. He moved again. He kept moving, he began to scream. His voice fell silent against the room. There was a snap, and his left arm gently examined the pain. He felt for his stomach, but found it was broader. Harder, scarred and ripped. He kept feeling, everything was different. He felt scars he never had, bones he did not have, and came to realize his stomach could never be so broad. He pushed again, tearing his body away from the chains. His other arm came free and he felt his face. Felt the two tusks that almost touched his nose. The square jaw, the long tattered ears, the burned and cut eye. He pulled at the chain behind his neck with hands too big to be his own, it creaked and broke under the force. He fell to the floor, pulling against the last restraints. They snapped from the wall, but his ankles were still bound. He tried to walk. He half stumbled, trying to balance a body that seemed to heavy to move. He did not know how many hours passed before he could pace without falling. 

The world shuddered, and light flooded into the room. Instantly the creature that was once a boy moved into the corner, away from the light. The man came in, he could smell him. Smell him before he saw his face, a simple, intelligent face. He moved before he could think, and twisted the man. He died without a scream. He wasted no time. He ran as fast as the awkward legs and chains would allow, pushing past the men that shouted for guards. He was out of the large house before the guards could assemble, he pushed his way past the two that guarded the gate. Their blade fell against his sides but it did not matter. He fled into the jungle, and hid. He could hear the whispers, he looked to the moon and followed her into the sea. He swam, he was tired but it did not matter. His body did not seem to feel exhaustion. He swam until he felt the familiar grounds of the docks he had once traded at. He walked, the few merchants that passed steered away from him. He walked until he found himself beside the alter of his Goddess, he prayed for the moon to answer him. He looked into the mirror and saw a monster. His body gone, changed into a beast, and then he heard the voice. 
“That not my look hole.” The voice was low, a muffled voice of a man choking. The boy looked at his eye, the only one, and saw indeed his own faded eye. 
“Wha ya doin in my skull?” The boy was not alone, never alone. The boy told the voice he was dead, and this was his skull now. The voice got quiet. 
“They made pain. They try and tak me fro me skull.” The boy felt pity. A sick feeling. 
“Now they put you in here. Now me got company.” The boy answered it was his body now but he would let him stay, as long as he stayed out of his way. 
“Yur now. Jus don make no more pain.” 
Lady Bliss smiled. That beautiful, haunting smile. The smile of a spider as she takes a mate, the smile of a devil with a new soul. 
“You have your wish. You have your power.”