Ripple.
The black river, the little boat, the purple lamp, and the Ferryman seated upon it. It had been a long time. Both the dream itself, and the act of opening his eyes within the world of his own mind.
Enkrid’s gaze naturally fell upon the Ferryman. No longer a blurred figure as before, the Ferryman’s appearance was now relatively clear. Beneath a pulled-over robe, skin like dried and cracked earth after a drought, and within it, eyes clouded thick with a pale film stared at Enkrid.
“Did you expect I had vanished because you hadn’t seen me in a while? That never happens. You are but a mortal who ought to dream of immortality.”
Enkrid faced the Ferryman he hadn’t seen in a long while and leaned back against the boat’s rail. There was no chair today.
“Did you not feel greed, even though killing just one man could grant you the throne?”
Was it because they hadn’t met in so long? Or had the Ferryman also decided to change? Instead of his usual talk of stopping at today, he prodded at the base desires innate to men.
“Had you killed him, you might have become king. Damage to your Will? That can be recovered in many ways. Besides, it doesn’t even matter if your Will suffers a bit of damage.”