Most people spent a few decades working, spawning more people, and returning to dust. Torion was not one of these. He had lived for over one hundred years. He was gifted, a hazeshaper, able to touch other worlds, but Lor-Neron Alarast, the living realm, was his birthplace. Torion would live forever. He didn't know what he would do forever, but that's how long he was determined to live for. Patience. A few more hundred years and the prize would be his.
Torion had sensed something. Something that could be a threat, and he wanted to investigate. Power had flowed through, following a signature he didn't recognise. It had the warm feel of this realm, but seemed new, young. The familiarity could mean it was born of the sister-realm, Neron Alarast, also called Sorrow. These things were difficult to determine, like a voice faintly heard across a distance. It could be nothing, a few large waves in the ripples of reality. It could be an opportunity, but he couldn't afford to ignore a threat. Torion was old, but he was not the oldest, and as drawers aged, as they used their abilities more and more, their strength grew. He had enough experience and tolerance to pain to draw some small things through the haze. He could even push himself through the haze for a time, to influence events on other planes. He had used that trick once or twice to escape imminent danger. He had met more powerful shapers, able to split themselves countlessly, practically immune to the pain, some could even form their own places of refuge, or form a permanent bridge between realms. He was no threat to such as these, but one day he would be amongst them. Few lived that long, and they were rather benign, if not benevolent, as if they knew something Torion didn't, which wouldn't surprise him. Perhaps their longevity had engendered some kind of resilient patience or apathy. Or their power gave them the confidence to know they were untouchable.
The rest of humanity were weak. Weakness was not a negative, but the facts needed to be acknowledged. It had made little progress since his birth. Oh, a few small refinements to technologies, some increases in energy efficiency, these Notepads were very versatile, but there were no earth-shattering discoveries. They had not realised the world they lived in was itself living, conscious. That the archipelagos were some defence it had against the unending hunger of humankind. Other realms had worlds with dazzling variety, spectacular diversity, vibrant ecosystems, but the planets lacked souls. No Shar flowed through them. And that was why this placed lived. That new religion, what was it called? The Fold. That new religion seemed to know something about it. A religion, of all things! Throughout the ages they had stood in the way of progress, born out of the hallucinations or mad power struggles of a few individuals, not forged ahead with innovation.
That was where he had tasted this flavour of power before! Members of The Fold seemed to radiate it faintly. It was raw Shar – untainted by the electricity that flowed here, even though it was so clearly out of place. Clear to those such as himself that could not manipulate it. Perhaps it was the lifeblood of another place. Torion didn't know. Nevertheless, this meant something big was happening. Purified life flowed, which meant Avan Nerovast was involved; he seemed to have a connection to this realm , for some reason. Torion was reluctant to deal with Avan, that ancient, enigmatic creature, but he had to investigate this unfamiliar occurrence. The signature was not the same as Avan's – more like he echo of a child of that power. Was this a new, young Avan? And that was it. It fit perfectly. Perhaps he should destroy it while it was young – the young were always the most dangerous anyway, always trying to prove their place. He had been like that after all. He headed out in the direction of the power, he would home in on it when he felt it again.
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