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Beneath the boughs of the tall trees of Fensalir, Egaro’s earliest memories were of the sun shining down through twinkling leaves, his mother singing to him. Something seemed to strike her, though she didn’t scream. They both fell, and he cried until his father found them both. When he couldn’t describe what happened his father feared the worst and grew protective of the family.
They lived on a street near to the manor of House Magnus. Egaro recalled being told not to associate with those strange rich people up on the hill, that they were dangerous men who dealt in secret dealings with the daemons of old, but he never listened and still played with the Magnus kids whenever he could.
Through his experience with Magnus, he formed a chilling respect of magic, though he never pursued it. The Spark seemed to him like a parasite of the soul, one that took great care to nurture, and inhuman amounts of discipline to stay sane with. Whenever a Syn came to town, he always asked them to show him their magic. Most had enough respect for their power not to show a child, but others were more loose, conjuring fireballs or turning into great cats to scare or startle the young, curious brat.
These incidents were all fun and games to him, but he still sought his own calling in life as he aged and grew up through the Fensalir school system of Aesir loremasters tutoring young pupils in history and mathematics while the Ragnari occasionally led trips into the woods to search for berries and the like. He learned of the many traditions, the Anak, the Induk, and the Diri that haunted the woods.
When he was but ten Arcs of age, he began to have dreams of his great great grandfather who’d built the very house he grew up in. His father, bitter with age and working hard as an Aesir, showed concern, but watched from afar. In time the dreams grew in intensity, and he began to recall strange sayings and visions. The Aesir elected to excise the spirit, but Egaro intervened, insisting that the ancestor wasn’t malicious, and that his father was just overly worried.
They agreed, and Egaro continued to commune with the dead after being given instruction and advice. In time the relationship grew, and the hauntings were more significant. ‘Gifts’ appeared, dug up from the yard. Old trinkets and mementos, treasures from a time before that he kept on his nightstand in his room.
When he turned eleven, his ancestor wrested him from bed in the middle of the night, and they went on a special adventure. Trusting the spirit, he allowed himself to be taken to the Veil, where they played for three nights and three days before he was taken back with a new outlook on life. From then on, his dreams were often lucid, and he found himself with more time to mull over things with his deeply curious mind steeped in religion and history.
In time he began to notice his ancestor change. They were growing more erratic, obsessed with the reason for their death. Egaro took the old ghost’s anchor to Raelia, to where the Syn were headquartered so the old man could see what became of the man who murdered him. A kind elderly lady knew the man Egaro described, tickled that a child would brave the wrought-iron gates, imposing tower, and chilling rumors of the place.
While there Egaro met old faces and new ones alike, and in the registry they found the dead murderer’s date of death, and where he was buried. From there he said his goodbyes and ventured across Melrath upon a wagon up to the mountains where he met an Avriel that guided him to the gravesite. Confronted with the stone that clearly spoke of his rival’s death, Egaro’s ancestor finally grew content and began to seek Vri to pass on. That was the last he ever saw of them.
When he told his father, who was furious that he’d left home for so long despite merely being a child, the man relented and told him he’d done a good thing. From then on, he stuck to his studies, eager to one day become an Aesir, though the Syn still held his imagination as much as the spirits did.
By now Egaro was a well-rounded young lad with hobbies, friends, and aspirations. His life began to change when at fifteen Arcs he abandoned his studies of the Aesir way shortly after earning his Embla to pursue stories from other lands. Drawn and entranced by the ways of other peoples, he reasoned he could protect spirits abroad that had never known the kindness and respect of Melrathi shamanism.
The Aesir of his local cell disagreed that he should be doing such a thing as someone just barely brought into the fold. He risked losing his newfound connection with the spirits as well. Egaro was willing to take the risk, and left for Etzos at fifteen Arcs of age.
Once in Etzos he found the land strange and unwelcoming. They didn’t treat foreigners well, and the quality of life in the city was frankly abysmal. He heard many stories of corruption and strife from the people, and the thriving underground repulsed him to the point that he decided to leave before he ran afoul of the wrong people.
The first boat he found across the sea, he boarded, and it took him to the docks of Rharne. There, he found the land appealing, and it was interesting to see and hear of Immortal worship for the first time. This Ilaren ruled the city as if she were its queen, and he found that strange, even dangerous. From the stories, he knew Immortals were irksome things, self-serving as humans were, meddling yet not so limited as the sphere of influence an Induk maintained. They were clearly the lesser gods, Egaro ascertained.
Instead, he found himself drawn to the lake. He could feel a certain pressure in the air, or perhaps he imagined it, but he knew the Induk of Lake Lovalus was worth looking after. From then on he trekked around her lakeshore, took boats into her heart, and preached to the locals about the necessity of respecting the local spirits, and the rewarding bounties one could receive in turn for facilitating this harmony. Naturally, they didn’t listen.
By now Egaro was of eighteen Arcs, and he cared deeply for Lake Lovalus. From the balcony of his room at the Harpy Inn in the Earth Quarter, he stared out at the sliver of blue on the horizon over the other buildings on the hill. So fond of it, he could not bare to see others pollute its waters, or stress the Anak that thrived there. When he saw a brand new fishing boat of a large size reaping heaping nets of fish from her waters day in and day out as if she were the ocean, throwing back but killing first that which couldn’t be eaten or sold for a good price, he felt outrage.
He tried talking to them, and then he went to the city officials who wouldn’t touch them. When he saw them ashore on one of his walks, they grew angry with him. A heated argument began, but Egaro remained calm and rooted to his convictions--the lake was a precious natural resource, and they were abusing it. In a fit of rage, the eldest of three brothers grabbed him. Egaro barely defended himself, trying to talk sense into the men.
They brought him to the water and shoved him under. In the depths of Lovalus, Egaro slowly realized the grim situation he was in, staring up at those mercurial shadows of people staring down at him from another world above the waves. The air in his lungs grew scarce, and he couldn’t help but resist, prying violently at the hands that held him under. The water flooded his lungs as he gasped for air, and he knew a certain kind of pain in his chest that he would never forget.
Egaro died that day, drowned and forgotten as the eccentric foreigner protecting something few cared about or even knew existed.
When he found himself in the afterlife being judged by Pier and Pre, he was silent as they picked him apart for every little thing his mortal soul had done. It was vexing to hear them remark about his soul, but he didn’t say a word. It wasn’t until Vri appeared to take him away that he made a sound. “Hahhh...” laughed the drowned man of Melrath to Vri’s face, and he walked off, bitter the Immortals would try to dictate how he lived his life. If he had his way, the Induk would be in charge of life and death, not them and their mercurial half-humanities!
The anger with the Immortals festered, his fondness of the spirits creating a divide that he held deep within and obsessed over. It became his reason for existence. He wouldn’t be able to die, no, not until Pier, Pre, and Vri left the cycle of life and death to an entity more qualified for the job.
He never resented Lake Novalus for being the weapon that took his life, quite the opposite, feeling blessed that he had died that way and not at the tip of a blade. He soon chanced upon a mentor in passing, a fellow Echo whom desired his company in this unforgiving place and shared his anchor at the Harpy Inn. He learned of his three anchors: the path along the shores and beaches of Lake Lovalus, the Harpy Inn, and the knife his father gave him that he had sent back to Melrath. The mentor didn’t last long, however. As his other anchor had been destroyed, the old ghost was preyed upon by a Phantom and that was the last Egaro ever saw of him.
From then on, Egaro promised himself that he would find a way back to the living world, and that he would help the Induk and strike down the Immortals if ever given the chance. As unlife carried on, he began to long for the Myrkvior, wishing that his soul had chosen the forest as an anchor.
