The Wanderer
The Wanderer
A white male in his late 40s. Long blonde hair. He wears a hooded green robe and he has a slight beard. He always has an inquisitive look on his face. He doesn’t suffer fools lightly.
A mythic figure. No one knows where he came from.
The Wanderer
A mysterious figure of myth and shadow, The Wanderer is the enigmatic alter-ego and spiritual adversary of Martin Cole. A white male in his late forties, he is instantly recognizable by his long, sun-faded blonde hair and the hooded green robe that drapes over his lean, weathered frame. A faint beard lines his sharp jaw, and his piercing, inquisitive eyes seem to see through the fabric of reality itself.
Though calm in demeanor, The Wanderer exudes a quiet intensity — a man burdened by knowledge too vast for ordinary minds. He speaks rarely, but when he does, his words cut with precision. He doesn’t suffer fools lightly and regards the world with the detached curiosity of one who has walked its roads for centuries.
No one knows his true origin. Some say he emerged from the desert beyond time; others whisper he is the echo of a fallen god — or Martin’s own shadow made flesh. Wherever he goes, questions follow, and the air itself seems to tremble with the weight of his purpose.
Biography: The Wanderer
Little is truly known about The Wanderer, save for the myths that surround his name. Some say he was once a scholar of the unseen world — a philosopher who stared too deeply into the soul of creation and was cast adrift between realms. Others claim he is not a man at all, but an archetype — the manifestation of every seeker who ever lost their way.
What is certain is that The Wanderer has walked the Earth for longer than memory allows. His footprints trace forgotten monasteries, collapsed civilizations, and the crossroads where men barter with the divine. He appears in ancient texts under many aliases — The Green Pilgrim, He Who Remembers, The Mirror of Souls. Each time, his presence marks a turning point, a confrontation between light and shadow, knowledge and madness.
He wears his green robe as both shroud and symbol — green, the color of rebirth, decay, and everything that grows in the cracks between worlds. Beneath his calm exterior lies a boundless intellect, sharpened by centuries of solitude and endless inquiry. His eyes are both kind and cruel, as if he sees in others the illusions he himself long ago discarded.
To those few who encounter him, he is both teacher and tempter — offering truth, but at a cost.
To Martin Cole, he is something far greater: the reflection of what Martin might become if his soul strays too far into the light or the dark.
Short Story: “When the Two Paths Crossed”
The storm broke over the dunes like a shroud being torn open.
Martin Cole stood alone beneath the violet sky, the ruins of the Twelve Signs Observatory at his back, his mind still echoing from the final ritual. The air smelled of burnt ozone and old parchment — the scent of revelation.
He had seen the stars rearrange themselves into the geometry of something vast and living.
He had felt himself dissolve into that pulse, the cosmic rhythm that connects all things.
And then — silence.
Only the wind, whispering like an old tongue he almost recognized.
A figure appeared on the horizon. Slow, deliberate, walking against the storm with impossible calm. The green robe moved like water; the hood shadowed a face both familiar and strange. Martin’s heart clenched — he felt, without understanding why, that this man knew him.
When the figure reached him, the storm ceased.
“You called,” the man said, his voice low and patient. “And so I came.”
“I called?” Martin asked, uncertain. “I didn’t summon anyone.”
The man smiled faintly. “Every seeker does. You looked into the Abyss and demanded to know who looks back. I am that answer.”
Martin studied him — the long blonde hair, the eyes that shimmered like the last light before dawn. “Who are you?”
“I am the one who kept walking after you stopped,” the stranger replied. “The one who crossed the threshold when you turned away. You might say I am what waits for you on the other side.”
Something inside Martin recoiled — recognition laced with fear. “You mean… you’re me?”
The Wanderer tilted his head, considering. “Not you. Not yet. But the echo of your becoming. Every light casts a shadow, Martin Cole. You and I — we are the same journey, seen from opposite ends.”
Lightning flashed, and for a moment, Martin saw his own face beneath the hood — older, wiser, wearier. The moment passed, but its truth lingered like a scar on his mind.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
The Wanderer’s smile faded. “To see if you’ll finish what I began. To see if, when all things fall away, you will still seek the truth… or turn back into the dark.”
The wind rose again, swirling dust between them. When Martin blinked, the man was gone.
Only the sand remained — and a single footprint, pressed deep, pointing toward the endless horizon.
From that day forward, Martin Cole was never certain whether The Wanderer was real — or the first sign that his awakening had already begun.