The following are pages from a tarnished journal. Despite evidence of the cover once containing a title, nothing distinguishable remains apart from a deep, searing scar, still warm to the touch.

I came from a world where it felt as if I was afraid of everything. Expectation. Success. Existence. When I left my family, I traveled far from home. I thought that, being lost, I might find something. Maybe this place is what I was meant to find.

I ought to have been more afraid than I initially was. This world has true dangers, after all. Monsters are real. Horrors lurk. Despite this, I felt driven to seek them out– To uncover the secrets of this new world. I was free. An arcane spark from my fingertip could deflect arrows. Each time I used those powers, they seemed more practical. It was all about control back then. Focus.

In all the months I spent in New York, I never made any friends… But here, it took only a few days. Clair, my first friend. I hope I can see them again someday.

It wasn’t the fire that frightened me. The fall wasn’t even the worst part. I was afraid that everyone was watching– That I wouldn’t be good enough… But once that moment was over, I was burned away. The fire felt almost welcoming.

It didn’t hurt as bad as I thought. Azog’s fires were merciful. An excruciating moment, but one that passed quickly. Then, everything felt cold. It wasn’t uncomfortable at first. Nevertheless, it was frigid, though I suppose anything feels cold to a person after they’re burned alive. When the goddess Idna spoke to me, I wonder now if she had uttered a curse.

Then, messages came. Some inquired. Some congratulated me. Others worried. Clair. Gwyn. Kyupin even came to see me. When she became upset, I felt a part of myself break. To think that someone could care for me to such a degree. A true friend. I gave her my hat. It was the least I could do. She smiled. I felt a flame come alive in that tenderness. The world wasn’t so cold after that.

I still try to carry that warmth. In that memory, I can sometimes feel a glimmer of it. I should’ve thanked her more. All of them.

Then things started to change. My hair turned darker, my arcane set ablaze, and a voice in my head awoke as the crackling of a low flame. When conflagration left my fingers, it was ear-splitting. A hungry voice, starved for destruction. With it, I was stronger than I’d ever been.

So I gave in. The battlefield was covered in snow. To my right, enemies charged. To my left, my allies fought back frostbite. I sent forth twin infernos, unbinding friends and frightening foes. I let go. I let it scream in my head, and when it did, I screamed back. A crazed cacophony.

I didn’t feel the first arrow that hit me. I didn’t care about the second. The third dropped me to my knees, but I hadn’t used my legs much anyway. Surrounded by my own flames, I only acknowledged mortality when the fourth went through my hand and snuffed out my combustion. There was a moment of regret and pain, before the fifth shut my eyes. A short, excruciating moment. Another merciful death.

Perhaps that should have been the end. I wonder if that would have been better. That voice was quiet with my rhythmless heart. Alas, the battle was not done, and a stranger took to wake me. They were funny, but I’ve forgotten their name. I regret that.

It didn’t speak until at least an hour after I had opened my eyes from my second death. A new voice. When I finally steadied my breath, I heard it in each exhale like a whisper. It spoke softly like a lullaby carried on gently crashing waves. At first, it was hypnotic, but after a while, it became redundant. Annoying. When it did, nothing smothered it like an explosion from my hands.

I never knew which to listen to. One whispered of peace. Calm. The other screamed of war. Hate. Was I one of them? Was there a third option? I think I knew the answers once. After my third death, I must’ve forgotten.

There was a monster like a mountain. A massive nightmare weighing down on the world. In the final assault there was one group who retreated, and another to charge with a final assault. I wanted to be a hero. I charged like a rat into a trap. Once it snapped shut, I went stiff. The torment of my third death wouldn’t be as brief as the others before. It would be ceaseless.

I woke in a field, my things scattered around me. I remember the panic when I couldn’t leave. That’s when I heard the third voice for the first time. A cold, empty voice. I cannot describe it properly because it simply sounds like nothing. There is no sound to the voice. Only a frigid emptiness. A hole unfillable. A harrowing hopelessness. A cavernous void. It does not scream. It does not whisper. It does not. It hung somewhere in the gallows between murmur and howl. Locked in this world, escape was impossible.

I remember little of what followed. I remember kneeling in the center of town, igniting the air, wailing. The voices were like thunder. Even the quiet one was so close to my head, like nails on a chalkboard. Like nails in my ear. I remember the way the tears felt, most of them jumping from my eyelids instead of running down my cheeks. Then Cain head-butted me. How could I possibly forget that. An instance of noiselessness, a momentary respite, never to come again. I begged them to find me. They promised.

It wasn’t long until they told me I was dead. Truly dead. What a haunting thing to hear. To find out that I was a ghost. Nothing feels the same after that. Nothing truly feels at all. To realize I could never go back. I could never see them; the ones who raised me. My dreams, my aspirations, my education… It was all over. Seats with my name, all gone empty. There are things, places I’ll never get to see. To know that my story is done.

It makes everything so hollow.

My first thought was to alert the other players. To warn them to flee from this place, lest they become its prisoner like me. In a way, my wish was granted with The Great Disappearance. Those with the chance would remain unshackled. I cried bittersweet tears that night and all through the next day. I was overjoyed to hear them safe, yet with their freedom guaranteed, so too was the permanence of my isolation. Finally, once those tears subsided, the weeping ceased. It has not started again since.

It seems I spent all my tears then.

When the others trapped formed something of a guild, I wanted to go with them. I tried to at first. There were some familiar faces, but never the ones I wanted to see. Zeus came for me, but by then, it had become difficult to hold a conversation. Focus felt impossible. The constant comments and crackling from inside was blaring.

That’s when I began walking. Days passed. The colors of the world began to change. Blues became greys. Each detail, each ridge of each object, became more rigid, sharper. Many stared as I passed. None stood in my way. None recognized me.

I remember when Vintergard fell. Even as a metal wyvern descended from the sky to crash upon me, I did not fall. I stood within the depths of that well of flame, in the belly of a fallen dragon. People fled from the fires. I knew their deaths would not come quickly. Flames do not snap shut like the jaws of wolves. I know too well the torture of the slow burn.

I watched men carrying the injured. I saw distressed mothers counting their young. I stared as siblings scrambled from crumbling buildings. They scuttled for an unreachable safety. They were all doomed, imprisoned in this hell with me. Hopeless, deserted by any gods, and destined to burn. Witnessing it all, I felt something in me break. The fires, I knew, were cruel, but I could be merciful. I could make certain that they would not share in my suffering– That their pain would not be prolonged. I gave them all something the inferno refused me: a quick end.

I treaded through the charred streets, licked by the blaze’s many tongues, and I conjured searing blades to my fingertips. With each I cast out, another fell, unchained from their agonies. Gone would be their grief. Washed away were their worries. I dried their crying eyes. All the while I was deaf to our screaming. The only noise was the reverberating crackles of the crimson glow. It roared, enraged, for I had stolen many of its meals. In time, there were none left. I regret the ones who escaped only to be swallowed up by something worse.

Eventually, I found my way here.

I’ve long forgotten how many days have passed. This place is quiet, though nowhere is ever quiet. The creatures that once lived here are gone. Those who fled still live. The earth has withered away beneath my molten storms. The trees stand blackened, signs of warning.

These different voices… I try to separate them. To listen to them one at a time. When I wish to hear the roar, I set the trees alight. When I wish to hear the whisper, I sit still and breathe. When I step into the caves and shout my loudest, sometimes I can even hear my own voice again in a distant echo.

If I manage to sleep, there is always a light behind my eyelids. When I wake, it is in a bed of embers. I watch them float like butterflies. Mocking. Somehow, I am still cold. Endlessly cold. My clothes are tattered and singed, but even fixed, I know they could never warm me. Sometimes, I dream of those I saw in Vintergard that night. I can clearly remember those moments when their expressions faded from deepest distress into sound sleep, an endless solitude. A part of me envies them, but I’m glad they’re free. Alone here, far from the cities, I try to find their peace.

My family. My friends. The shapes of their faces. The sound of their voices. I doubt I’ll ever hear it again. I try my best to remember them. Even if I’ve forgotten my own name, I must remember theirs. Those memories are all I have now. When I can remember them clearly, I smile.

I hope they remember me too.

The passage begins again almost identically on the next page. It is as if the writer was rehearsing the story, as to not forget it.