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DID YOU KNOW HIM?

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Lothar Ignatius Havelock (b. December 25, 1xxx, Pearlsphire, Sildor) was a figure marked by quiet devotion and an unfulfilled return. Born to Basil Havelock, a soldier, and Barbara, a baker, his middle-class beginnings were steeped in the scent of bread and the absent shadow of conflict. His baptismal

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And it was in that moonburn I awoke, a sudden scorching upon the soul which had no skin to shield it, cast into a theatre of shadows where the sole illumination was this ━ my own profane anatomy. The darkness, it seemed, was the hushed and expectant audience, and God Himself the patient Dramatist, who had at last beckoned His principal actor onto the boards to play his grand and wretched part: the Rejected Man. Behold, then, this form, a headless effigy of what once was; an entity for which no lexicon holds a name. I stand tall as a man, my gait the clumsy echo of a man, my voice the rasp of one, yet where a face should plead or curse resides a nest of ancient ━ splintering branches, a brittle architecture that threatens to shatter at the merest sigh. And upon my breast, where a heart once beat a martial rhythm, now only a soft corruption thrives, a fertile rot from which the sanguine poppies sprout ... a garden upon a sepulchre.Of the man who was, no memory persists and only this grave, this anonymous plot marked by a splintered plank that lies of honor and of gore. The true epitaphs are the scattered, metallic shells and the twisted shards of bombs that litter this no man's land, silent witnesses to the grotesque dissolution they once wrought. Thus, am I condemned to walk, an aimless penitent shackled to this decaying flesh; this wandering plague. My very passage is a miasma, a blight upon the air, so that those living souls who draw near are seized by a wretched coughing, a misery that clings to them as this disease clings to me: this, my second and more truthful identity.Yet in this desolate pilgrimage, I am not entirely forsaken. From the gloom there came to me a creature, majestic and funereal — a steed of profoundest black, who nuzzles my rotten hand not with the terror I inspire, but with the tender familiarity of an old companion. In its dark, knowing eye, I dare to perceive a cryptic benediction, a sign that the Dramatist, in His inscrutable mercy, does not hate me utterly. And so this becomes my quest, a compulsion born of this faint and terrible hope: to seek the self I have lost, to find a head, a name, a purpose beyond this ceaseless, meaningless wandering; to discover if I am to persist as this hollow testament to war, or if I might, at long last, be permitted to return to the earth, to that deep and silent womb which nurtured me before this long and waking death began.

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