The stone felt cold as he ran his fingers over the rough surface, tracing the shape comprised of jet-black granite but which to him was nothing but a feeling. He had learnt long ago what it was, a woman poised over a broken man. Not a flaw in its making, but intentionally created as such, to show the error of his ways and the price he pays for knowledge. The woman, elegant in her stance was half crouching, half standing, caressing the man's head with her fingers resting inside the empty sockets where his eyes once were. The price he paid for knowledge. He lost his name, his identity and his sight so that he might live forever, gaining more knowledge to feed his desires. He often lost himself in dreams of what he might do if he could only relive that night. What he might change if only given the chance. Knowledge is nothing when it cannot be used or shared.
Long ago on that night he was a proud man, standing tall with shining brown eyes that were his greatest asset with women. He held himself confidently and with his chin tilted slightly up, his smooth complexion and broad shoulders giving him the gift of grace. So long ago, nearing two hundred years past he had sat in the grandest tavern in Camolder, surrounded by those who respected him as what he was, a noble, not just by title but by character. He remembered the smell of venison roasting over a spit a few yards to his left, whilst directly in front of him, no more than fifteen feet away was a great fireplace, radiating flares of heat to protect all around it from the winter winds that launched themselves at the shutters that rattled only slightly, as they were well made and well secured. Before the fireplace was the great merchant, Renthor, favoured by the nobles for his honestly and quality goods he sold. Renthor called him by name, but he could not recall what it was. He had given himself the name Morilun, or to be better put, Dead Light, and this is what he used in some of his memories and dreams. Morilun recalled Renthor to have features that showed his character which was why he was so trusted, yet Morilun could not remember what he looked like, nor any of the other people in his faded life. The only one he could remember was Selene, a priestess, or at least that's what he had thought. She was in the Kings court and as such was not questioned except by those of higher rank, of which there were few, and those that dared questioned never received a straight answer. She was in reality a temptress, one who beckoned to your soul with promises of power, glory or whatever else you desired, but so long ago she was unknown as such.
A voice had whispered in his ear that night as the heat of the fire beat upon his face. It was the sound that burnt him though, not the flames. Hot and fulfilling, the voice glided across his mind, asking him what he wanted, and as he thought his answer, so too did the voice change, beckoning him to leave the tavern and enter into the bitter winds of the night to find his desires. He recognised the voice, though he could not put it to a body. It was more like the voice of a familiar sight, like a full moon on a summers night. Morilun had risen to his feet, apologising to Renthor as he did so and strode towards the door, all the while the voice melodically drifted around his mind, playing on his thoughts, giving a sense of euphoria. Selene, who had gone unnoticed before had followed, her dark brown hair almost brushing the floor, and as Morilun opened the door it flailed out, only to wrap itself around her as if shielding her lavender dress from the wind. Selene did not need protection from her own doing.
A clatter brought Morilun back to reality, and he fumbled over the table searching for the absence of a familiar object. His invented name vanished as he realised the stone was missing. He panicked and dropped to his knees, sweeping the wooden floor with his arms seeking the lost item. She would be angry if she thought his anger had got the better of him again, and it's hard to defend yourself from what you cannot see. His fingers felt it, knocking it into an uneven roll further from him, and his heart leapt slightly. He tried to slow his movements, clearing his mind of anxiety, and forcefully made his hands methodically search the floor until his fingers once again scraped against what he thought to be the base of the stone. He edged forward to clasp it and slowly rose once again to his feet, feeling his woollen robes falling back into place. Irritation washed over him as he realised he had lost his sense of space and no longer knew where in the room he was. He closed his unseeing eyes, still getting that feeling of relaxation normally present when you rest the strained organs that gift us with sight. Slow and steady he made his breathing to allow the sounds and smells to make themselves clear. One gift that came with time after loosing sight was the ability to map out surroundings visually in the mind, acquiring the required detail from sensing familiar objects with alternate senses. A gentle breeze against his left cheek, warmed slightly as it had travelled across the room bringing the smell of pine with it told him he was facing north. The heat and the fact the smell was relatively weak compared to when he sat at the table told him he was quite close to the door opposite the window. He could hear the clock, which rested against the southern wall, and walked slowly towards it, one arm outstretched, the other clutching the stone to his chest. Upon reaching the clock and feeling the coarse patterns that he himself had carved into it before his vision had fully abandoned him, he turned and walked what he judged to be north, north west ten paces to where he knew the table would be. He sat, and leaned back against the soft backed chair, sinking deep into the padding. Placing the stone upon the table, he relaxed, and began feeling for the plant he had been studying before originally getting distracted. As his arms swept the table he noticed something he hadn't for a long time. The table had changed; the carvings that made it what it was had altered. His mind felt only despair as his fingers ran over the carvings, feeling the words that were left for him. She had come.