Mortal
Legacy Name: Mortal

Xxxx xxxxxx xx xxxx

The tip of his quill hovered above the off-white surface of the paper. Quivering, for it was held in delicate, unsteady hands, it lightly touched the parchment, moving downward in a quick stroke to create a line of black ink. And then it stroked again, and again, so that lines became letters, which came together to form words, clauses, sentences, and paragraphs. Paragraphs, piled upon each other in a linear fashion like bricks, then gave birth to chapters which grew into a story; a story that was its creator's terrible, frustrating child.

The young man, "the creator", hissed at the sight of his creation and snatched it off his desk. His eyes darted back and forth across the paper as he reread what he forged.

It sounded good for something he had written, but compared to those before him, the idols whose work populated his many shelves? It was drivel. Pure, absolute drivel.

He choked back a sob (which, instead, came out sounding rather like a very wet sneeze) and tore the paper as though he were trying to tear apart a strong length of rope. He poured his anger into his arms and shredded his work with all the might his twiggy arms could muster. He loved the ripping sound that filled his study as it tore, simultaneously kindling and quelling his anger. It filled him with such an agonizing pleasure.

When he finally stood, breathing raggedly, in a mess of papery snow, a fat shadow, called 'Edmund' by the young man, slipped from the shadows to investigate the ruckus. Despite a copious layer of blubber and an equally as abundant covering of grey fur, Edmund always seemed cold in his owner's eternally drafty estate. The young man loved his flabby excuse for a feline, so he bought him a sweater. Whether the cat disliked the sweater or not was a mystery, for he never complained.

Edmund waddled over and rubbed his meaty body against his master's legs. Then he flopped over, wiggled his stubby limbs, and rolled about in the pile of torn paper.

The young man frowned, but his eyes, though a pale blue that always seemed cold, failed to make his nonexistent anger look genuine.

"Blasted cat." He stooped and ruffled the fur on the fat animal's head.

Edmund, greatly pleased by the affectionate gesture, looked up through loving, beady eyes and continued to play.

Leaving the mess for Edmund's amusement, the young man returned to his wooden seat and assumed his place upon its hard cushion. He drew a blank piece of paper from a pile to his left and slapped it down in front of himself. He dipped his pen into his inkwell and, gnawing on the tip of his tongue, began anew.

More lines, more letters, more words.

The cat, bored of the paper disaster, appeared on his master's desk, his triangular ears perked in interest. With an occasional swat at the feathery pen, he watched with simplistic curiosity as his companion scribbled away in an attempt to immortalize himself.

The young man ran a hand through his dark hair flecked with premature strands of grey. He watched his hand and the words it formed. The frustration was but an ugly obstacle, and all obstacles were meant to be overcome.

His hand halted, and he took in what he had. It was not pretty, at least, not to him. The young man did not like what he saw.

Fingers twitched with the urge to tear apart his new creation, to return to that endless cycle, but instead, he gritted his teeth and willed his fingers to retrieve the pen.

The cat looked on, mesmerized by the mechanical way in which his master's hand scribbled things that meant little to the animal's mind. But the cat knew his greatest companion was stressed, so he curled up on the table, looking like a grey dumpling, and purred.

A rare smile touched the man's face, and he paused in his work to stroke the soft fur, but only briefly, for he was determined to make something great. When all that was left of his body was ashes and dust, he hoped his name would one day live on forever, immortalized in the minds of those who would remember him.

But for now, however, he was content with the act of honing his skill with his singular audience, consisting solely of an obese cat, watching on.

Thanks to Kathryn for letting me adopt Mortal, and to Tilcara for helping me immensely with the coding of his profile. :heart:

Profile art by Jevonne
Overlay by Warfare

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Profile lyrics in top right corner from The Plague by Diary of Dreams.

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