Torpor was a lazy stream of conscious thoughts where ideas swirled in eddies of disjointed visions and often got lost in the depths of whatever lurked below one’s thoughts. To Oliver, the daylight hours were a short time to muse on his plans followed by a listless ride through a timeless state of not-dreaming.
The fear of his own twisted body, for example, often emerged from the depths of these waters and confronted him. Below his neck, Oliver’s body was a stony, grey husk of gaunt flesh stretched over dry bone which had grown odd-angled protrusions like some kind of half-finished wooden puppet. His fingers, once plump and smooth as pearl, had become jagged talons he could scarcely bend without significant discomfort. How long until he no longer felt any connection to his old body? How long until the corruption completed its course by reshaping his very skull and he looked out at the world through shadowed pits where his eyes used to be?
The whispers from the abyss would speak from the shores of his consciousness, unbidden but not unwelcome, and remind him that he chose this path. What use were the trappings of life? What need had he of disease, starvation, long winter nights freezing in a bed of straw, and worst of all, the addled mind of old age?
This twisted visage was the bargain he had struck. An eternal husk would only be the shell of an eternal mind. He counted himself a fortunate and blessed soul to have made such a bargain but only if he could find the secret caveat which turned the tables. Yes, Greghor had told him that the oldest ones had lost their minds to the corruption of the Dark Magic, and Oliver had seen it already begun in his old master. If he wanted to turn this bargain in his favor, he would need to find a way to preserve his mind against the corruption…