The pool of darkness pulses before you, a writhing mass of corrupted soul essence that both repels and beckons. Within its roiling depths, countless fragments of identity struggle against one another—memories and experiences tainted by the black corruption that binds them together. The fire at the clearing's center burns low now, casting long shadows that seem to reach toward the fallen form of the Other like grasping fingers.

  Your sword trembles in your grip, the amber stone in its pommel flashing in erratic patterns of light. The blade itself seems to pull away from the pool of darkness, as if attempting to guide your decision.

  Yet something deeper calls to you—an emptiness that has defined your existence since awakening on that distant beach. The single tainted fragment you carry has offered only the barest whisper of identity, a fleeting glimpse into someone else's life. Here before you lies the possibility of more—much more—no matter how corrupted.

  You take a step forward. The essence reacts to your proximity, the surface of the dark pool rippling as if disturbed by an unseen current. The forest holds its breath. The strange hair-like filaments on the surrounding trees curl inward, withdrawing as if in fear or anticipation.

  The sword's resistance grows stronger, the amber stone now pulsing with urgent light. You can feel it pulling against your grip, trying to draw you away from what lies before you. But the hollow emptiness within your chest hungers for fullness, for identity, for anything to fill the void.

  You make your decision.

  The sword falls from your hand, landing in the soil at the edge of the clearing with a muted thud. The amber stone's light flickers once, twice, then extinguishes completely. The golden glow that had been your companion since the beach is gone, leaving only cold metal and stone.

  You kneel at the edge of the pool, hollow hands hovering above its surface. The blackness reaches for you with silent inevitability, flowing up your arms in quiet rivulets, seeping into the cracks of your desiccated flesh.

  The first fragment enters, bringing not a flood but a single, crystalline moment:

  *"The troops are ready, Captain Harrad. We're suffering heavy losses in the west, but the Quen are pressing forward in the East."*

  *"Good," you say, not showing your growing concern. You cannot shake the feeling that what's likely the Final stand against the God King is already lost, but you show no signs of your own concern. You know that morale means just as much as weapons in a battle.

  *You look out over the scene in front of you—an encampment spread across rolling hills, banners of allied kingdoms fluttering in the chill morning breeze. Beyond them, barely visible through morning mist, seven spires rise in the distance. The final push will begin at dawn.*

  The vision fades, leaving confusion in its wake. You weren't there. This isn't your memory. Yet it feels immediate, present, as though you had lived it yourself.

  Another fragment follows, bringing not a complete memory but disconnected sensations:

  You are a merchant counting coins by candlelight, hands trembling slightly. The clink of metal against wood seems unnaturally loud in the silent room. Outside, collectors, what kind of collectors you do not know, move through darkened streets.

  Then another:

  You are a mother pressing her child against the wall of a small cellar as armored footsteps pass overhead. The mark on your arm burns—not with pain but with significance you cannot fully comprehend.

  And always returning, like waves against a shore, fragments of the Captain:

  Maps spread across a field table. Markers representing forces. Yours outnumbering the enemy’s for the first time in this long conflict. The weight of responsibility. The taste of imminent victory tinged with something else—suspicion, perhaps. Something isn't right about the enemy's retreat.

  The corruption pours into you—not as a flood but as countless individual droplets, each bringing its splinter of experience. Your hollow form absorbs them without resistance, the darkness seeping into every crack, every empty space within you.

  The process takes time. The moon crosses a quarter of the night sky as you kneel, unmoving, taking the darkness into yourself. The clearing grows colder around you, the strange fire burning ever lower, as if the corruption absorbs its unnatural heat.

  When the last of the pool has flowed into you, you remain kneeling, head bowed not in reverence but in the simple effort of containment. The fragments do not merge into a coherent whole but remain distinct within you—a cacophony of broken voices and partial memories, each vying for prominence in your hollow awareness.

  Something shifts beneath the chaos—the tainted fragment of Thaddeus the fisherman, familiar in its simplicity compared to the corrupted essence now surrounding it. It does not fight against the darkness but neither does it surrender to it, maintaining its gray integrity amidst the swirling black.

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  You rise. Your movements feel different—not fluid or graceful, but more certain, guided by muscle memories that don't belong to you yet somehow reside within you. The weight of your hollow form has changed, becoming more substantial without growing larger.

  You catch a glimpse of your reflection in a still pool of water near the dying fire. Your ashen skin remains cracked and desiccated, but the fissures now seem to run deeper, and within them, something dark pulses just beneath the surface. When you move, the darkness shifts, flowing like liquid shadow through the network of cracks that map your hollow form.

  Your attention returns to the sword, still lying where it fell. It looks different now—ordinary, just metal and leather and stone. The amber stone that once glowed with such purpose is now just a dull, lifeless ornament on the pommel. You walk toward it, each step steadier than any you've taken since awakening. When your hand closes around the hilt, you feel nothing but cold weight, a tool and nothing more.

  A sound escapes your throat—unexpected, startling in the clearing's silence. A single word forms from vocal cords that have known only silence since your awakening:

  "Harrad."

  The name emerges rough and unfamiliar, like stone grinding against stone. Your hollow form shudders slightly at the sound of your own voice, so alien yet somehow right. The forest acknowledges your newfound voice with subtle motion—the hair-like filaments on the nearest trees bending slightly inward, as if listening for more.

  You turn to the path that led you here. The darkness within shifts as you move, fragments rising and falling in prominence like debris in disturbed water. No single identity dominates, but certain patterns begin to emerge—primarily the soldier's tactical awareness, assessing the forest not as mystery but as terrain to be navigated.

  The journey out of Gorlath comes easier than the journey in. The twisted paths seem to straighten before you, the maze-like quality less pronounced. Perhaps the forest itself wishes to be rid of what you are, or perhaps something within you remembers paths once walked in a distant past.

  The star patterns above have shifted noticeably by the time you reach the forest's edge. Night has claimed the land completely, the moon a thin crescent providing barely enough light to navigate by. Yet you find you need less light than before, your perception somehow enhanced. You realize the souls not only contain memories, but also power. Pieces to the puzzle of who you once were.

  Urso waits where the tree line ends, massive form silhouetted against the night sky. The beast's reaction to your approach is immediate and visceral—the continuous humming that emanates from its chest drops to a growl, and its multiple eyes widen in what might be fear or recognition.

  You study the creature with newfound wariness. Why does it linger here, waiting? What purpose does it serve? The questions rise unbidden in your mind, a suspicion that feels foreign yet somehow natural. The massive claws that had seemed merely part of its misshapen form now register as weapons. The multiple eyes that blink in asynchronous patterns suddenly seem calculating rather than confused.

  When you take another step forward, Urso backs away, maintaining the distance between you. The beast's misshapen head swings from side to side in evident agitation, the bulbous growth containing its many eyes pulsing rapidly. Is it communicating with something unseen? Is this all some elaborate trap?

  You stop, forcing these thoughts down. The fragments within you shift and settle, and the suspicion recedes like a tide pulling back from shore—present, but diminished. Still, a wariness remains, a sense that nothing in this broken world is quite what it appears to be.

  When a hollow husk shambles into view at the edge of your vision, your reaction is immediate and instinctive. For a heartbeat, maybe less, you experience an overwhelming urge to approach it, to seize it, to kill it or dominate it under your will. The impulse passes almost as quickly as it came, leaving you disturbed by its intensity and clarity.

  Gradually, Urso's growl subsides, though it doesn't return to its previous humming. The beast settles onto its haunches at a safe distance, multiple eyes fixed on you with wary attention. When you make no move to approach further, its agitation slowly gives way to what might be resignation or acceptance.

  A word forms in your mind, pushing its way to your lips with surprising ease compared to your earlier utterance.

  "Moira," you rasp, the name emerging still rough but more controlled. It is all you have for now, although you are not sure if she is friend or foe.

  Urso's head tilts at the sound, the multiple eyes blinking in sequence rather than unison. It rises to all fours and turns away, pausing to look back over its misshapen shoulder as if expecting you to follow. The meaning is clear—it will lead you onward, though no longer with the easy companionship it showed before.

  You hesitate, that unfamiliar suspicion rising again. Where is the creature leading you? To Moira, or to something else entirely? You find yourself analyzing its posture, searching for signs of deception that you couldn't have recognized before. After a moment's consideration, you follow, but your hand rests on the hilt of your now-ordinary sword, ready to draw it at the first sign of betrayal.

  As you follow the beast through the moonlit landscape, you become aware of subtle changes in how you perceive the world. The night seems less dark, details revealing themselves in gradations of shadow that were invisible to you before. The scents of the land reach you with new complexity. Not only the immediate smell of soil and vegetation, but layers of information about what has passed this way before, what grows and what decays beneath the surface.

  Urso leads you through the night with clear purpose, though it maintains a greater distance than before, occasionally glancing back as if to ensure you still follow but also that you haven't drawn too close. Its humming never returns to its previous cadence, instead remaining a low, watchful rumble that vibrates through the ground beneath your feet.

  The landscape changes subtly as you travel, the rolling hills giving way to more jagged terrain. In the distance, barely visible against the night sky, mountains rise in silhouette, their peaks catching what little moonlight filters through scattered clouds.

  Your journey continues in silence broken only by Urso's occasional growls when you draw too near and the whispers of fragments within you, rising and falling like tides against the shores of your hollow awareness. The corrupted souls do not speak in words but in impressions, in flashes of memory and emotion that color your perception of the world around you.

  You do not know where Urso leads, only that each step takes you further from the forest where you faced the Other and closer to whatever awaits in this broken world. The sword at your side is cold and silent, no different from any blade forged by mortal hands.

  The night deepens. Stars wheel overhead in patterns too deliberate to be natural. And within you, the darkness flows, neither fully contained nor fully controlling, an uneasy balance that could tip in either direction with each choice you make.

  Which of these traits to do you find most important?