A fortress in the mountains, piles upon piles of wealth in gold, silver, and jewels, a steady supply of jobs from carefully vetted employers to prevent Miasys from finding him. It was not enough. Bobidiah was not here and never would be. Most nights he could not meditate nor sleep. The guilt of harming Miasys, the hurt, fear, and pain that had flashed across her face when he sliced her finger off. The horror and revulsion in her dark eyes when she recognized him in the moments before he fled. The despair and frustration that the violence hadn’t stopped her, only strengthened her conviction of finding him and killing him. The guilt of killing Bobidiah while he lay vulnerable in his bed. The fear that maybe Bobidiah hadn’t been sleeping, that he had allowed it to happen. Or worse, that he had expected it to happen and allowed it to. It all consumed him, no matter how cold and cruel he tried to be, it still haunted him. On the night that he ruined his life, Sylvester had learned that he was a shapeshifter and while he could now make brilliant use of his unique abilities, it had been a long journey. The signet ring he had stolen off Bobidiah’s corpse was a powerful ring that only furthered the skills Bobidiah had ingrained in him. None could catch him when he wished to sneak past them unnoticed, and he found himself sliding out of sticky situations with ease more often than not. He had it all, to be sure, but it was never enough.
Once again, he found himself in his office, opening a drawer, fingers changing smoothly into long, thin appendages like spider legs, lifting a hidden compartment inside. From within he withdrew a sheaf of papers. He had cried the first time he read it, and now he read it every day, refusing to let himself forget how foolish his actions had been. It had taken him years to find someone who knew what possessed him. A curse by a trickster fairfolk for the cursed creature's own amusement. It had taken many more years after that to track the twice-damned thing down and finally slaughter it. It was an exhausting endeavor that at one pointed had nearly drained all of his resources. At least that damn fairfolk trickster who had messed with his mind was dead. His mind was truly his own now, though there were nights he wished it wasn’t.
