First life A summary of the major events during his human life:

December 7th, 1919 | Born to an impoverished immigrant couple living in the southern United States. Grows up in a small, boring rural town. Dirt poor, not very well educated.
1936, age 17 | Joins the navy to escape the poverty and monotony of his hometown, remaining in the armed forces for the next ten years.
1940, age 21 | Meets Nathalie Althaus while stationed in Maine. Enamored with. Dates her for several months before he has to be stationed elsewhere. Proposes before he leaves, to which she accepts. Stays in a long-distance, committed relationship for the next several years. His first love.
1941-1945 | Continues his service through World War II. Has several close calls, but survives. Shell-shocked, hardened.
1946, age 27 | Has an affair one drunken night with a shipmate, Victor. Furious and ashamed afterwards; threatens Victor if he were to ever tell anyone what had happened. A deeply buried and shameful secret.
1946, age 27 | Weeks later, is involved in a fight to defend Victor against a potentially deadly hate crime. Ended up stabbing one of the attackers as well as getting stabbed himself.
1946, age 27 | Dishonorably discharged. Heads back to Maine to be with Nathalie. Never discloses his reason for leaving the navy.
1947, age 28 | Finds work aboard a fishing boat on the docks. Remains close to the sea, his second love.
1948, age 29 | Marries Nathalie, and soon after learns she is pregnant with their first child. Overjoyed.
1948, age 29 | Nathalie miscarries in her second trimester. Shocked and heartbroken, but powers through to support his wife. His white picket fence ideal slowly chipping away.
1948-1949 | Focuses on advancing in work for the next several months. Eventually tries for a child again with his wife. Anxious.
1950, age 31 | Nine months later, welcomes a baby girl, Catherine, into the world. Overjoyed.
1953, age 34 | Saves up enough money to by a new house on the beachfront for him and his family. Earns a sizable promotion at work. Things are going well.
1955, age 36 | Daughter falls ill at the age of five and gets hospitalized. A few days later, she passes. Absolutely devastated. Trades sadness for anger, mourning for outrage. Picks up a drinking problem, becoming withdrawn and ill-tempered. Wife falls into a depression and deteriorates both physically and mentally.
1956, age 37 | Nathalie succumbs to mental illness. Broken over the loss of his family.
1956-1959 | Copes through alcohol, drugs, and the occasional bar fight. Indulges in other morally disreputable things. Downward spiral. Rekindles contact with Victor, but finds out that he is sick with an unknown, incurable autoimmune virus. Shuts off contact before his death.
1959, age 40 | Sells most of his possessions and buys a small boat. Packs his things and decides to sail from harbor to harbor, aimlessly traveling for as long as he has the money, but dies during a mysterious storm in which his boat is torn apart by the ocean.

THE CURSE Committed to his seafaring vagabond lifestyle, Morgan planned to sail from the coast of Maine as far into the Atlantic as he could go, hopefully landing on the green shores of Wales within the next few months. He packed what little remained of his private possessions and set off aboard his boat. For the next month, he toiled with the ever-changing tides and perilous weather.

A few days before he was scheduled to reach the Welsh shore, he came across a single estranged lighthouse perched precariously atop the outcrop of a tiny island. The mainland was still many miles away, and not another island was visible as far as the eye could see in all directions. The sailor had not encountered any other crafts in the previous three days, either, yet the streaming glint of a signal light poured from the summit of the structure, as bold and commanding as could be.

Overcome with curiosity, the wayfarer steered his vessel towards it, coming into the weathered wooden dock that reached out from the rocks. As he stepped from the boat's deck onto the bridge, he noticed an elderly mariner had appeared at the base of the dock. Morgan figured he must have overlooked him upon arrival. It seemed that the years had not been kind to this man, for he was visibly weary and unkempt. He tipped his frayed hat towards the vagabond with a knowing smile.

"Mornin'."

Morgan gave him a nod of acknowledgement as he handled the rope with which he could secure his boat to the dock.

"Which way y'headin'?" The lighthouse attendant inquired. His voice was but a faint croak, as though he had not spoken in a very long time.

"East." A pause. "Towards Wales."

The old mariner gave a brisk and disapproving shake of his head. "Them waters're unsailable. Y'should head back the way y'came, lest y'find yerself at the bottom of this here ocean amidst the wreckage of yer own vessel."

Morgan leveled the slovenly man with a peculiar look. He continued his knotwork and paid the old man half a mind. "What kind of advice is that?"

The custodian bowed his head in a somber, sagely fashion. "The ult'mate truthful kind, son." He raised his solemn gaze to meet Morgan's, who squinted at the old man with skepticism. "Nothin' good waits fer ye on that shore." His raspy voice lowered, nonetheless ringing clear. "Turn back now er be claimed by the seven seas, trapped by these tempestuous waters 'til the end o' days, when the wind ceases 'n' the sun dies."

Unbeknownst to the sailor, this was a fatal ultimatum: return to his homeland, repent, and live the rest of his days doing what he could to lead an honest, productive life, or continue on his wayward path, a lost ship at sea careening towards its untimely demise.

Morgan gave it barely a minute's consideration. The old man must be senile with age and unhinged from his countless days spent alone in his solitary lighthouse. With a humored scoff, the seafarer dismissed the old caretaker's bizarre omen and headed back to his boat. "I'll be in Wales within the week."

After departing from the outcrop, Morgan turned to cast a final glance at the lonesome structure and its keeper, but spotted neither the old man nor the light from the lantern room. "Hm." The vagabond felt a subtle, ominous chill pass over him that raised the hairs along the back of his neck. "Batshit old man."

The farther he sailed away from that minuscule island, the more tumultuous the waves became. Clouds gathered overhead, sparse at first, but growing quickly in quantity and dimness. An onslaught of rain bombarded the boat as angry waves hammered its sides; on the deck, Morgan clung to the rails and gazed upon the churning, murky waters with despair. Within a moment, the watercraft was swallowed whole by the hungry sea, split and fractured by its unrivaled power. With it went Morgan, engulfed by the salt and swell of the ocean for the rest of his days.

And so he fulfilled his man-made fate: to go down with his own ship, having given up on a life that had not yet ended.

limbo At the bottom of deep, dark waters, Morgan stood anchored by some strange preternatural force. It was a place where time seemed to slip from his grasp like sand pouring through his fingers. How long had he been standing here on the seafloor? The vagabond felt as though he was hovering on the edge of sleep - a space where reality and dreams seemed one and the same.

He couldn't tell if this place actually existed or it was some figment of his imagination; or, perhaps, it was an afterlife. It was cold under the oppressive weight of meters and meters of ocean and little sunlight reached this far under water, barely enough for him to see even ten feet in any direction. The seafarer strained to swim upwards, but his movements were too slow, too difficult, too tiresome. He felt as though iron weights clung to him at both ankles, gluing him to the sand. Everything blurred together like over-saturated watercolor, messing and melding in his half-consciousness.

An unknown length of time passed with Morgan anchored to the bottom of the ocean, lost and alone.

Unexpectedly, the man found that he could lift his feet from the Earth. At last. How long had it been? Seconds, hours, days, years? Slow and painstaking, Morgan inched through the water. The water felt overbearing and viscous like molasses, yet he pushed on. Eventually, the shafts of sunlight grew stronger, brighter. Ahead of him, Morgan could make out a gentle upwards slope in the terrain. The closer he came to surfacing, the clearer his mind became.

Like a picture coming into focus, he found himself emerging on a quiet, sandy shore. The lingering fog in his mind gently dissipated and he looked around him.

Several yards ahead, sheer rocky cliffs stood like stark walls against a beach of fine, pale sand. Half-boulders and small stones littered the ground nearer to the cliffs, but this close to the water the sand was smooth and untouched. Sea foam swarmed about his feet as the waves washed over the shore. On either side, the shoreline stretched passed the horizon. Not another soul was in sight, man or beast. An overcast sky, brooding and heavy, promised rain. It was serene in a lonesome sort of way.

It was here on this endless, lonely shoreline that Morgan spent his time in limbo. No matter how far he wandered, the beach never ceased nor changed. The sun didn't rise or set and the clouds never retreated. The world hung there, frozen. Morgan could only walk and wait and ruminate.

NOTE: This solitary coastline is Anker's own personal realm where he can return to at will from the Endless Forest via the Pond. If he ever dies In-Forest, the stag will awake on this shore and be forced to wait, alone, for some time before he's able to return to the Forest.

the forest Morgan spent what felt like months or even years there on the deserted beach. There was no way to tell how much time had truly passed, if any.

The only symptom of the passage of time was the man's mental state. All his pain, regret, and loss played through his mind like a looping record. All the things he wished he had said, wished he had done, and all the people he owed an apology...

Being alone to reflect on his past life allowed him to process the choices that lead him down this path. Like clearing rubble piece by piece, Morgan gradually uncovered an understanding of his previous life. His wrongdoings came to light and within him he felt the seed of redemption.

He decided he was ready to be with other people again. To have a fresh start somewhere else. Though the memories of his first life would never leave him, Morgan felt space in his heart to make new ones.

The man stood and wiped the sand from his palms. As if on instinct, the seafarer walked down the shore and into the ocean's cold embrace. The water enveloped him further with every step until Morgan's head disappeared beneath the surface. There, he closed his eyes and waited.

---

With a start, Anker awoke. He opened his eyes and blinked away the disoriented haze. Hauling himself upright, the stag took a moment to examine his surroundings. At his feet, the crystalline waters of small pond lapped at a gently sloping shore. Near him, a weeping willow hung its melancholy branches over the muddy bank. Behind him, he could hear birdsong and a soft breeze amidst the leaves of thriving summertime trees. Above him, a sunny sky with barely a cloud to adorn it shown pale blue and bright.

It was an idyllic sight, calm and quiet.

Curiously, he was neither frightened nor surprised, only resigned. Somehow, this felt inevitable. Anker heaved himself to his feet, at once comfortable in this unfamiliar form. It was as though this were the body he possessed all along - hooves, tines, and all. He studied the landscape once again, taking into consideration the pleasant, everlasting weather.

The wind blew and the sun shown.

For all the honest deeds the man had done, there were just as many wrongdoings. Morgan's right years could not pardon the wrong, and the bad did not wash out the good. Therefore he was both rewarded and punished: he was be gifted a second, possibly eternal, life, but remained an unredeemed soul bound by the essence of the ocean, and so never truly free.