Well Journal, I promised to tell you who I was next time, so I guess I should keep my word.
I have to begin first by telling you about the world we live in, and then I can tell you what they know about little ol’ me.
This…
Is a world of stories. People live for their legends and the myths that they pass along through word of mouth alone. The world turns by these legends.
I am one of these legends. . . Which is amusing.
And also annoying.
The legend of Gabe Arenreeth starts with a murder. Er… a few, actually.
You see, they can all somehow reach back far enough to know that I was stolen away by a cult when I was a child. How that became known, I’m not sure. . . considering everyone in said cult that was in their little hideout was slaughtered at the awakening of my powers.
I blame the gods for this piece of my history being common knowledge – they’re a whole load of gossipers, that bunch.
Anyways, the legends know I was kidnapped, held for a decade, then went insane. They say that my mind snapping released the lock on my powers that my creator had installed to keep his big mistake hidden. Mistake being an understatement, considering that his ‘mistake’ was bringing me to life by shoving an evil god into my body. Lovely, right? His name is Kiro Baroch, and he is the god of chaos. By title alone, you can bet that he’s a swell character.
The short version of his story is that he went into a power hungry rage and destroyed half the world before Lucifer finally had to send his right hand to defeat the god. Well, no one can actually kill any of those divine nuisances, so his spirit was torn from his body and bottled up. This bottle was given to Anzillu, the god of abominations… because that sounds like a perfectly logical solution, right? Then, when Anzillu was making magical test-tube babies, he accidentally used the bottle of Kiro instead of… whatever the hell he intended for me originally. And then he freaked out, tied up all my power with a neat little magic locking bow, and had me born to a human woman so I could hide away.
Except this cult took a fancy to her and stole me away to punish her for demonic worship. After a decade of torture, I lost my entire mind and with it, the lock on my powers shattered.
So that’s what everyone knows about my origin story. Now, please keep in mind that it took about a century before anyone really started talking about me for sure though. . . and I didn’t have my life lain out in children’s horror stories until a few more centuries had passed.
It was my games that caused the influx of stories to be shared.
That’s what my assumption is anyways, because when I began to manipulate entire kingdoms with a few well placed words to a few highly powerful individuals, I stood out a little more to the gossip mongers above us.
After that, the legends become branches of differing titles depending on where you travel to. Some will call me a monster, most of them having encountered Kiro instead of me. Those who’d been attacked by him had been visited frequently by myself in my regular mind afterwards. . . which only made their healing process harder. Eventually I’d learned to avoid his victims like a plague. Even if it wasn’t myself who had hurt them, it had been my hands that had caused such pain. . . my hands that had broken bones, bruised skin, and stolen innocence. It was my lips that spoke curses and promises. My lips that stole kisses. . .
He’s a monster. And they don’t understand that it wasn’t me, and so they call me that monster as well. A predator who lusts for flesh and enjoys causing pain.
And I don’t blame them for their fears.
. . . Anyways, moving along.
Most of my legends regard me as the Immortal Trickster. A title that never fails to humor me.
You see, Journal, I am something known as an Illusionist. Which essentially is just a big word given to those who’s psychic powers are so incredible that they can teach themselves any other power they observe long enough. As a by-product to this mental gifting, Illusionists have this strange black and red substance that they can pull from their body (believed to be a physical manifestation of psychic power) and this stuff can be manipulated into any form with any level of strength. I can make a flower with soft pedals that bruise when you touch them… or a house that could withstand a grand storm. At a whim.
The funny part is that I don’t think there has ever been another Illusionist; this title was distinctly made by our immortal governance in order to give me a category they could document. I’m quite honored.
So, in a way, the title isn’t exactly wrong.
What they say about me is the amusing part though:
They say that I have perfected the art of dialectics and that I can utter a few words outside the walls of a city to drive the inhabitants insane. With the amount of actual blood on my hands, I’m surprised they want to tack more onto the stories. But that’s the thing about legends: they’re spun out from half truths and blatant lies.
I must take a moment to defend my true self, because this is one point of my legends that truly hurts me. . .
I do not touch a mind with intent to harm. Yes, I have used my understanding of the mind to manipulate the outcome of certain events. . . but that’s mostly for the sake of protecting people from a threat they don’t realize is closing in. Most of my time is spent in observation, not whispering well crafted lies to make a crowd dance on strings. I’m not interested in any of that.
Honestly, all the stories make me out to be this terribly selfish, unstable man who snaps at the barest of triggers and would kill someone I loved without a second’s hesitation if I so felt like it. They act like I’m this heartless, human-hating immortal who just plays with weak minds until they too snap under the pressure.
First of all: I love the humans. Most of the time, I prefer human company over any divine idiots I know.
Second of all: I hate just how sensitive my bloody heart is. Do you realize if I catch wind of a stranger’s death, I will go to the funeral and mourn them like they were my dearest friend as well? How is this heartless? How could I hate people if their lives mean so much to me that I suffer from the loss of them even if I didn’t know them?
In conclusion at the end of my legends, let me just say: People. Are stupid, Journal. Just so you know.
But alas, I wanted you to know about these stories. If you’ve heard of me outside of myself or actual friends, please wash it entirely from your mind. I am not that man they say that I am. I swear it.
Gabe Arenreeth
The Immortal Trickster.