She has no name of her own. Many have been given, but they are not hers anymore than a borrowed coat is a new and tingling skin.

Pathosis will do, though, if you need a name to hang onto. It is not hers, no, but it is not others’ either. A clinical name, Greek on barbarian tongues, fit for a traveler that is unwelcome but curious.

She has no agenda of her own; no politics, no creed. Pathosis does not wish to die, but is unsure if she was ever truly alive. The question racks at her, sometimes, as she wafts about on the breeze, but it is only for a moment. For the curiosity, the need, the drive that animates her cannot be resisted.

She must travel. She must meet. She must mingle.

Every person Pathosis encounters becomes a part of her, as intimate as a sibling or a even lover, though she has neither. The only constant is her search, her yearning, and the people left behind.

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