The Story So Far
Once a Tour Guide from the world of Faerl - equal parts explorer, scout and wilderness reconaissance, Sarbiton was fairly seasoned. One fateful day, he was going through wilderness routes on his way home and was ambushed by predatory wildlife. As well as he fought, Faerl was a world known for its blooming life and large beasts, and it almost tore him to pieces trying to savage him. Before his life was ended, his planeswalker spark ignited from the struggle, flinging him through the multiverse into the nexus. After being patched up, he sought his way home, and failed for a long time.
He sought the aid of a
Reaper, an agent of balance from Purgatory, to bring him back to life when he died. The Nexus was dangerous and insurance was needed, as was his desire to return home so strong that he'd cheat death to do it. For eight years, Sarb has been beaten, abused, killed, eaten and worse. And eight years since arrival, he finally got what he wanted and returned home. The Reaper he made a deal with sought the aid of an
Angel, and they cleared his path home.
After returning home, seeing loved ones, relaxing and enjoying his former life, something tugged at him. Maybe a life without danger was so alien that he couldn't survive. Maybe he felt he needed a way to help to ease his restless nights, waking up in a cold sweat from nightmares of being eaten alive. Whatever it was, he said his goodbyes and ventured back out.
Initially, Sarb's return was met with dire news; a
temporal shadow of himself has emerged. He thought it was his timeline fracturing, splitting off from too many deaths that caused a divergant timeline to emerge, formed into human guise to fill a seeping wound it made. And it seemed as he died more, that more of them would emerge. Sadly, Sarb has had no success in 'mending' his timeline, fearing the fracturing would get too great. In a moment of insight, Sarb realised he may have gotten the entire thing wrong.
And in that moment, he felt himself commune. His mind filled deep with an
alien broadcast that rattled his every thought, invasive beyond comfort. It seeped through him until it clenched every nerve in his body, enervating him until his muscles felt carved out from his flesh. He realised a deeper truth to the universe; a meta-narrative was present, a flow of Akashic force that permeated everything, the collective consciousness of thousands of millions of billions of individual lives, stories, and retellings of history. A blind spot that he never knew he had was lifted; a spot that was pried open with brutal force, and it was not merciful enough to be slow.
It was a lot of shit to take in at once. It slowed down, broke him in gently after the momentary rapture, and he then began to understand when he could make sense of it.
From then on, Sarbiton knew he was tied to the underlying narrative of the universe. He wasn't some prophet or priest, no archmage who could twist the very fabric in his hands like putty; at best, he could nudge things to work a little better, grease the proverbial wheels, but he knew now that he hadn't broken his timeline, but his own narrative had grown so quickly, it blossomed out. So full and saturated, it bloomed out like a burst of vines latching to the metaphysical walls. It grew new buds, each one more complex and individual than the last. And as they grew, so too did Sarb begin to perceive the lines they began to draw.
With all of this in mind, what is there for him to do? Only one thing that matters. Give the
carbon copy girl her own story, and let her write it for herself.
