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The Wheel

Practicioner of Magick

Awoken from death in ancient ruins. Pale and bloated, single minded upon one goal, yet thoughts that constantly shift through angled realities.

A silent stare that speaks volumes of what these eyes saw. Movements uncanny, like a doll animated by other powers. The Wheel is observing. Weaving. Plotting.

Lately the gifted novice of magick chose to seclude himself, probably to pursue his studies in the fields of the supernatural on his own.

The wheel weaves as the wheel wills.
The psychotic drowns where the mystic swims. You're drowning. We're swimming.
While the waking world doubts and fears, we know exactly what we are. We are the ceaseless wheel.
In Progress