Ghost's Vision: Session 11

The darkness presses against Ghost, cold and all-encompassing. She is adrift in a space that feels both endless and suffocating. There is no ground beneath her, no sky above. Only an eerie, oppressive silence. Although, she'll notice it is not her at all. The hands are pale and human in appearance. No fur. Fingertips. Small fingertips.

Then, a presence.

Sythra steps into the void, her form shifting like a shadow given substance. The weight of her grief fills the space, twisting the air with an almost palpable sorrow. She doesn’t acknowledge Ghost at first, but the tension in the air grows thick as her form hovers. Sythra’s gaze is distant, as though her mind is somewhere far beyond the space they occupy.

Finally, she speaks—her voice a soft murmur that carries the weight of an eternity's sorrow.

“You have returned,” she says, not addressing Ghost directly, but with the certainty of someone speaking to a reflection. “Not dead yet I see. That's...inconvenient, but you'll be back soon.” She pauses, a flicker of something strange in her hollow eyes. “But it does not matter. You are not the one who matters.”

Sythra’s gaze shifts, finally landing on Ghost. She doesn’t seem to fully recognize her, but she knows something is there. A familiar presence, yet untethered, like a memory she cannot place. A long, silent moment passes before Sythra’s voice rings out again, this time with an eerie, haunting clarity.

“You are here to bear witness, aren't you? Always watching. Always waiting for something you cannot change. Something that was never meant to be changed.” She steps closer, her shadow stretching, heavy, like a blanket of sorrow draped over the world. “And yet, you are here. Silent. Silent as ever, even in the face of it all.”

The world begins to shift, and Ghost finds herself standing in the midst of a cold, barren battlefield. The remnants of fire and ash fill the air, casting long shadows. Aeren stands, sword drawn, his back to Ghost, his face a mask of grim determination. He is not the man Ghost remembers, but the weight of recognition tugs at her—this is him. This is Aeren, at the crossroads of his choices.

Sythra’s voice rings out once more, this time directed at Aeren, but carrying with it the echo of a thousand unspoken sorrows. “There is something you still carry, Aeren. Something that keeps your sorrow from being absolute. I can feel it. This name... Sangton. A name that softens your breath when you speak it. A tether to warmth, to care. That... will not do.” Sythra’s presence looms behind Aeren, as if she has always been there, watching him struggle. “I can feel the warmth of it. And it is... unspeakable, isn’t it? The way it clings to you. The way it ties you to what is lost.” She leans in, her voice lowering to a dangerous whisper, “But you cannot keep it. You cannot keep him.” Ghost stands still, a silent observer, but the weight of the words settles deep within her chest and a bitter taste form in her mouth. “There is no room for this, Aeren,” Sythra continues, her voice now chilling in its finality. “No room for love in this world. Not anymore. Not when the past is so far gone.” His sword rises into the air and remains for what seems to be an eternity and for a brief moment Ghost bears witness to it.

The vision flickers. The laughter of a child echoes through the air, high and carefree, as Aeren runs through a sun-dappled field, a world untouched by the weight of grief. Sangton is there, his laughter rich with joy and affection, filling the space between them. The warmth of the moment lingers like a soft breeze—a hand on his shoulder, guiding him through the world, always there with a smile, always there with care. Sangton’s hands were always gentle, always steady hands that helped Aeren stand when he stumbled, hands that held him when fear crept too close. And in that warmth, Aeren found safety, found hope. A child’s trust in the purest form—a bond that no darkness should have been able to touch. But it is gone, just as quickly as it came. The sword falls. Sangton’s body goes still. And the warmth that clung to Aeren’s soul, the warmth that had been tied to that name... it fades. The sword falls with a finality that echoes through the very core of the world, and in that moment, Ghost sees it all—the warmth, the love, the moments long past that have now slipped beyond reach.

Sythra speaks once more, her voice distant, as if recounting an endless tale of grief, she has already told a thousand times. “You chose, Aeren. You severed the last thread that held you to something once precious. And now, you are as I am. Alone.” The scene begins to collapse, fading like ash on the wind. The cold emptiness returns, pressing in on all sides. Ghost is left once more in the crushing silence of Sythra’s endless grief. But as the darkness deepens, the last whisper of Sythra’s voice echoes, final and cold: “You'll return again,” she whispers, her voice heavy with sorrow, but not aimed at Ghost. She speaks as though recounting an old, unspoken truth. “Time after time, you are drawn back. Each time, another life, another death... and yet, you remain. Forever caught in this cycle. It is the way of things... in this place. And now that he is ready, my knight will return back to you until I need to purify him once more..." With those final words, the darkness swallows her form, leaving Ghost alone in the oppressive quiet, the weight of the cycle pressing down once again until she awakens, fur damp from sweat and the faint smell of sulfur lingering in the air...