We return to our intrepid protagonist kneeling beside a dead body, having just regained a unique ability.
>realize the horrible, horrible truth
No. It couldn't be. But what other explanation was there? What cause would poor, fragile children have to murder an innocent man? Unless...
Unless he were not so innocent.
You grip at your head, your eyes wide in shock. Could it really be true? Could this man have been guilty of that most heinous of crimes? But then what of the connection you feel with him? Why did the children attempt to kill you, as well? Could it be that you also...
You shake your head violently from side-to-side. No! It's not possible! There has to be another explanation! But what could it be? This doesn't make any sense!
You look down at your hands. They no longer glow, but you can still feel the energy pulsing through them. Communing. If you were to use that ability, this man's memories would become available to you. You would know for sure who he was. Why he was killed. You would gain everything that he has -- everything that he is.
You spread your fingers and place your hands against the man's chest. You shut your eyes and inhale deeply, then send a surge of energy out through your palms. It envelops the man, coursing through his body, and returns swiftly to you, the body disappearing with a flash. You feel all that the man is transferred to you.
Unfortunately, "all that the man is" is dead. Your lifeless body slumps over in the snow.
You have been killed by a poor decision.
Your soul is jettisoned through time and space, across eons and galaxies, reeling through the effulgent cosmos. You feel yourself slipping away, emulsifying, becoming one with the heavenly aether itself. For a brief and terrible moment you feel your mind reach out, touched by that which it has sought for so long -- the very font of knowledge. But the moment passes, and you are consumed by darkness.
You find yourself in the midst of a caliginous void. It is evident that you are here, and have always been here, and will always be here. You can sense the presence of others around you. You can feel their anguish -- their misery is palpable. You are unmoved. They are not you. You are all you know, and you are nothing. Nothing.
Suddenly, you are overwhelmed by feeling. You cry out in shock. What is this? Your mind burns. The impenetrable miasma is rent before you. In the distance, you discern a familiar aura. Could it be? Could your communion with the dead man be binding, even here? Another wave of feeling crashes over you. You are overcome with the desire to find this soul. You reach out in the darkness, straining your very essence to seek him. The path before you is clear, but every step you take awakens a new flood of terrible pain. You call out to this soul, but your voice is as empty as the vacuity which surrounds you. You struggle onward, laboring under each step. Finally, you reach this lost soul. His hand grasps out for yours. You clasp it tightly as your auras become entwined. There is a great quaking, and you feel yourself being pulled -- not apart, but together.
With the wisp of an eternal breath, you appear in a labyrinthine corridor of books. You look about, confused. You casually saunter down a few aisles as you attempt to gain your bearings. As you turn a corner, you espy a collection of notes stuffed inside of an azure tome. You have a sudden and inexplicable urge to investigate them. However, as you flip through the pages, you suddenly hear a creaking noise behind you. You stuff the notes into your pocket as you go to investigate.
"Collection of Notes" has been added to your inventory.
You follow the sound until you are wandering down a long hallway lined with doors. It seems to stretch on for miles, hundreds upon hundreds of doors disappearing into the horizon. They are all closed, with the exception of one. You step inside to investigate and feel the great pain of dematerialization.
You find yourself standing in a great hall. Around you, the soft pattering of hourglasses numbs your mind. Far in the distance, you see the form of a black robe sitting upon a throne. Resting upon its shoulder is an enormous scythe. You cannot see its face, but you sense that the figure is acutely aware of your presence.
You have a feeling that you know where you are.
