"Hail to the Tide!
Honoured by the sea,
Journey to the fathoms in bravery!
Us you will guide,
Bravest of the brave!
Even should the ocean become your grave!
May you return,
Victory in hand,
May you once again tread on steady land!"
— Naktigonis ('The Song of Fathoms')
***
Solan stood plain in a world ever more plain than himself, blighted by a bleach white that encompassed his current existence. He took a momentary respite, blinking owlishly as he attempted to adjust himself to this strange new world, coming to a frightening realization just where he was.
A shattered world that was his crippled mind.
The shattered world were the fragments of himself, a self comprising all he had experienced in his life. It was white, breaking away, fading into further obscurity. Solan squinted his eyes to discern the shape of what looked to be a translucent tree floating on what should have been verdant isles, but it quickly vanished.
What would become of him?
His heart beat faster and faster, its homeostatic tempo disrupted by the second, rate now surpassing what should be normal conditions. No complications arose, as he was but a figment of a now pulverized soul, and all he could do was saunter in the disarray of his own thoughts.
Upon a rock path, he saw a slew of statues and monoliths he remembered encountering across several Luminants. Soon, his feet met a barren ground tessellated by marks of blades dipped in the heat of warfare.
His countless successes, his countless failures, how he remembered them even if they had brought him trauma, even if he had quartered them into the deepest recesses of his mind. Solan thought bitterly how much there was to be done even with what he had accomplished, the boundless waking world still held in its secrecy undiscovered treasures and hidden artifacts.
His march continued on, and his mind continued to fault himself. Mayhap different decisions could have been made, and he would still be alive and well.
Mayhap all was simply a nasty dream—
Damnable.
It was all damnable thoughts meant to ease himself, and he was wakefully aware.
For the life of a Pathfinder such as himself, disappointment was to come. He faced it while alive, so why couldn't he face it while he was dead? The answer was easily answered in, 'there lies no more second chances in death.'
Solan's hand raked across his face and frizzled the bangs of his graying hair. It wasn't gray before, it must have been the stress getting to him. Or mayhaps it was finding accustomation to his fading, pale world on its last vestiges.
With a dreary sigh, he cursed the Gods that made this world with their dreams, and continued on.
On and on, 'til there was only light laid forward, his own limbs becoming unseen to his eyes.
...At the end of it all, was... something.
He couldn't quite put his fingers or eyes on it.
Vast it was, looming over the horizon and crested above the imaginary, white sun of this pallid world. There was no form that could be applied to it, aside from the... 'wisps' hovering 'round it in scattered pieces.
He looked behind himself.
The path he walked had vanished, alongside all other familiar sights just as those islands, homes, pieces, and land.
He turned back to the front.
There was the only path forward traversable.
But why, O why...?
Why was he hearing the incessant tolling of... Bells?
***
Light, a profane light.
It shone upon him incandescently.
The feeling was indescribable, akin to being slathered by a light that had neither a presence of cold nor heat, but just 'existing' enough to know it was upon him.
Solan never knew when or how he was conceived to the world. It must have been the workings of brain-damaged memory loss that he found himself awake in cobbled hallways hued white without any recollection of the past. With nothing but scraps of clothing and a rusted blade, too.
...The precise same location he found himself in when those lights faded.
Solan's heart beat a strange calm in his chest as he dumbly stared at the ceiling above. A wave of nostalgia brought memories to resurface from the tides of his mind. It swelled enough to come upon him like a tsunami of unimaginable confusion.
"Lone Warrior, you find yourself at this trial once more."
Solan jolted from his position, eyes narrowing, lifting his head slightly to demand an explanation.
He had heard this Voice of Solitude before. It sounded alone, but not in the sense that it was lonely, more one accustomed to seclusion. There was also a faint echo in their voice, varnishing it an ethereal feeling, sort of like staring at the vacant skies and wondering what it would be like to be among the clouds.
"My identity is not what matters. It is irrelevant. What matters is you, Lone Warrior," the Voice of Solitude as personally named by Solan, replied. "You've come back to your roots, the genesis. This is merely the beginning."
His brow furrowed, pressing finger to his forehead in thought. A cluster headache coursed intermittently, but he ignored it. His lips stayed sealed, though his gaze darted downward at the mention of a 'beginning.'
In the advent of a Scion's 'death,' and as dictated by whatever stellar cog comprised their being, so too would the reality around them. That included time and space, the fabrics holding his place in the world. By all means, his existence should have evaporated like pale mist upon the winter air.
Solan couldn't find it in himself to be surprised anymore. He stared listlessly at his own palms, realizing the sudden prospects imposed onto his being. The reasons he was alive currently made not even a lick of sense; but he was alive.
"The Trial awaits you once more, Lone Warrior," the Voice of Solitude simply stated.
He craned his head back up, eyes searching the blank ceiling, then staggering to his feet, his mouth unhinged, a silent breath articulating words that never came. His hands cupped around his lips to call out. Again, only air passed. His shoulders sank in the silence.
He received no response.
Solan combed his hair with his fingers, ruffling. He attempted his best to recount further memories of his current setting.
The 'Trial of One,' an area removed from the Luminants or the Depths. It was positioned in some realm Solan didn't know, and he doubted anybody else other than the Drowned Gods knew. But that wasn't what mattered.
The structure was a veritable training room. A verily dangerous and mystical one begot by whatever powers that be, but a training room nonetheless.
As it was a trial pitting him against multiple, revolting horrors of the Deep in order to test his spirit—to ascertain if he was a warrior worth his mettle—he would be forced into the perils of combat soon.
For what ends that mysterious voice desired to achieve, Solan didn't know. When he first braved through the Trial of One, completing it, he had been sent back to Lumen with nothing but his self-taught combat skills.
His gaze wandered to the cracked stones beneath his bare feet, then lifted toward distant gates set ajar.
He gazed at his hands. It quivered from the undistant memories of the Eternal Gale's malice imparted upon his meager form. Making movement was miserably laborious.
Many would kill, sin, and commit unspeakable atrocities to achieve this second chance he somehow acquired.
But he felt as if something were egregiously wrong. A second chance shouldn't come so easily as it did to him. A higher power was obviously at play, for a soul when crushed by the pressure of the Depths should be pulverized completely and utterly.
A Visionshaper's illusion could have conjured a false reality as realistic as this, but he had known many methods to counter their paltry tricks. They weren't a viable explanation, especially considering the fact that there was none with him in the Eternal Gale. He was alone.
Then, the Drowned Gods...?
Solan nearly scoffed.
What interest would those beings hold in a mortal such as himself? They ascended humanity by metrics and measures uncountable. Why revive some ant for a second chance? Did they find intrigue in such things? Would humans find intrigue in the activities of bugs themselves?
...Plausible, oh so plausible, and he detested that plausibility.
The next moments, minutes they were, were spent by Solan listlessly gazing upon the walls of this space. He needed time to regain his sanity at the many occurrences witnessed thus far, and those moments would continue to span on ad nauseam.
***
There was an ideation amongst Pathfinders to have their names written into history books, to have the crown of fame seated atop their heads. The fantasy of bards moving from Luminant to Luminant, singing their deeds and achievements was tantalizing. Without exception, Solan had always found the concept to be romantic.
Tales of Amorus Pleeksty's primordial Flamecharm and the King of Etrea's sea-splitting might were the first he had ever heard. He wondered, could he be put in the same category as them?
Surely not.
It wasn't a matter of self-esteem issues, it was his own stagnant potential which kept him from reaching their high pedestals.
His failed bout against horrors, most prominent of them all being the Scion of Ethiron, proved enough.
Greater horrors higher upon an echelon than the Scion existed. The thought terrified him further. Humanity was a mere microorganism in this petri dish of a world.
Solan lightly slapped a hand against his cheek.
He was walking along the hallways belonging to the Trial of One, mind still marginally wandering to thoughts that couldn't be quelled.
His current scenario was something special, perhaps even more so than the great legends immortalized in Lumen's—the world's—libraries. Had there been another figure of great renown who was given a second chance after being eviscerated in the Depths, Solan would know.
For all he knew, he had been sent back in time instead of having been revived.
That brought great opportunities to him. If such weren't the case, then it didn't matter—he had learned a great deal in his previous life. Ambition boiled within his stomach anew, the same ones casted flawed and burning unto a human of his kind.
Another chance. Oh... oh, how romantic it is.
Tears almost welled in his eyes, but he restrained them from freely flowing. Blurry eyes would hamper his own combat potential, and with what lay ahead, he couldn't snivel just yet.
Solan pushed open gates set ajar as the cobbles creaked against another in a grainy grind. They led into another room, the confined space stretched far wide enough that combat would not be restricted in any measure.
He sniffed, wiping his eyes.
There it is.
He saw from the center of the room a burning white orb lowering itself upon a stand.
Approaching it, he hovered his hand around the immolating globe. With a seal of his eyes, he looked deep within himself. Any flame-producing heat such as this was a medium he could use to connect and assess his own soul.
A talent, genetic or mystical—it didn't matter to him—it was what set himself apart from others in spite of his many other limitations.
Viewing one's own soul was something rare, more of a rumored skill than anything else. For Solan, he could gauge himself with great accuracy, and with it, assign numerical values to certain traits of himself like how one would measure the volume of water—or the force of a blow.
In short, he could assign numbers and statistics to his attributes utilizing this method.
With a piece of jagged rock, he began writing on the floor what he saw within his soul, slinging numbers in his psyche through instinctual measurements.
Himself, his soul, all that lay within would lay bare before his eyes athwart the writ ground.
***
[NAME]: Solan Malkavian
[POWER]: 1
[ASPECT/RACE]: ???
[AGE]: 22
[OATH]: None
[CORE ATTRIBUTES]:
{BODY}
Strength: 1 +
Fortitude: 1 +
Agility: 1 +
{MIND}
Intelligence: 1 +
Willpower: 1 +
Charisma: 1 +
{ATTUNEMENT}
Shadowcast: 1 +
Galebreathe: 1 +
Flamecharm: 1 +
Frostdraw: 1 +
Bloodrend: 1 +
Thundercall: 1 +
Ironsing: 1 +
Lifeweave: 1 +
]WEAPON}
Light Weapons: 1 +
Medium Weapons: 1 +
Heavy Weapons: 1 +
[INVESTMENT POINTS]: 30
—
[TRAITS]
Vitality: 0
Erudition: 0
Proficiency: 0
Songchant: 0
[BOONS]:
Survivalist
???
[FLAWS]:
Obvious
???
[WEAPON]: Basic sword
[OUTFIT]: Stranded
[EQUIPMENT]: None
***
...What in the blazes are these distributions?
Solan had to blink multiple times when staring at what he had termed his 'statistics.'
Everybody was born with potential and talent to some degree. He had never seen the other statistics of other people, but by basing himself with other people, Solan presumed their case was in a way similar to his own.
That meant there was a cultivable 'Power' limit to all and sundry. Solan had reached his own in his previous life. Now, not much to his surprise, it's been reset back to square one.
Each time he developed a part of himself, such as Charisma, Intelligence, or strength, then he was exhausting his potential. There was a set amount of these Investment Points available to him per Power, and his Power limit he found out to be Power 20 once upon a time.
In the end, it's all conceptual imaginings given form and graph. But, nevertheless, why are my statistics developed in such a way? I've never even learned how to utilize some of these Attunements, especially not a heretic's Verse such as Shadowcast.
Statistics at 0 were the baseline for the average human from what he calculated. A '+' indicated that they could be developed with Investment Points—wherein training related to those statistics would start investing those points. Such as studying to develop Intelligence or socializing to develop Charisma.
He had purposefully left some at 0 in order to fully optimize what he desired his strengths to be. Better to hold specializations than to waste his potential in spread out but lackluster statistics, as that would leave him an indubitably weaker individual. His Power 20 limitation made sure of it.
This is terrible... or, is it really?
Solan scratched his head.
He had never met another individual who could see their own soul in the way he was able to, so the entire process in some way, still eluded him.
His Investment Points should have been lower than 25 if all his statistics were at least one, because...
Huh? This isn't what I remember.
Solan's eyes drifted to his 'Race.'
It was labeled '???'.
...
...
...
What happened to me?
***
"Glory you'll earn,
Echo shall your name
In the books of history, crowned in fame!
Onward, to the darkest chasms!
May you never falter,
And may your way be led by Song!
Onward, to the deepest fathoms!
May the light protect you,
May you return triumphant, strong!"
— Naktigonis ('The Song of Fathoms')
***
A/N: I'm not really fond of Systems, but Deepwoken's gameplay and progression is heavily reliant on the stat sheet. Hopefully the explanation I provided on Solan viewing himself with extreme accuracy and writing it all down like a scientist assigning numerics to volume, density, liters, and etc. was at least creative.
For any Deepwoken players who are curious about Solan's previous build here (before he 'wiped'):
[NAME]: Solan Malkavian
[POWER]: 20 (MAX)
[ASPECT/RACE]: Etrean
[AGE]: 22
[OATH]: Oathless
[CORE ATTRIBUTES]:
{BODY}
Strength: 20
Fortitude: 40
Agility: 25
{MIND}
Intelligence: 3
Willpower: 40
Charisma: 25
{ATTUNEMENT}
Shadowcast: 0
Galebreathe: 0
Flamecharm: 77 (UNBOUND)
Frostdraw: 0
Bloodrend: 0
Thundercall: 0
Ironsing: 0
Lifeweave: 0
]WEAPON}
Light Weapons: 0
Medium Weapons: 0
Heavy Weapons: 100 (UNBOUND)
[INVESTMENT POINTS]: 0
—
[TRAITS]
Vitality: 6
Erudition: 0
Proficiency: 4
Songchant: 2
[BOONS]:
Survivalist
???
[FLAWS]:
Obvious
???
[WEAPON]: Alloyed Darksteel Greatsword
[OUTFIT]: Black Diver
[EQUIPMENT]: Grand Fisher Plate, Grand Fisher Helm, Enforcer Boots, and Canticlysm Pendant
Because of Solan's race being Etrean, he couldn't get level 5 Mantras unfortunately due to 3 of his Investment Points being forcefully put into intelligence.