by ApriCate
Owen Marsh moved to a glen in the Scottish Highlands so that he would never have to speak to anyone again. It worked for four years. Then grey text hung an arm's length from his face, and something very old changed the rules under which Earth exists. [Ability recognised: Adaptation.] Recognised. Not granted. Whatever Marsh has, it was already there. Nothing explains it. Anything that nearly kills him does less damage the next time. Fire. Cold. Knives. Pain. Survive it once, badly enough, and it never hurts him as much again. He has no intention of saving humanity. No intention of leading it, joining it, or being thanked by it. He wants his cottage, his land, and everyone else off both — and the only reliable way to be left alone is to become something nobody is willing to bother. So he starts hurting himself on purpose. The factions, the dungeons, the war, and the thing waiting at the end of all of it are simply what happens to a man who refuses to be moved.
