The Lore of Archmagus Aleister of the Palms

Today, Gods — both Old and New — jol the six-thousandth six-hundredth and sixty.eth sunset since Aleister began his descent into the unnerving depths of the Quantum Shadows. A boy of only ten summers at the beginning of this journey— he bewilderedly watched as his beard twist and knot to its currently nested state. Nearly two decades of nomadic life will do it, not a single reflection except for the occasional refractions of light stolen from the bodies of water unremittingly seeking to replenish his sustenance.

This mage only held two truths, both for which he would— without second thought — mercifully bestow and then, in-the-same-breath, ruthfully rescind a life for.

Witch Lilith of the Wold (#3036) and Mana; everything and everyone else was lost in a grayscale, somewhere in the in-between.

Aleister had no true recollection of his mother. Just the fairytales his father fed to him as a child— a woman of the Gods, a Martyr, a selfless Saint. She had died in childbirth— but the townsfolk murmur another story in passing. Stories that resoundingly echoed louder in Aleister’s mind though no words sprung from their tongues, as they squinted, pierced-lipped in his presence.

He only knew one Mother. Through Her all things have come to be. It was only her reassuring warmth and loving company that propagated the logarithmic growth of both his innately given and newly harnessed energy. A new power so ubiquitously insidious it perpetually barbed into the most common intricacies of any and all realities, timelines and realms.

But alas, Archmagus Aleister of the Palms is unaware of the transcendent nature of his reach— as all comedic tragedies in life are written.

Entered by: 0xBb8d…Fe59 and preserved on chain (see transaction)