My mind hearkens back to a yester-year when I first heard the tales of the Shadow-Goers around the campfires. An old superstition of my peoples. Shape-shifters, neither living nor dead. They dwell in the forests. Occasionally they creep into villages. Solitary for most of their lives. Sometimes they grow weary and try to find themselves a loving family. Seeking the occasional food or companionship. They settle for a while, then when the attachment becomes too strong or they grow bored. They move on. Vanishing in the wind. I have often considered myself one of the Shadow-Goers, Or Sceadugengan in my tongue.
The beggar on the street saw me for who I was. He saw that beneath all smiles and the reassuring glances that I am but shadow. For I walk yet I do not feel alive. Nor am I dead. I take form and I mimic what behavior I must when it suits.
I have supped with folks of all codes, all leanings. Lawful and otherwise. Shifting my shape is what I do.
Yet it is said of the Shadow-Goers that over time they lose their abilities and forget what they once were. They live out the remainder of their existence as men. I have begun to lose my abilities yet I am still very conscious that I am not a man. I am Sceadu.
I have no desire to shift my shape anymore. I am false. I see this shadow reflected back at me. And it sickens me. But what of the man within fighting to get out?
The Shadow in me will not let him go. I writhe, and I struggle, but it will break my mind.
