His fingers, shifting fluidly between being covered with smooth scales and then roughly cracked , leathery skin, slid over the writings he’d made in the opened journal before him. The ink was over two centuries old, fading. Light streamed into his study hall from the shuttered windows and even past the twisted and blackened limbs of the trees he had surrounded his home with as he read.
“The Twelve called my experiments horrifying, unnatural, unethical. They sought to put me to trial and execution for my so-called crimes. None realized the boundaries of life and death that I have touched upon, and that could benefit all of mankind—they only saw evil in my work. They could not bring themselves to see the art and beauty of transmutation that will lead to a more perfect physical shell to house our souls within while we reside upon this plane, nor could they see the merging of body and soul into one transcendant whole.”
His eyes looked up from the ancient pages, one as blue as a newborn human babe and the other yellow, with a serpent’s slit. The creatures that milled about his tower were pitiful, malformed. They were his failures. But they loved him like a father.
There was one other he could speak with, he had discovered. While sending his senses from his body to explore the world and discover whether there would be an end to the Last War, and his never-ending supply of experimental fodder, the Fleshweaver had come across something. A strange man, with a glimmer of power. All it would take was a touch to open up that power to the world, expose it like he would a raw nerve or a fold of flesh that had been hidden from all eyes but his within the form it had been locked into.
He’d touched the man, if only out of curiosity. The power had swirled around them both then, the man with the touch of power and the elven master of transmutation. It had bound them, inextricably. It had warped something within them both and formed some kind of link.
He touched pen to parchment, remembering, writing.
“It was a mistake. I had been focused upon my life’s work, my goals, for so long. I had thought myself beyond this life, but not yet part of any next. I thought myself transformed. I believed I was beyond all mortal care. Yet since I touched that man astrally, since the forces that surrounded us gifted us with this strange bond, I find myself feeling all too…mortal.”
Mordain the Fleshweaver cursed, threw his pen from a hand that had become some sort of three-toed paw, and watched the ink splatter across the wall, searching the pattern for something.
“Wer Lorsvek,” he growled, the words garbled through a shifting, changing mouth, “It must be.”