-1AN: Notice to all you people: I have never played Revelation. I am going off the info that my friends give me.

Immunity

He gazed into the fire, watching it twist and dance. His mind drifted to all he had discovered over the past five years. Eventually, he settled on two points:

1. He is on a floating rock.

2. There isn't a Linking Book.

The first one, he could come to terms with. He could work with rock: he could shape it, build with it, create. . . or destroy. It was the lack of a Book that distressed him. These islands. . . none of them contained his Book. His ticket to Myst. . . it wasn't here. Anywhere. And as he stared into the fire, a dark thought crept it's way into his mind. He had brought. . . certain effects. . .with him. Important effects. Effects that he brought with him wherever he went. And if he used all of these items. . . he wouldn't have to stare at this rock much longer.

He dug around in his pack. First, he pulled out a large bottle of fine wine. He hadn't taken a sip; he was using it for a type of fire starter. And the other items. . . he was saving for a special occasion. He pulled out a small syringe and a large bottle of liquid pain killers. He knew that these were the strongest that his Ages had to offer. The pirates assured him that one dose was enough to dull any pain. . . but is wasn't the numbness he was wanting.

Slowly, he began drawing the precious liquid, meticulously careful not to spill a single drop. Then, he watched with grim satisfaction as he injected it in his blood stream. Already, he could feel the numbness in his toes and fingers. Again, he injected himself with another dose. He kept going, until he was too numb to hold the syringe. It slipped from his fingers, clattering noisily on the ground. The sound echoed around him, until the resonance sounded, to his clouded mind, like church bells.

"A funeral dirge for me. . ." he murmured. And as the blackness encroached upon his vision, he laughed, welcoming it's intrusion. Soon, the blackness took his mind as he slumped to the ground.

He woke up. The thought itself confused him. He was supposed to be dead. And, unless his personal hell was designed to look exactly like Spire, he assumed he was alive. Nausea overtook him then, but he could to nothing but more his head so that he wouldn't vomit on himself.

How far you've fallen, Sirrus, he thought to himself, And how useless you are. You can't even manage to kill yourself properly.

He didn't know how long he lay there. He knew he vomited several more times. He also knew that the numbness was leaving his body. But even in his sickness, he managed to form one coherent fact: He was immune to painkillers.

"Hehe. . . Achenar always said that these drugs were going to be the death of me," Sirrus said aloud, "But you were wrong, dear brother. I am immune. I am immune to death."

And he laughed.