Pain was not new to him, though this one was of a different sort. It was a pain of the soul, and the death of a smaller one within him. One that had conjoined with his own only to be betrayed by his Ascension. But Alistair had already experienced this pain with four other sparks - Purifier, Chevalier, Insider and Predator. This was no different, and certainly no worse. As he stepped forward through the room - modest and built of smooth stone - Alistair sighed and managed his breathing until the pain subsided, which it eventually did.
The room... was not particularly impressive. He supposed he would have to redecorate it, though it had the bare essentials for a man like him to prepare for battle and war. A small armory, of sorts. A rack able to fit potions and vials, and places within that could store magical artefacts. A bookshelf devoid of books, and therefore able to be filled with secrets. And within here, still carrying Ralaith's Locket-Stopwatch, he could pause time and prepare while the outside world waited.
Unfortunately, however, Alistair had no interest in being in Quacia any longer; at least not for the remainder of the arc. When he stepped through the door, he knew - that would be it. He would be somewhere else and he would not return. All of these memories . . . they seemed so strange to him. Did all of this occur simultaneously with the events of the Dream? He was a mage only a trill ago, living an entirely different life and now... he was an Immortal. There were no sparks left inside of his soul and . . .
"The Seekers," he whispered to himself. "They're -- mostly dead. Some of them still have to be here, but . . ."
He paused. Alistair shut his eyes, a breath escaping through his nostrils. He was no longer a mage. In fact, they would probably see what he had done in the Dream and remember that he was the man who had obliterated their source of power. Though he'd hoped - within that great room, surrounded by the other of his kind - to consolidate them and guide them towards a better path, it appeared that this grand goal was best left to someone else. It was the story for another, now.
Alistair could not be the savior of mages when he was not even a mage. And it was under his watch, though he may have been helpless to stop it, that the rest of his kind died.
"They are..." he whispered to himself, "...on the verge of extinction. My God... even with Emea, they were doomed. And now they don't even have that. It looks like this is the end."
He shut his eyes and attempted to calm himself. Even to pray, that Cyrene might help to aide his kind; to show mercy. Though it was strange to exhibit Rynlist practices now, as a 'God' himself.
Nevertheless, everything was a waste. He wondered if he should have ever answered the Call. Perhaps things would have been different. The truth, though, was that the Seekers were doomed to collapse from the very conception of the Coven and the Fall of Arcanis. And in the face of all of this death and failure... Alistair wondered if mages were ever even meant to be a successful part of society, or if their greatest potential lied within the margins they had always so desperately clung to. Secrecy, for fear of what open eyes might see and what whispers they may speak into adjacent ears.
But it was no longer his problem. "Right," he composed himself, stepping forward towards the door of the room.
Alistair wrapped his palm around the knob of the door, and shook his head slowly. "I don't belong here. Though perhaps I'll return - one day."
And then, he left.
