Sigil: City of Doors

*The leather bound book sat new and unopened on the tanned flesh of her thighs, the warmth of the hearth dancing it's patterns over her lightly freckled features and the shaggy furs beneath. In one hand she swirls a smudged glass of amber liquid, the aroma poignant and smoky as it hovered some distance beneath her nose. The slender digits of her opposite hand idly traced the straight edging of the wordless tome as she gazed into the fire with a pensive expression. Her aquamarine gaze is pulled briefly toward the clattered opening of the nearby lock-box, a kilted figure drawing across his features markings of war. Slowly reaching for her quill, Odette finally presses nib to parchment and begins to scrawl.*


Entry One:
I know not the year. Nor the month. Nor the day. At least not relative to the life I left behind. How distant it seems now. Three months have passed since then. My state feels akin to that of a snake, shedding skin. The first was peeled by the portal itself and eased out of in the days that followed. The second came with loss, and out of it I stepped. I will continue to keep shedding skin for the rest of my days. I write this now as I stand at the dawning of a new era, with a hunger on my lips and a fire in my belly. My heart cries out. It hunts. It roars beneath a tepid surface; a pained, desperate song that courses through the bloody pathways of my limbs. I am alive and yearn for true freedom. I know not where my path leads, but I will channel this.

I will use it.

Sigil. The City of Doors. The Cage. The center of the Multiverse. Such things were foreign to me once. A simple sailor, a runaway no less. Contented to turn a unknowingly turn blind eye to many things, ignorant of anything beyond the endless horizon. A free state, but was it truly? Looking back on the life I had lived in comparison to the life I live now, I had been unaware. Not at fault, mind you. I knew no better. In these past three months, I have loved and I have lost at the hands of a single bullet. I have witnessed the depravity of the slums, the limitations and expectations of those around me. I have been broken and reformed. I have experienced moments of extreme emotional liberation. The woman I was is but a memory now, there is no going back. There is no pretending it doesn't exist. There is only moving forward, there is only acceptance and the embrace of freedom. Of what is and what can be obtained. Grown. My heart swells with the possibilities.

There is much I wish to write of, the circumstances which brought me here, the nature of the things I have seen, the current struggles and fears that I face... yet I find myself without words for such. Drowned out by the need to live, to be and do more. Not catering to the needs and desires of others, of which is a trap I had fallen into. No. I break the shackles of what others dictate through stereotypes, of what society dictates to be true and correct. I grow tired of being tugged or forced in varying directions, of others thinking for me. I am not a prize and I will become a force to be reckoned with and respected, for what I am and do and not the make of my body. More than simply being allowed to think and feel for myself, my life is my own. Sod anyone who tells me otherwise. I shall do with it as I please and encourage others to do the same. Perhaps this is selfish of me to claim such, only time will tell. There is much that remains to be learnt in such unknown territory. I will sample the wine and savor the taste.

In the meantime, there is much to be done and few hold the mindset and maturity to see it so. There is more than the blanketing fog of voices unheard that blights this city at present. With each day the passes, the situation becomes more dire and additional cultists show their faces.

War has come and I will heed it's call_______


*The scratching movements of the quill subsides, trailing off with an inked tail of unwritten words. A hum resonates softly within the chest of the bardess, a growl in the back of her throat. The tome is snapped shut, despite the wet state of the text within. She stands, her shoulders rolling back as if dropping a weighted cloak from around her neck, with a deep intake of air that filled the entirety of her lungs. Her future was her own, now and evermore. The length of her slender legs momentarily eclipses the flickering light of the hearth, her determined strides taking her to kneel at the lock-box. Wordlessly, two fingers dip into the paint and lift to pull over the contours of her features to the drum of fervently chanted words nearby.*

*Odette drank heavily that night. Through the near-silent streets of The Hive she had trudged, it's occupants having barricaded themselves indoors with the fear that had inevitably followed the tragedy of their home. The former sailor did what she could to reassure them, even in the silent support of her presence in careful inspection of the surrounding area. It was only as her knees had begun to buckle did she retire to the hearth of the warrior poet's den where she stayed currently.*

*Chainmail rings severed over her stomach, bare flesh and remaining attire soaked with blood - both her own and that of countless others. Streaks of maroon ichor ran rampant in the sandy blonde tresses of her hair from the numerous times she had forced a bloody hand through it's length as she was oft prone to do when stressed or frustrated. With a bottle of amber liquid in her hand, Odette stared into the fire for a long while and watched the flames hungrily consume the logs within. Wiping her hands on the leather tights of her thighs did little to clean them before she reached for the leather-bound book from her satchel.*

*The written text is scrawled messily with a shaking hand, a few fingerprinted smears of dried blood accompanying the words.*



Entry Two
Blood. It coated the walls and pooled on the ground. There was no prejudice in the slain. Men. Women. Children. I held a man traumatized as he grasped the lifeless bodies of his wife and two children, sharing in his silent anguish as their blood seeped through the weaved fibers of our clothing.

Death comes for thee, the words spoken. Drums. Undead. Scythes. Reapers, a thought that Amir toyed with out loud. Hades?

What I lay eyes upon in that place sickens and infuriates me in equal measure, both fighting for dominance over my soul. I can only imagine the impact it must have had on those with me as they retched against the wall. My anger, it kept the grief at bay. Kept me driven. Focused. Even still, I'm plagued to my core with the question... what were they after? Fuckin' cowards, attacking places of healing. Preying on the weak. That mentality, that depravity, is exactly the poisonous mindset of the cutthroat society in which we reside and tolerate.

I will find what they are after and they will answer for the butchery of innocents with blood.

Come hells or high water, this will not stand.


*The scrawl of text ends abruptly, the tome tossed aside. Draining the last of the amber liquid from the bottle in hand, the other once more threads through her hair with a rumbling sigh as she stands. Picking up the rolled cigar of questionable content, of which a few pulls had already been taken before being extinguished, Odette tossed it into the crackling flames without hesitation. She didn't need such aid. She would not be sleeping this night.*

*The floorboards creaked softly with her light-weight steps, the bardess unbuckling the straps of her pauldrons and discarding them on her march toward the bathroom. Setting the mechanus gears of the tub to work their magic in drawing and heating the water, she peels her tunic and remaining chainmail from her form to toss them aside without further thought. Lowering herself into the wooden confines, the sanguine liquid that clung to her tanned flesh slowly dispersing through the heated water in a quiet, swirling dance.*

*An addendum is added beneath the second entry, the font evidently more legible as if written by a calmer hand.*


One of the two survivors attempted to commit suicide. Milk of the Poppy. Brindas attempted to retain the life of the man who was intent on throwing it away by transferring it's effects to himself. Vyse's words to the Doc continue to ring in my thoughts - "The others were quick to leave him to it. I'm glad you didn't." True enough I weren't in the room when it happened, I likely would have too. What does that make me? Heartless... or realistic? It were only through the powers bestowed on him as Ilmateri that Brin was about to save his life, for the rest of us he was as sure as dead.

If a man wishes to take his own life, do we have any right to deny him that wish?

Are we simply prolonging the inevitable, or are we offering a second chance?

*Step after step after step they followed the entourage of bugbears and goblin, keeping to the shadows and alleyways a safe distance behind. To say things had not gone as expected was. . . an understatement. Reflecting back on it, Odette had to wonder if perhaps it were all some sort of twisted, illusionary dream sequence.

The portal had flickered to life in response to the key she had held. Flickered, being the key word. Unstable. Then, non-existent. Who then had been the helping hand, one whom they had not recognised at first? None other than Elminster himself. If she was dreaming, then perhaps she was less mentally stable than she had thought. Everyone on her prime knew the name, the tales. The Old Sage. Mystra's Chosen. . . she too had found a knee alongside her companions, overwhelmed with awe and concern over his presence.

Sammaster was, after all, a name she was familiar with also though certainly less so. As a former Chosen of Mystra, it made sense that such drew the attention of the The Sage of Shadowdale. It did little to ease her knowing this, however. Odette turned her gaze skyward, seeking out the firey orb of the King-Killer star that blazoned above in the oncoming blanketing of Selune's gown. Even now, the thought weighed heavily on her as the shadows weaved themselves around her in a cloaking, wisp-like dance from her feat to the darkened streak of grey in her hair. Were they in over their head? Without a doubt. Naught it mattered. It was as it was, and both Lady Luck and Elminster had entrusted this task to they. A thunderous roar of purpose coursed through her veins with every pulse of her still beating heart, driving each step.

The scrapes and bruises on her form had already began their accelerated healing process with the aid of magic, though they had paled in comparison to those sustained by the warrior poet on her behalf. Bloody Kelth, she would punch him later. If they survived this. Thankfully Quinn and Argent were found not to far from where they she and Kelth had come into contact with the cobblestone streets, the elf and mage alive and relatively unharmed thanks to the Argent's quick thinking. Her concern was as much for her companions as it was for the situation they had found themselves in. All too soon, the ground had rocked with an explosion, the last of the Jammer's wreckage - and their mode of transportation - sent flying skyward.

Knowing not which side of the battlefield they had landed in, lacking supplies and a way back, the group pressed forward as a single unit under Kelth's leadership, following the only lead they had in the tracking of the goblinoids.*

*Glad was the Bardess for the coming of night, despite the uncertainties it held. Painted in the blood of their enemies, ash disguising their scent and creating a fierce countenance, the trio had departed the battlefield and continued east. Now, as darkness fell, they worked to set up camp for the night. Ugno, the Grand Magus of Ulnik was dead; slain by the fearsome might of Kelth's roaring blade. So too did his comrades go down, one by one under the ravenous assault by their group and the aid that had come by the way of Scar's mercenaries. Not that they'd needed it, mind you.

Tired, sore and sweaty; nightfall made it's approach and embraced the war-torn prime of Illia. The luxury of a fire was one they could not afford for a multitude of reasons; the primary being the attention it would draw in addition to the soaked foliage of the rain that fell even even now, pooling at the bloodied tips of her bangs and rolling along her jaw to drip from a slender chin. Despite the rapidly falling darkness, the night was not a quiet one. Sounds of war echoed from the horizon amidst the rolling thunder, the thudding of projectiles fired from siege weapons. Having pitched her own tent alongside the others, Odette took the opportunity of a solitary moment and tread carefully from their makeshift camp-site to it's borders. The further her steps took her, the heavier the shadows cloaked her until she was one with them entirely; such it was since her trip to the Plane of Shadow.

With the area secure, her gaze drifted toward the comet in the sky and her thoughts along with it. Odette found herself torn in her thoughts and beliefs. Scar and his men had killed hundreds of thousands of people on the prime of Orculus, claiming they, like Illia, were servants of Ulnik and massing an army of their own. How many innocent lives were caught up in such? On that same note, how many of Scar's mercenaries were simply men trying to feed their families? Would they choose to die as well, once the snake's head was cleaved from it's body?

The bardess had felt mild frustration as Quinn had tended their wounds, to her own surprise. "Why do we heal our enemy?" she had questioned in her mind, jaw clenched as she gazed upon the butchers. What was the point when they would likely perish too in the days to come? Likely, even, at the mercy of her own blade. Where does one look when both sides are as vile as the other. At first she had hoped to use one against the other, inevitably destroying both. She was not physically strong, as Kelth was, nor did she have the patience and wisdom of Quinn. The thought of having two hundred legionaries driven against the might of Sammaster was a strategy she herself had come up with in the hope they would destroy one another. Plans change, however, and Scar would perish once he was drained of useful information. It was a plan she preferred, truth be told and things were progressing nicely, or as well as possible given the circumstances. A two-day march would take them to Scar's camp as decided when they first left Sigil.

Turning from the pricks of firelight on the horizon, Odette dismissed the shadows around her and returned to the camp. Their accommodation was a far cry from the luxuries of the Cage, not that such was particularly bothersome to Odette. Her life at sea had never been exactly comfortable. Perhaps there was a lesson in this, she had become to settled. Too comfortable in such needless extravagance. Welcomed, but not essential. Perhaps a lesson for them all, and those beyond - to be grateful for small mercies. Odette pulled her cloak around her more tightly, hands shaking as she did so. It had been two days since since she'd felt the pleasant warmth of liquor through her veins, perhaps only realising now how dependant she'd become on it. For one as independent as she, the thought sickened her.

As she passed Quinn's tent, she couldn't help but smile. The soft-spoken older gentleman held a special place in her heart akin to family. All too often they were pulled their separate ways, yet here they were facing such together. He was strong, in his own way. Moving then to her own tent, Odette's quiet steps halted outside of Kelth's own. The gleam she had seen in Kelth's eye this day caused her brows to pinch with a mix of concern and thought. It went beyond his usual ferociousness, an accepted part of who he was in his core. A fond smile curled her lips as she recalled a past memory, aquamarine gaze flicking to her own tent before lifting the flap of his and crawling inside. It was a cold night, and she knew he would not mind.

Tomorrow, they would venture further east and hopefully reunite with Argent. Two hundred thousand of Scar's men were positioned between their makeshift camp and his, high in the Gryk mountains, along with another three hundred thousand among Ulnik's army if what information they were given was true. Supplies were limited, the local water poisoned and... Sammaster had been sighted recently. Whatever the coming days had in store for them mattered not. Odette would greet it with open arms, as was her way.*

*To have one's flesh peeled from their bones was a remarkable sensation. Though the act was made painless, it did not make it any less of a sickening, horrifying experience for all those involved.

Having returned to the confines of the fortress ruins they had secured only hours ago, Odette's gaze weaved in the direction of the elderly mage nearby. Bathed in the pale light of the moon and wrapped in the cloak she had placed around his shoulders, she remained near enough that her presence may offer some comfort, yet far enough away to provide them with some personal space. Quinn was.... unstable, and the bardess was at a loss in what to do. Whatever had occurred presently or in years passed, had shaken their companion to his very core. She was no healer of minds, and with Amir being back in the cage Odette knew the next best thing was the Silvanesti elf in their company whom had barely left his side. Additionally... Kelth was missing. They'd gotten separated and she was worried despite knowing full well that the man could handle himself. He would return to them when he was able.

Odette could still hear the music, playing repetitively at the back of her mind as she once more poked and prodded at her flesh as she remained seated in the clammy dirt. Now clothed again, she couldn't shake the discomforting feeling that it didn't quite fit properly. Her jaw clenched with the memory; the haunting feeling of her limbs moving against her will. Dancing, forever dancing to that whimsical tune that coursed through her body and hazed her mind. Kelth, Argent, Odette. They had been beckoned through a thick fog to a clearing; responding to the scream which had echoed through the woods following Quinn's decision to hunt for a much needed meal after a long day's travel from their previous camp.

The skeletons jerked like puppets on strings to the tune played by the wraith, the mage among them. Skinless. Fleshless. Skeletal. Sickened as she was, Odette he had felt the melody within her very mind. Inviting. Questioning - when was the last time you experienced true joy? It started with the tapping of her booted toe in the dirt. Fighting. Struggling. She battered away the skeletal hand, once. Twice. The third time, she no longer had the will to do so, her clothing and flesh then being magically unzipped from her form. Muscle and sinew had parted and peeled from where it clung tightly to bone, yet she could force no sound from her skeletal maw. Dancing, dancing. A single word stuck in her mind, standing out from the din. "Coronation".

Another voice joined in the song, a voice she recognized.

_{Light. Searing pain. Darkness.}

A shudder rippled through the body of the bardess in her recollection, arms wrapping around her knees as she drew them close. There was no shame in her terror, Odette knew this... yet she could not allow herself to succumb to it. Not here, not now... and not without a strong drink in hand. They had survived, barely, and assuredly more trials fettered the path before them. Her strength was needed, and she would not give anything less. What Argent must have endured to restore them, what must be tormenting the mind of Quinn in his present state...

Shoulders weighted and heavy, her gaze drifted toward the night sky. Whatever this coronation was for, she knew it did not bode well. They were still a days hike from the provided location of General Scar's camp. Were such festive preparations mere arrogance, or had Sammaster's final pieces fallen into place?*

_{Quinn, dear Quinn... Kelth... What's to become of you both?}

*Odette roared ferociously, the thin blade of her unsheathed rapier skewering the flesh of the nearest mercenary only to draw back and pierce the one that took it's place. Even as the leathered forms of Scar's men poured into their campsite and the words "Seize them" rang in the early morning air, did she fight still. Her sword arm brutally disarmed, the bardess kicked and clawed and bit her resistance, struggling in an animalistic fashion as the cold irons clamped around her wrists. Oppressed. Contained. Shackled. Her core screamed internally in protest.

With the unreturned presence of the Warrior Poet, both Odette and Argent had gone about taking shifts in the search for Kelth, and the gentle minding of Quinn with attempts to coax him back from the nightmare he was evidently living. Argent had an uncanny knack, a bond with the mage she could not replicate but she tried as best she was able. Morning had come, their supplies packed as they made ready to depart; yet with the dawn so too came an apparition. The ghostly visage of a familiar tiefling reaching out through broken communication of a sending stone. Then, swarms of legionaries. . . everything went black.


Odette fumed quietly in the darkened room of the compact establishment. Cloaked in the shadows that answered her beckon, she could take no more patriarchal bullshit on top of everything that had been endured already, and all that would come. Having recently been over to check on the semi-coherent form of Quinn, the bardess blinked back a few frustrated tears, leaning back against the wooden panelling as she vigilantly watched the nearby legionnaires patrol through the window. This was not the plan.

Having roused from her unconscious state in the apparent throne room of the General himself, handed over to the company of Sigilian friends whom had seemingly appeared out of thin air, her gaze had instantly fallen on the Mercenary leader and the plans he was making to work with the new arrivals. Her cherished blade, Fang, had been taken from her. The plans they had made, dashed without a thought and her protests to such quickly silenced as they were ushered away to claims of madness. To make matters worse, the overheard reports of Kelth had churned her stomach despite the relief he lived.

Within the house they had effectively been imprisoned within, things did not improve. After the initial shock of seeing their companions on the same prime as they, mere days after their arrival, Odette had gone about immediately checking the exits and perimeter to fully understand the logistics of the position they were in. They had been provided all that they desired, and yet remained nothing more than glorified rats trapped in a crate. It was then the demands had began, unsympathetic with accusations of madness when it came to expressing one's feelings, talked about as though they were not even in the room. Odette had grown frustrated, calling upon the shadow's of the veil to cloak her so that she might find peace rather than break a bottle over someone's head. She knew they cared, even if she didn't agree with their reasonings nor with the idea that any of them needed to be rescued.

The din of argument swirling all around her from the other room, Odette became keenly aware of the alcoholism that ran rampant throughout her system, causing her hands to shake. Just how much more could she take, now more than ever? Forcing the cork from the bottle of liquor nearby, the one she hadn't smashed, she quickly brings it to her lips.

"Three months....from pup to....someone on 'er own feet... Some moments more...merry than others...but r'gardless, I've witnessed how ye marched on...in yer own way. Ye started out as a pupil, but yer an equal...an' wha' I find in yer presence, is...peace an' freedom...a rare thing... t'is nae e'en somethin' we 'ave t' give a name...jus' one look at ye an' I know..."

Kelth's words from time together in Sigil rung in her mind, eyes closing for the briefest of moments as she allowed their encouragement to wash over her. Slowly her fingers inched for her pack, the knowledge of her taken blade once again causing her to grimace as she drew out a leatherbound book and with it a quill and a small travellers vial of ink. Soon, she sets nib to parchment as she was often encouraged to do in times of reflection.*


Entry Three
There is a rage that boils inside me and I am left wondering. . . no, wavering in my faith of people. Not just people, but those who would call me friend. So caught up are they in their own lives and selfishness that fail to see the bigger picture, they fail to see the work that needs to be done and the war that wages all around them. It is ever-present in Sigil and continues even here. So focused are they in dealing with their own problems, in being right and dominant, they neglect the real problems which are glaringly obvious.

People are dying for feck sake. There is more than a single prime's lives at risk, here. Our plan to drain Scar of information and have him slain falls flat on it's face with the unaccounted for additions. In the middle of a war, dirty, bloody, hungry. . . and the focus placed on the lack of warmth in greeting, the absence of hugs and smiles with the apparent need of rescue. So melodramatic in sexist words and actions, not caring for the actual tasks at hand or the trauma endured. Grow up. He said, unknowing and unwilling to ask. Knock it off. As if such was easy. I need not even write of the insult against my person at the lack of trust and faith that I cannot handle myself. And not just me, the four of us, having been gone but two days.

Everywhere around me is chaos, the kind of chaos where people use it as an excuse not to think. It is not the needed chaos. It is not the chaos that brings about change. It is the poisonous chaos of selfishness as opposed to selflessness.


*Sometime later, an addendum is added beneath the entry after several splotches indicate the tapping of the nib in that space over a lengthy duration.*


They are here for us, rather than this goal. Our mission. I find it foolish and frustrating, but can I truly be angry with them for that, despite the utter lack of respect held for us? It is not that I do not welcome their aid, it is the fact that they believe us incapable without it. It changes not how I feel, nor my opinions on the matter. It changes not the fact that I am entitled to speak my mind, untamed... but... I should not overlook the fact that they came because they care. Methods and demands aside, whatever their reasons for coming, selfish or selfless, they came all the same and the aid should not be berated, nor turned down.

Yet I cannot allow such petty behaviours to get in the way of the task at hand, nor allow the ruckus to take precedence over those whom remain quiet simply because one other remains the squeaking wheel whom draws the most attention.

Quinn continues to improve bit by bit with the hours that pass, and I feel our shared experiences have brought Argent and I onto a shared page of understanding and friendship. Vyse becomes stronger and more in control of his life with each breath, and Brindas - despite this whole 'rescue' being his idea - is at least keenly focused on the task.

As for me.... some people are born to do the dirty work that others can't do. March on.

Focus on the mission.


*The book snaps shut and is pulled tightly too her breast for a moment with a long exhale. After a time, it's leather-bound pages are slipped back into the satchel from whence they came. Rising from her seated position at the window, Odette moved once more to check on those whom likewise occupied the building before settling in front of the coal furnace; a luxury in comparison to recent campfires.*

*Odette had watched Scar slip through her fingers, questions unanswered. [color=818181]Who, or what exactly was Scar and why did the chronomancers force him into an endless loop?[/color] Listened to others call her mad. [color=818181]Had she chosen correctly in letting him walk away a second time, despite lack of understanding and shortness of time?[/color] She had flown over gorges and climbed over mountains alongside her companions. [color=818181]Would the blood of another hundred thousand lives come to stain her hands because of it?[/color] Crawled inside the belly of a dying comet that had passed through countless primes. [color=818181]How long would it be until the so-called "Guardians of T.I.M.E" would come for her once again, warrant still standing, to end her timeline before she could save his?[/color] Met the Lich known as Sammaster, face to rotted flesh, and saw Vyse shoot a dracolich's phylactery from his hand at her command. [color=818181]Sammaster was not dead, even if he were it would be mere days until he reformed once again. Would he seek revenge?[/color] She watched the world crumble and break beneath her feet, felt the key vibrate in her fingertips. [color=818181] How much longer could the planet survive?[/color] Ensured her friends turned and left through a portal, safe and accounted for as it closed behind them. [color=818181]I'm sorry.[/color]

They were all gone, yet so many questions remained.

Clothing and maile singed, form bathed in sweat and blood, she was alone now; her task completed, Sammaster foiled in a whirlwind of unexpected events. There was nothing to lose now, everything to gain. She knew they would be upset, maybe even angry. But the weight of knowledge was heavy on her shoulders - she had asked him to come. Maybe it was all for naught, but Odette couldn't bring herself to leave knowing one soul remained, knowing Kelth still lived. It was not because she had to, it was not because he needed her... it was because she chose it to be. She would not abandon him now, despite her understanding such would be considered weakness had she worn the wings earned in Sigil. Perhaps she was as mad as others seemed to think.

Tearing her gaze from the singed space the portal had occupied, Odette swallowed the lump in her throat and dove for the nearest pillar in an attempt to avoid a larger chunk of falling brimstone resultant of the recent mountain explosion. Her rapier, specially forged and named "Fang" for short, banged and thumped against her thigh in quiet reminder that swashbuckler and weapon were together still. The earth shifted beneath her booted heels, dying in every sense of the word as she hurriedly placed the key, a Bloodiron Ingot, back into her tattered leather satchel. Retrieving a slender, oak wand from a clasp on her belt, the blonde bardess tapped it lightly to her person to coat herself in a protective layer of stone skin.

Odette turned her back on the nightmarish clearing where she had danced a skeleton, on the last glimpse she had stolen of her companions as they departed, and fled for the nearby hilltop ruins with the inferno close on her heels. There she would wait out this particular downpour of molten hell, beginning her desperate, hurried search as soon as she were able.

A single name was bellowed through ash-smeared lips with the trained force of a bard as she began.*

"KEEELTH!"

*Coughing and spluttering through the drizzle of ash-rain, the bardess threaded a dirty glove through her sweat-soaked hair, breaking away the last of the protective stone. Gone were the mages whom could provide her with something more substantial, something to ease the burn in her lungs. Odette pressed on for a full day and a half through the rapidly deteriorating prime of Illia, avoiding elementals where possible and confronting them head on when not, bellowing Kelth's name to no avail. Pieces of her clothing are torn and shredded to form something of a filtered mask, replaced when one becomes too thick with toxic grime.

Exhausted, hungry, drained physically, emotionally and mentally, the soot-covered woman scrambles from rocky surface to rocky surface through a number of core-shaking quakes. It was no small measure of surprise that etched over Odette's features as she quite literally stumbled into the fleeing stampede of several hundred prime civilians and thousands of armed legionaries. Pleading, screaming, shouting, fleeing waves of people, racing for a portal which remained open still. Though her jaw clenched with the knowledge of her failed search, Odette had agreed to aid them in their evacuation, marching for miles. If nothing else, be it even it with her dying breath, she would not allow these lives lost. Lost, forever, like Kelth. The thought was an overpowering one that drove her forward, an ear-piercing note leaping from her vocal chords, and into the fray of elementals that blocked entrance to the keep.

Spinning, slashing, shouting. Bodies fell all around her, sprays of blood and ichor mixing with ash and dirt on every surface it met. A familiar roar boomed across the battlefield, and caused Odette's blood to run cold. Flashing, whirring, slicing. . . and there he was. A towering figure of pure destruction, mixed in among the dance of elemental and soldier. A brief glance in the heat of combat, the fall of a firey figure bringing them side by side on the battlefield with disbelieving exclamations. It was not a time for reunions, however, their combined bardic shouts of command driving those fleeing into the walls of the keep as though herding rats. Rats that squeaked and bit and trampled one another in a desperate bid for freedom as they barrelled through the portal that flickered and waned. Too slow, far too slow. There was no time.

The world around Odette seemed to quiet in comparison to the blood that thumped in her ears, the following moments caught up in a whirlwind that somehow both swept everything away and slowed it down in an unexplainable manner. A blur, as though she were running on the spot and the world was simply moving around her.*

Thump. The portal explodes, closing in on itself. Thump. Limbs and gore flying in multiple directions as it severs those escaping into pieces. Thump. Falling debris shatters stone walls, cracks skulls with sickening clarity. Thump. Fire and brimstone rain from above. Thump. Defeat. Thump. Determination. Thump. Scar's men move to form a barricade, accepting their fate alongside their General. Thump. Salutes offered, a mark of respect. Thump. Elementals swarm through, civilian stragglers falling to the ground; lifeless. Thump. A grasp at darkness within, a link to the Plane of Shadow fizzles. Thump. Anger. Defiance. Thump. Nowhere left to run. Thump. A flash of blinding light, penetrating the depths of present souls. Thump. Acceptance of impending doom. Thump. Illia shrieks, the screams of a dying planet. Thump. A firm embrace in the wake of death's beckoning call, shielding. Thump. "Odette... know this... I..." Thump. One last glimpse, a final gaze meeting. Thump. Searing pain, the end of the world. Thump!



Darkness.

[color=515151]Running. Floating. Falling. There was nothing but darkness. Overwhelming. Alone. Odette could not remember a time before pain was known to her. There was an answer, what was it? A voice. His voice? She reaches for it. Gone. It seemed so important before. . . whatever 'it' was. So many loose threads. Tumbling. Screaming. Screaming. Spinning. Names, dates, places, faces. They dissolve into the dark. Had they ever existed at all? The pain rages on. Molten blood coursing through her veins, shattering subconscious thought. There was only the timeless dark and it's jagged, tormenting claws that ripped and shredded her flesh as everything else became evanesce.

Hours become days that seem to stretch on for eternity, limitless in the void of agony. Then... a coolness, stemming from an unknown source. An icy rush that tracked through molten chaos, and with the chilled embrace, came peace. Weightlessness. Caught on a breeze, the pain snaked away on tendrils of relief that only moments before had seemed impossible. Flying. Floating. Freedom. Departure. A wave, a current that headed in a direction unknown, engulfed in welcoming wings. No, not wings; a promise borne on silvery threads, a gown that sparkled like the stars. Arms outstretched, surrender. Everything that is, everything that was, is no more.

A question. A call on the wind. A choice.

The flicker of a twining red flame, the flashed smile of a golden-haired woman.

Peace fades, light dimming. The wave that carries her soul changes course, it's undulating current steering in a new direction, filling the canals of a lagoon that seemed familiar yet somehow inexplicably different. Thoughts, visions, memories pouring into a physical mold. Weightlessness slowly becomes weighted. Renewed. Invigorated. Haunted, but restored.[/color]


*Odette's oceanic gaze slowly flutters open, slightly bleary, to stare at the stone work of an unknown ceiling. Her vision slowly focuses on the familiar tear-streaked faces that hovered over her newly gifted body, the charred remains of her former self still and lifeless at her bare side.*

*The hearth flickers and dances as it had many times before, the rugs of animal fur beneath her bare legs plush and inviting. As always a glass idled in her hand, though it lacked the slightly restless twitch of an alcoholic hand. It's contents drained, the beverage is set aside to the nearby tune of a powerful snore, if only for a few moments of tormented sleep. It is enough to faintly curl the corners of Odette's lips as she withdraws a leatherbound book from it's designated pouch. Slender fingers, free of scars left by ropes, rigging and combat, gently brushed over it's surface as though it might turn to ash at any moment - and likely would have, were it not within the confines of a heavily charred bag of holding. So much to say, and yet finding the words proved no easy task.*


Entry Four:
I am alive. That seems the most relevant place to begin, at present. It is with no small measure that I am grateful for such; for the opportunity to continue the work I have but poked a toe into the frozen lake of. To explore sentiments shared, and bask in the company of those whom have become dear to me. It is by no small miracle that Kelth and I somehow survived the destruction of the war-torn prime Illia, but it does not come without consequence. Though some bonds have strengthened, our group is shattered now, broken and scattered about. I wonder if such things can be repaired, or whether - as with all things - it has reached it's end.

Despite the gift of second life I have been given (I am told it was done with the use of a 'True Resurrection'), I cannot help but feel as though something is slightly off. Perhaps natural, having one's soul leave the body in death only to return to a near identical copy of the original host. Alas, I cannot shake the nagging feeling that my time was up as soon as the flared light of Illia's destruction was upon us. It was my time, and more. I am unsure of how to cope with such a notion, or whether it makes me as barmy as the looks suggest when I try to explain it. *a few splotches of ink dot the page, the brow of the bardess furrowing in a pensive expression.* Given the images I see, perhaps what can only be described as flashbacks, it is not completely unreasonable they would think so, perhaps. Sometimes I can still hear the melancholic melody of the flute. Doorways bring infernos of raging fire, closed eyes bring about destruction and pain. It is... not easy to manage some days. I must remember to ask Kelth if he is experiencing the same.

Illia brought a number of realisations to the fore, though not all that transpired yielded positive results. Despite the horror of what followed, Kelth has now reached a level of understanding I have quietly hoped he would since our early days of tutelage. No matter how many bodies fall at his feet, it will not bring those he loves back into his embrace. It is not for me to write of such personal things of another, nor would I seek to force the man into any belief other than his own. It being a thing discovered, however, I will admit it soothes my soul to learn of his acceptance. It does not make their memory any less, perhaps now it may even be cherished more than ever before.

*Another few splotches marr the page as Odette's gaze lifts from the tome in her hands and drifts in the direction of the bed nearby, a hulking figure sprawled out over the fabric plateau. The feathered end of the quill she holds brushes briefly against the tip of her freckled nose as it's tapped to her lips in thought, the bardess finding some comfort in the rise and fall of the muscled mass.*

Kelth has shared with me, stirrings of his heart. Expressed knowledge of numerous things to work though, gratefulness for our friendship on a deeply personal level and honest admittance of a stringless realisation that in watching the end of the world, there was more to our unity. It is.... a sentiment I have returned, obligation free. It is not something I understand fully as of yet, neither of us do I believe, nor have any thoughts on where it might lead beyond a natural, mutual attraction and a deeper level of fondness and understanding. Perhaps in time, this may bloom into something we can be allowed to explore but it is not a claim either of us have made at this point. We will see.

There is still much to be reflected upon, and many more answers needed. I am doubtful that I will be able to ink every notion in a single sitting, if at all. The heat of the moment stirs many thoughts and emotions, all of them valid but not without reason. I cannot help but feel a sense of failure, despite what we accomplished. Guilt and regret still weigh heavily upon my shoulders, a permanence should I never find the answers I seek.

Illia was to be a reconnaissance mission, the acceptance of an offer to meet for information regarding the mercenary general, Scar. Specifically, in relation to so called Guardians of T.I.M.E placing an arrest warrant on my head for having once saved his life and thus being responsible for then tens of thousands of lives he took. Despite the fact he and his men sacrificed themselves to buy us time, I am still left in a frustrated limbo of unknowing. Two sides, one claiming him a tyrant and a murderer; slayer of worlds and innocents. The other telling of a man forced into an endless loop for being something I do not know, and those killed stated as being T.I.M.E Guardians. Scar was not a good man, yet these Guardians have not given the full story either. With Scar presumably dead, is that really it? Gods only know what happened to the dracoliches...

I am left wondering how many more lives I am to be responsible for, the ripples of actions seemingly reaching further and further out into the verse with every week that passes. Naught but a day after I found my feet again, the clinic was bursting at the seams with injured escapees of a prime named Galvinar. A prime I assume is on the receiving end of debris hurtling from the pocket that had once been consumed by Illia, it's neighbouring prime.... planet? A star in the distance, or so it was. Families torn apart by death and injury. More blood on my hands. The refugees rest now, their wounds tended. Is it really possible all this could have come from saving a single life? Or was this an inevitable twist of fate, prewritten?

I don't know.

There is still much to do, it seems. Not limited purely to recent hardships, either.
Maelfina is likely waiting, scrolls remain an issue, and the unseen war of the City of Doors rages ever onward.


*Accompanied by a heavy sigh, the metal nib of the quill drains the last of it's ink on the page and quickly dries in the warmth of the nearby fire. The book closes slowly shut in the moments that follow, the furrow of a troubled brow easing as it's placed alongside the discarded glasses of their earlier guests, Vyse and Quinn. After running a weary hand through the golden tresses of her hair, fingers momentarily lingering in their descent on a scar that was no longer there, Odette climbs to her feet and arches her back with a full-bodied stretch. Another log, thick with a slow burn, is placed onto the coals of the hearth on route to bed. With a yawn, the bardess crawls into the smaller unoccupied place between limbs and closes her eyes to the quiet assurance of company.*