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It was heartbreaking, that scream. It was tortured, confused, and young. So, so young. It went on, and on, and on, and it echoed in every corner of the Ghost Zone, rippling the very fabric of the Infinite Realms.
It wasn't ignored. Many ghosts set out to look for the source, they were dead, or deathless, or neverborn, not soulless, not without compassion. But the Realms were Infinite, home to a thousand thousand miracles and twice that many curses. They did not abandon their search, so much as they were distracted from it.
In any case, no one connected the apparently permanent portal in the Wastes to that scream. Why should they? It wasn't a logical leap to make. Nor, immediately, did anyone connect the scream to the young halfa. Such creatures were rare, and few knew what went into their creation.
The little halfa had been dead for well over a year when the connection was made for them, when they pushed him to far and he screamed. It wasn't just the power behind that scream, that attack, that pushed them back, it was the memory. Where sympathy did not drive them away, did not dissuade them, it was fear.
Because if he could shake the Ghost Zone with his voice while he was still forming, what would he grow into?