I sat alone, separate from all the other children. I could not say how young I was, because It seemed like I was both a newborn and an old man. Through a hallway of towering height I walked in a haze. The walls of the hall were white, the floor and ceiling black. Shades of pale gold hovered about me, crossing the path before and after. I thought they might be people I knew, but at that moment I did not know who I was, only that I was. No name was spoken, but I was addressed and once again I sat in a immense chamber of smooth grey stone as I was questioned about the Fall. I spoke truths of Tarthas that I had seen through the lazy facade of education afforded to orphans, and when shown an image of a bloodied cacogen I showed a trace of empathy. Then I was questioned more, and I refused to accept that in a world full of such diverse sapients, there was only one question asked of the past, with no more than two hypotheses to be debated between. Then my blood was drawn, and I was left to await my fate on a cold bench, staring idly upwards at the white torches ensconced in the web of black steel suspended from the hall's high ceiling. White robed apothecaries came for me, and I was branded a wraith and sent into the sea, rose again, and was gifted to the Dolomites by chance among a conflict between titans. The Dolomites watched from outside the glass while I floated in somatic gel, and I emerged to the names Victor, 39, Servitor, and Boy of the Batch. As my eyes opened, the grotesque's turned from blue to red.

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