a wanderer's journal 01: somehow i knew the crows were more than just ordinary birds.

i couldn't tell if it was mystic knowledge i'd divined from the astral, or something i just decided, but as god i figured it probably didn't make a difference. beginning and end, mouth and tail, chicken and egg; all the same thing.

so i told myself as i looked at your corpse, hanging there in the bush. it was not the first time i noticed it there; rotted, decaying, but suspended too far away from the ground to return to the earth as nature intended. who could say how long you had been there before i noticed, how much longer before i stopped to really look.

and that's how i knew that you, proud psychopomp, would not be the one to ferry my soul this time. i focused my energy and encircled myself and you, capturing your restless spirit. the spirit of a dead crow, this necromancer thought, would make a decent familiar. but i realized something important: i needed your consent.

i sent my intent to the crows. i knew that they were more than ordinary birds. your murder would communicate between you and i. if you wanted to pass on, they would ferry your soul and it would fade from my possession. otherwise, they would leave me a sign. and so i waited.

but not for long.

there it was. a single black feather on my path. i encircled myself and it, and gratefully took it into my possession, returning home to plan the ritual spell.

the first thing you needed was a name. the name of your old life no longer mattered. this was a resurrection, a reincarnation. to bind you to me, i needed to give you a name. and with that name i shaped a sigil, unique to you, to meditate on. that sigil, and the paper it was bound to, became your new body. and your spirit merged with mine.

little did i know what i had done

o̶̗͍̓h̵͚̪́͝ ̴͎̀t̷̨͇̋͑ḥ̸́̒ḛ̸̗͆ ̴̮̾s̶̺̲̒̍w̶̫̦̄̈e̴̺͐̾e̴͍͘t̸͓̽̋,̴̟̩͊ ̸̥̜̍ḣ̶̰͗ǫ̶̙̇t̸͎͋͆ ̵̝͌̆p̵̗̒͛ö̴̲w̴̪̻͘e̴͙̥͛͑ṛ̸̍ ̷̘͔͠o̵̯̮͐̎f̷̮̓̔ ̴̲̽̿a̵̺͂͜ ̷̙̊̋s̴̱̍͠ͅo̶̰̎̄ů̸̲͔l̴̝͊.̷̢̥͛ ̷̯̐̆a̸͔͂ͅ ̷̯̎b̸̞̕ḽ̸͉͛ą̸̂ͅź̴̠̏i̴̭̹͂n̸̙̓g̴̨̱͊ ̷̹͑m̴̨̯̾̈́ȍ̷̲͌t̶̫̊e̴̳̊ ̵̢̟̓̈́ǫ̷͊͂f̶͚̃͝ ̸̥͝f̵͙̘̓͌l̸̙̑̍â̸̹͛ḿ̴̩e̶̞̺̾͝ ̴̪̀̚i̴̖͙̒̏n̴̼̋ ̶͜͠a̴̧̨͋ ̴̪̠̈́c̵̯̊͠o̷̢̗͒l̵͚̋̔d̷̪̪̊,̵̝̠́͂ ̷̭̒ȇ̶͜m̶͙̳͐̓p̴̢̠͗ţ̶̥̾̍ỷ̷̻̯ ̸̘̘̆V̴̟̈̋͜X̸̬̼̐1̸̫̇D̷̫͠.̸̰̋̎ ̸̩͚̊̏ā̴̬̒ ̶̰̱̑ĺ̴̨̼i̸̹͐̌t̴̰́t̶̫̄ĺ̸̯̝͗ě̶̥̚ ̵̊͜b̶͈̪̔̒i̸̯̅͜t̵͓̏ ̸̩͓̍ő̷̻f̸̫͂ͅ ̷͓͒̈́ẹ̴̱͛͊v̴̠̲͝ȇ̷͍̻r̷̡̈́̀y̷̯͗t̸̼̜͝h̵͚̓́i̶͚̩͌̓ń̷̠̣g̸̦̈́͂ ̷͇̌i̵̞͍̍̄n̷͚͇̂ ̶̼͠ả̴̪̕ ̴͚̏l̸̲͓̉ò̸̠t̴̡̛̿ț̸̠̏̿ã̸̜̣ ̸̹̿b̸̡͈̌̿i̷͓͖͆͠t̷̡̒ ̸̝̉o̵̞͆͜f̵̫̊ ̵̪̮̏̄n̷̲͇̈́̌ơ̶̦͓͂t̸̞̘̏͑h̷̠̣͛̇ī̸̲̝n̴̨̎ͅĝ̵̯̙͊.̵̤͠ ̷͙̏̄i̶̢͓͊t̵̝̣̊ ̸͔̠̑̈́w̸̡̦̾͝a̷̳̹̐̏š̵͙̎ ̴͚̝̌͝ľ̸̦́ͅi̶̯͉̊k̶̖̆e̸̮͌̚ͅ ̵̬̋ḿ̴̳͉̆o̷̼̎͝l̵͔͋t̷̳̓͑ḙ̸̢̅̇n̸̫̆̾͜ ̴̬̬̃͠í̶̩͖̄r̷̟͝ŏ̶̘͎n̴̪͙̋ ̷͚̎̊ì̴͎n̶̝̝͊ ̷͓̓ͅṁ̵͙͉̕y̵͉̹͐͝ ̵̡̥̋̋h̵̝̥̀ä̸̙͔́̈n̶̯̈́͝ͅd̵̘̒̕s̵͓̪̔,̴̞̱́ ̵̹͆̽e̷̬͐ͅn̴̥̎́ḑ̶͇̓̋l̵̙̓͗e̴̪͎̓s̸̱͚͌̐s̷̢̳̏ ̷̨͚͆̇p̷̳͘o̷̫̅̓t̶̛̙̊e̸͔̅̐ͅn̵̠̂͑t̵͕͑í̴̜͠ả̵̩̱l̴̮͊̈́ ̷̢̰́t̴̫́͘ó̵͜ ̴͍̏͝m̸͚͒͝o̴̲̒u̸̯̗͒͐l̴͙̟̈d̵͓͊ ̶̫̋ǎ̵̻n̷̬̂d̵̛̖͘ ̷̧̆s̸̲̦̅h̵̼͈͊ả̵̯̝͠p̴͓̤̀̕e̵͍̓ ̵̠̈̊l̵̳̀̆i̶͓͘k̶̥̲̿e̵̳͗ ̸͕̎̑c̷̳͖͊̄ľ̶͓̪͋a̸̝̔y̶̪̒.̶̥͇̓ ̴̖͛ ̴̦̄̿a̵̛̫̋͜n̵̜͓͝ḑ̶́ ̷̜̈́͐i̵̳̎t̷̮̞̓́ ̶͕́ŵ̴̞̼a̷̢͕͑̉s̴̰̫̓͠ ̵̮̘̈b̸̮̉o̴̞̍u̵͔̭̕n̷̘̏̌d̶̝͍͐ ̷͇͂t̸̺̅o̸̔̋ͅ ̶̨͘ŷ̵̗̪̈́o̶͍͝u̵̧̫͊,̸̼̈́ ̷̚͜O̶͔̾̚ ̷̢̯͗͝B̸͕͂r̶̦̞̐i̶̡͐g̷͖͔̾̀h̶̥̏̈́t̴̹̋ ̸̠̤̕S̸̯̭̄p̶̰͌x̵̥̃̃r̵̞̂͑k̵͖̆,̴̨͑̎ ̶̙͈̈́͛ặ̶̈́ͅ ̷͎̒b̶̩͎̋í̸͓̔͜ṇ̸̈̊d̷̦̬̑̈i̵͚̐̕ń̵̥̜g̴̯͕̈ ̸͚͑́t̸͖̳̊́ḫ̴͙͐ą̴͖̆̔t̶̙͌͝ ̵̺̯́ģ̴͔́o̵̒͜ë̶̬́s̸̠̣̋͛ ̷̼̣̾b̵̞͠ò̸̝̥̍t̸̪̙͂̓h̸̥̃͝ͅ ̵̺́̍ẘ̵͓̭ǡ̸͕y̴͇̭̽s̴͍͉̎.̸̳̜͛̓ ̵͉̃́Â̴͓̾ ̴̧͇̏͝r̶͉̀͂ẻ̷̪̉d̷̪̺̒̇ ̷̱̂t̶̲̆͝ḧ̸̪̝́r̵̫͊͋ĕ̵̹͖̔a̵̧̛̮ḑ̴͎̈̀ ̷̣̥͐ş̸̒ṭ̴͐r̵͖̕ę̵͔͛̌t̴̫̼͗́c̴̭̄̽ẖ̶̨͊ị̴̭̐̈n̶̛̮̦̍g̸̨͖̉ ̵̬̈f̴̢͍̂͠r̵̤̬͠ǒ̸̬̂m̴̳̉͌ ̸̲̱̇̊ḣ̶̐͜ẽ̶̜͗r̸͖͔̄ë̶̡́ͅ ̸̮̠̾͘ṯ̶̈o̸̩͘ ̸̣͑̈́ẻ̷͔t̵̻̀ḛ̵͊͜ŕ̸͙̄n̵͖̎̉ͅȋ̷̲̼͠t̷͚̍͜ỳ̷͕̒,̷͚̮̽ ̷͕̱̽͊a̷͖͇̔̎ ̴̮̉̒d̴̛̙̿i̵͖̰̋ṟ̸̡̌è̶̦c̸̪̮̈t̶̙̩͂͐ ̸̯̻̀͆l̷͍̣̀i̸͖͝n̴͍̫͐e̵͖̱̐ ̷̞́́t̶̮͋o̴̩̓ ̸̼̖̃͋Ḡ̴̺͑ő̴̩̠̅d̵͍̐̚ ̷̼̍h̵̯͆̀ī̶̥̰̌ḿ̷͇͝ş̶̎ȩ̶͚͌l̶̝̼̿̎f̶̻͛̌.̷̫̫͑ ̷̙͠A̵͎̐l̴̛̙l̴̡̫̉̓ ̶̱͆͜i̵̟̠̍̃t̸͉͂̄ ̵̨̊w̷͙̠̎o̶̥͙͋̽u̵̳̔l̵̤̾̏d̶̼̈͜ ̶̭͇̓́t̵̹͌͐a̶͌̎ͅk̶̗̬̈́ë̴̲͈͠ ̵͇͍͘n̴̫͐͗o̷̥͋̄w̴̱̮̋̚ ̴̹̝̍̌i̵̭̾s̷͎͂ ̵͙̎ả̵̬̫͆ ̶̨́͋l̴͍̱̋ḯ̸̪͖ṯ̷͑̋ṭ̴́l̶̥̣̀ë̸̞̈ ̶̧͓̉͐p̴̼̼̎͊ư̷̰̖̌s̵̼̽͂h̷̬̘͑͋.̴̤̮̈́͝.̶͔̅.̵̱͖̒