Amir 'Neath

[*Theorum Of Neutrality]

Bedlam In Bohemia: Chapter 9 - "Fatalism"

Amir's cape billowed out behind him - every rustle and flutter of the Nymph Cloak seeming appealing and dramatic. He adjusted a low hood over his face, trying to be nonchalant. It wasn't hard in Sigil, City of Hoods.

He walked along the dirt-smudged earth of the Hive, refuse and the stench of suffering tinting the air. The Hive was sizable, in reality. It had long, winding roads with high-reaching, poorly made buildings that created the illusion of insurmountable poverty. It was easy to call everything pointless after a childhood in this place.

He could also see how easy it would be to believe everything was falling apart. He knew the comfort of such delusions. When the world was falling apart, there was an excuse for why things break. Amir had found that... Among all the insanities he had encountered, some in himself, some in others... All came from the fear of breaking, the fear of loss. It only made sense that some people would revel in loss... It becomes much easier to accept, at that point.

That still gave them no excuse to inflict their insanity on others.

He paused in the street, a puff of wind and dirty brown rain pulling out his cloak. He grabbed the wild hems of it, and drew it around his slim form. A large, broken down dive rested on the curb in front of him, made from what could basically be driftwood. Two men in rags staggered out, their arms wrapped around each other - laughing drunkenly to each other. Amir slipped in after them, tugging his cloak close. A bawdy, drunken bard played a song in a corner. Scents of warm piss and cold vomit hit his nose, making it twitch slightly. Good to be home.

Through the din of cheap goblets and the slosh of cheaper swill drown out most of the quiet conversation, but Amir had trained ears. Bits and pieces of the darkest darks waded through the dimmed suffering and induced happiness... Amir planted himself at the bar, keeping his cloak drawn around him.
" 'Llo, cutter. You need a drink, or did you come in to see my ample bosom?" Chirped a wide human woman, with long blond hair reaching for her waist.
"Some o' ya swill?" He replied casually, sliding a copper across the bar. He had gold, but he preferred to avoid getting robbed. The heavyset barmaid slid him a goblet of a thick, mealy brew; and took his copper.
"Just one? Bah. Dick-fliddler." She muttered as he walked away. Amir wasn't particularly offended; it was true, after all. Plus, he had a thing for elves, anyway.

He tilted his head from side to side, and took a small sip of the horrible ale to cover the motion. Quite a few dark-looking figures rested against the bar. It's never good to assume someone is an Anarch, but it's even worse to assume that they aren't. He heard snippets of conversation. Doomguards, Doomguards, Doomguards...

It was maddening.

They were prodding a bigger beehive then they knew. They didn't think about what they were doing, what they were trying to accomplish... Revolution? To what end? Entropy? Why? Why cause all this suffering?

He had made a pledge. A pledge to himself. A pledge that, by his standards, had no meaning but to himself. He would end whatever suffering in the Multiverse he could. If the Doomguards are ready to start a war... Then he would wait. Wait.

Waiting was always the hardest part.

[*Theorum Of Neutrality]

Bedlam In Bohemia: Chapter 10 - "What One Finds While Picking Poppy"

Oblivion is a bleak prospect. Compassion is a bleak prospect. Everything is a bleak prospect. What does one find at the edge of Sigil's buildings, which seem to conveniently lack windows? What lies in the Lady's eyes? What kind of evil tentacle monster lives in Erin Montgomery's naughty bits?

All questions without answers.

Amir found himself lying on the warm bed he and his love shared. Isen would be home soon to slide into with him, smelling of salty breezes, sweet rum, and delicious musk. Nothing, now. Just soft sheets in a small inn room. Sounds of laughing, crying, and screaming children filled his ears, and the Bleaker found the barest hint of a smile tug at his lips.

This was suppose to be the happy ending. There are no happy endings for the Bleak.

He was cage-bound once more. The winds called him. More and more everyday, the crushing hopelessness of his situation weighed on him. He wasn't doing enough. Still, the cries of children held echoes of the moans of the starving, and of the insane. It was time to save the Multiverse.

Or go insane trying.

[*Theorum Of Neutrality]

Bedlam In Bohemia: Chapter 11 - "The Cager's Lament"

You can find happiness in slavery.

It's a strange fact about life - the reliance on delusion. The aversion to the cold, hard truth. Amir had forgone all delusion long, long ago.

He held the devilweed spliff up to his lips and took a deep, shuddering breath, his hand shaking. He hated devilweed - the taste, the scent, the color. It reeked of bloody sadness and wroth emotions. It was the Cage, Sigil, that stretched out before him, again. He followed its eternal ring with his eyes, boots planted firmly in the grimy muck of a Hive alleyway. If Amir were delusional, he'd tell himself that he wanted to be here, that Sigil was home. That's why he returned.

But, Sigil isn't home to anyone. It's a grave, not a womb.

Yet, there he stood - the great expanse stretching out before him, the squalor that was his foundations. Why the Far Plane would want anything from this sorry, sad collection of hovels, and the great, howling asylum that lorded over it - he'd never know.

He flicked the butt of his spliff onto the ground and smiled.
"Mad as a March Hair and a Felt Hatter. Let's see ya ge' inta this mind, scuttlers."