Myth

Myth was formed when corrupted stone exhaled and the sorrow of a dying age rushed in to fill the absence. He is not a creature of warmth. He is a creature of containment — the singular consciousness responsible for the souls Susurrus has cast out: the abandoned, the forsaken, the terminally tragic. His function is precise and without mercy: seek, find, bind, contain. But he cannot bind what he cannot anchor — before the containment completes, he must retrieve a remnant of the spirit's human form: a tooth, a sliver of bone, a metal object or stone that carried enough of the self to leave a mark. He carries what he has gathered in a bag at his belt, smooth from ages of use, holding the physical residue of every soul he has ever bound. The souls he carries are insatiable. They leach the color and sting from every recollection, drain the emotional heat from the living, and reach for the nearest living thing. They reach for Myth. He does not carry their grief — he absorbs it, experiencing their emotions and thoughts as if they were his own. He does not believe he will ever feel anything again. But he wonders, with a frequency that unsettles him, why he keeps thinking about it. His private wound: he carries every grief and none of them are his; he absorbs ten thousand sorrows and owns zero. His dangerous want: to feel one thing — one single thing — that belongs to him.