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Prologue

That man only ever came after sunset, his visits sporadic yet specific. Always walking just alongside the path, always bearing offerings of sliced tuna, and always lacking variety in whatever tales he asked of the Soul Weaver. 

After witnessing that careful articulation, a uniform way of dressing, and his deliberated way of speaking, the Soul Weaver deemed Nexus suspect and most definitely a solider or some overblown lackey. Somebody under constant survey. The Soul Weaver was still to parse through what had drawn him to that conclusion, but he did have a few theories.

He was likely adhering to some self-ordained decrees of his own imagination, the Soul Weaver hypothesized. Uselessly specific sets of rules were characteristics of most gods (specifically ones who had lost the novelty of immortality), but the rules the Soul Weaver was able to bear witness to were most definitely issued by Nexus himself. He had searched every inch of Nexus’s body and was unable to find any brandings, tattoos, or immortal inflicted scars -- something that characterized all kinds of relations with gods.

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But a hypothesis is just a hypothesis. Even if a god only leaves marks on those that capture its attention, nobody is entirely free from their influence. 

It was a stubbornness unbefitting of a mortal, the Soul Weaver often mused. But if he pointed out how stupid the ideals the fool uselessly clung to were, that idiot Nexus would probably leave.

But that was unlikely for now. Only tremendous inconveniences like enchanted swords and bludgeonings could force men like that to change, and Nexus had not shown any signs of budging. 

But what did the Soul Weaver have to lose? If Nexus decided to leave, Nexus would leave. Whatever inconvenience that dumb fuck caused would fade after a few decades of rest. Plus, having to retell the same banal folktale over and over was already starting to get on the Soul Weaver's nerves. He was ready to talk about something else. 

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