train to lv20/26str/21def/18spd/70hp.
recolor placeholder profile (lol) and work on a better one eventually.













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They were not the first, but the second.
Before them was the failed prototype, the shambling frame of ill omen: it was cast aside, forgotten.



But in practice came perfection, and then they came along.
Of soft voice and beautiful form, superb intelligence and unerring loyalty, they were a glorious result.

"Limstella", brilliant star, crowning achievement.


These crafted creatures were what the magical sphere knew as morphs.
Dust and life energy given shape, they were more akin to undead than anything else. Indeed, they had an appearance almost like that of a vampire-- having incredibly pale skin, dark hair and glittering golden eyes.

And yet, they would move and act and behave as proper humans. Some were simple, mere automatons that would execute any command, while others could have personalities of their own. You could even create a morph to look exactly like a person who once lived, had you a little bit of that person's life essence: but it would never truly be that person.

After all, most morphs lacked true human emotions. It was for the best, of course, for having such feelings would surely cause them to despair for their existence and for whatever purpose they were created for; such quandaries simply weren't productive.
While paper-thin personality could be entertaining, there was no point to it. They were but the sorcerer's thrall, no more than that.

Somewhere, that rule must have changed, at that line where craft and art blurred.
You could say that you put none of yourself, of your uniquely human soul, into your creation-- but did you truly?


When not relaying commands or running their strange errands, Limstella often stood at a distance and merely watched their master.They were of the perfect temperament for a morph: docile until commanded and perfectly obedient.
So they spent their idle time in this simple manner. They did not breathe; they hardly made a sound as they walked.

But when called by their master to do this or that, even the most mundane request, they felt something.

It was warmth in their cold frame, a presence where nothing was meant to be.

Then, they would disappear until called again, bewildered by this feeling.
In dark, untraveled corridors, they would pace until this unnatural restlessness faded and left their mind clear.


Joy and sorrow and anger could, too, be crafted: falsities made in imitation of human nature.
But they were just that, falsities, and so were a thin cloth laid over a shape that, too, was imitation.

They could see this very principle reflected in their master's behavior, too. Incredibly old even for an accomplished sorcerer, Nergal had left a human life behind so very long ago, seeking to transcend mere mortality and human nature.

Limstella watched wordlessly, as they did, and saw past that. Still alive was vapid personality and seething cruelty, thoughts of old relationships, the deep understanding of how other humans worked... you could not simply create such things.
He was simply pretending to be what he was not. What was it all for? What was the point?

Something about that made them feel pain without injury, ache without trauma.
None of it made sense. It was a logic puzzle with no conclusion, and so they could not pursue it.


There was no place for such uncertainty in the prized role they played.

For their power and perfection, Limstella was given the most important role in all of their master's plans: to appear to the dead and dying, and to gather the life energy that rose on their final breath. They were even to put fallen morphs out of their misery, so that what lingered in their bodies could be reconstituted.

What it was all for, they did not know.
Nergal never told them of his ultimate goal, and that alone left Limstella with many a question.

They suspected that, perhaps, the consumption and use of life energy like this was bewitching. It was an addiction to death, living for the thrill and only making yourself even stronger from the fallen.
After all, it was many the fate of a dark magician, consumed by the dark they sought to tame.

But, of course, they had no point in questioning whether or not this was true.
They were the greatest of their master's creations, and to follow his wishes gave them purpose. That was the thing that all living things sought in the limited time they had.

Perhaps the brief sparks, these terrible somethings igniting in the emptiness, were just part of that purpose.