[This is also in the "fan area" writing section, but it occured to me another proper place for it to be would be here, since I plan to turn it into an ongoing event. So I'll post it in all of it's glorious wordiness. xD]

I.
Another murder, lying there in the snow, the whiteness sorely sullied by the tainted scarlet hue of the man's blood. People had gathered 'round to get a glimpse of the stiffening corpse, rigor mortis making the muscles clench and become permanently tetanic in death. Such a strange, eternally strange thing to see, really. When one expected the body to merely vanish into oblivion, into the Dark Lady's Realm, to be restored to wholeness. But the serrated dagger thrust deep into the merchant's neck, laden with a thick viscous liquid, assured that he would never again walk beneath the dome.

Beside it stooped one individual, carefully and meticulously looking for clues or hints as to the reason for the death. Certainly things would not have been so severe if this had been murder of a simpler sort, one that would result in the victim's resurfacing from the Death Realm at some undisclosed time. This act of malice was entirely different, and the air was now impregnated with the realization of what it meant. Hushed voices whispering amongst one another, frantic tones with impassioned queries. "Will I be next? Who could have done this? What motivation could they possibly possess? "

Running fingers around the dirt surrounding the body and ignoring the growing tension, the klyros swirled the snow in her claws, feeling for something, clues of what had happened. A hood shadowed her face, nestled deeply in the fabric so that her features could not be glimpsed. Her voice was disembodied as a result, as she cleared her throat and spoke in controlled, even tones:

“Did anyone see what happened here?”

Dead silence was the response, infecting the growing audience. The murmuring stopped, and nobody offered a single clue as to what events might have occurred to lead to the Ylian's demise. With a sigh, the klyros woman removed a strip of gossamer fabric from her travel-sack and carefully wrapped it around the hilt of the weapon. She drew it out in one quick motion, encasing it entirely in the silk, bloody blade and all. Replacing this makeshift package amongst her other belongings, she rose to her feet, careful to keep the hood from falling back from her face, and turned to go.

Twelve.

A death-toll that did not sit well in her gut, especially because she knew it had all been done by the same individual. At least, as she surmised. Every time it was the same blow, and the same methodology. She could not find a specific target. The races terminated didn't follow a specific pattern, and thus far none seemed to have been left out at all. The goal or purpose of this killer was nearly impossible to deduce. Mania was surely a player, but even a madman usually had a goal that rang with logic within his own mind...

Screaming halted the thread of thought. There was no reason to turn around and see what the crowd was gawking at, for she knew the results of this particular poison. Withdrawn from the mortal wound, it had still entered the circulatory system, and its passage through the body would allow the unfurling of the stuff that held it together: tendons, ligaments, the millions of fibers and proteins that made up the man's skin and muscles and organs. From a microscopic point outward, this venom would literally shred the victim apart, until it collapsed in upon itself. A sort of burning without fire, an acidic solution that unraveled flesh and blood and bone at its very core. First the smaller things would collapse, the extremities, the fingers and toes and the finer details of the face reduced to so much powdery dust. Then the legs and arms, traveling rapidly upward to collapse the chest cavity, devouring the head and blackened eyes at last. The scent that followed was a potent one, more chemical than anything else, unnatural, cloying. Coughing and whimpering could be heard as the people fell witness to this horror, and the murmurings rose anew:

"Who could use such a thing? Can you believe what just happened? Did you see how it killed him? He's gone, there's nothing but some dirt here now!"

She made quick work of traversing the road, the clacking of her boots the only audible thing. Her robes covered her entirely, and she could feel even her wings wrapped tightly against her body, granting her even the anonymity that disguised her rather distinguishable species.

Stopping before one specific door, the klyros looked about her in a way that bespoke of obvious paranoia, searching for followers that might have taken it upon themselves to seek after her. Satisfied, she put key to lock and triggered the deadbolt, quickly slipping inside and shutting the door behind her. A series of intricate fasteners and chains lined the edge of the door, and she activated each and every one of them in practiced succession, finally sliding the wooden bar firmly into place across the door's width and stepping back with a satisfied nod at the security of the arrangement.

Her next step was to of course make sure that the entire house was truly secure. With only one floor to speak of and sparse space, it didn't take long to search every nook and cranny. Beneath the table, the counters and the bed. Inside the closets and wardrobe. Poking her head into the pantry, where the smell of freshly baked products as well as some fouler alchemical scents assailed her with their familiarity, she was finally satisfied with that she was truly alone.

The cloak came off to reveal her slight frame and simple homespun clothing. Simple, but carefully pressed and cleaned. Everything about herself and her possessions was clean. Her scales were neatly polished and her leather boots were recently shined. The floor beneath her feet had been waxed to perfection, not a speck of dust visible. Every bit of wood was properly finished and shone from the care given. Pots and pans were arranged in neat, orderly stacks, starting with the smaller varieties and ending with the larger. Lines and lines of bookshelves that covered the entirety of the southernmost wall were arranged in alphabetical order, their bindings facing outward for easy access.

Flexing her wings, the klyros folded the dark cloak in half, vertically then horizontally, so that the edges lined up precisely and crisply. She crossed to the wardrobe and her eyes wandered down it until she came to the desired drawer, which she opened to reveal similar articles of organized clothing, one space precisely the right size present where she neatly inserted the cloak. She shut the drawer and turned about, unclasping the pouch from around her waist and gently setting it down on the table beside a supple pair of white gloves.

Donning these, the woman withdrew the knife once more and unwrapped it so that it lay unassumingly amidst the layers of fabric she'd placed it in. Her nimble fingers picked it up and turned it this way and that, noting the different scratch marks upon its surface, namely the hilt that the accost-er had at one point held in their hands. Murky white eyes studied the subtle signs with an eerie, pupil-less attention. Her thoughts rambled in a mostly incoherent pattern.

Deep depressions. The grip was firm, but more than that, pommel grasped with naked palm. Depicts anxiety. No, eagerness more akin the the truth, they're used to stealing life by now. Eager to plunge it into flesh, yes, most likely that is the reason for tensing of muscles. These scratches, they tell something, don't they? Klyran or Enkidukai. No, enki without a doubt, not wide enough to compensate for klyros claws.

To test that theory, she delicately placed the tip of one of her own claws carefully over the slightly scratch marks, smiling with self-satisfaction as she realized this was in fact truth. Bringing the weapon closer to eye level, she studied carefully the end of the hilt, the place where the knuckles of thumb and index finger would have held fast. There in the tight junction where the metal had been welded together, the smallest clump of fur had been caught. Her hand snaked into her pack and pulled out a pair of steel-tipped pliers, which she used to carefully pluck the patch of fur free. She placed it on her palm and gently coaxed the strands to separate, revealing a combination of orange and black furs. A satisfied 'hm,' another smile of revelation.

Enkidukai. Akkaio. Gender yet unspecified.

Placing the knife so that it rested in a perfectly straight line, she shuffled to her feet and disappeared briefly into her pantry. One half set aside for food, the other for an assortment of alternative ingredients. Mixing them up would be quite a problem, and could end in more than some unpleasant indigestion.

Selecting a few packages of sorted, finely ground powders and some vials of labeled solution, she strode back to the table and laid them all out in a pristine fashion across the wooden surface. Using a small, flattened wooden tool, she scooped up what she could of the poison, intermingled with the blood from the diseased, and turned to open the first package. A sprinkling over the solution caused a bubbling and hissing, and the blood was dissolved, to leave a more purified compound that could be more easily tested. This process was repeated, on down the line, one solution after another, separating out each individual part of the poison so that they could be more easily defined. Chemicals reacting with only specific counterparts, a rigorous process of elimination. Ending with a clear, translucent liquid that rested in an unsteady meniscus at the very bottom of the final vial, the klyros looked back at the trail of sorted components. Her gaze flicked over each, and with each, she made a deduction:

Reacted with more acidic properties. Increased propensity for higher polarity. Specifically, yarrow root. Dissolves in like, potentially a hint of dark mushroom with similar properties. This, dissolves more basic, less acidity, more likely some sort of plant. Organic property. Non-toxic, scent aromatic, most likely starphire or daintywhisp. Last compound...

Fingers holding the top of the vial lightly, using only the tips of her claws, she swirled the substance around before dipping the end of the stick into a thick, yellowish liquid and allowing a single drop to misc with the isolated solution. Pressing her thumb firmly over the opening, she mixed the two together and waited, a smile growing wide to show her finely pointed teeth, as they evenly withdrew from one another, as water with oil.

Immiscible in n'ra root extract. Binding agent of dark mushroom and daintywhisp or starphire. Main chemical ingredient in delivering ultimate lethal contaminant. Likely fungus type, relative of the dark mushroom, with slightly altered properties, palana mushroom most likely.

Setting these findings aside on the table and for the moment, painfully ignoring the mess, she scurried over towards her bookshelf while carefully sliding the stained gloves from her hands. She perused the ordered lines of tomes and finally came upon the one she sought, assorted flora of the dome level, and drew it out. Flipping to a specific number of pages, she affirmed her understanding that every piece of the killing poultice could be found upon that level, most commonly, where the radioactive rays of the crystal were most prominent. That could mean that the killer originated from that level, or, more likely, that his provider was stationed on that level, generating the illegal substance and selling it for a hefty sum. Either way, it was her only real lead, and she would follow it as a hound upon a trail. Such an exchange was typically not done by an unwitting salesman or traveler, for the retribution for such distribution was death of the permanent variety, and the cost outweighed far the benefit.

No, such an exchange occurred from the hands of the maker to the hands of the buyer only.

After a cleaning that included a rigorous attention to detail, the klyros quickly packed the belongings she thought most she would need. Countless numbers of tiny vials and packages all situated in their proper places, lining her pouch that was tied tightly around her waist. On went a simple blue tunic, and on a black pair of trousers, concealing the items at least for the time being until she could find her way out of the city. No disguise of the physical was necessary, for she'd found over the years that a change in character threw off most shady followers far better than any mask. Turning to the mirror, she watched as her expression molded into one of anxiety. Shifting eyes, glassy gaze, wringing fingers.

“S'not anything to concern yourself with, you see. I don't matter, not at all. I'm just a writer, and I dabble with alchemy. S'not of import, nothing, nothing, nothing at all.” Her chin twitched in time, glance lowering to the ground, the ultimate image of submissive and shy character. Personality now buried deeply behind this facade, she picked up another, larger set of bags and tossed it over her shoulder. Her fingers skipped lightly over the locks, her ears picked up the clicking sounds of their release, and she slid the door open to greet the dim light of night. A deep breath of air to fill her frail and fragile chest, and she hurried towards the Pterosaur across down.

Towards the killer.

Towards the dome.

[I always planned to continue the contest entry as a journal of sorts, depicting the RPs Rye participates in. I wanted to do this for Mari but got waaay behind and just gave up, so I'm starting it off now before it gets too far ahead.]

One.

It's the fire that I hate, that I loath, that I dream about at night with the pillows and sheets tossed in such a terribly devastating disarray as I envision its greedy fingers stretching towards my face. They'll tell you it's not a living thing, that it's inanimate and that it can never bode ill will towards another, it is merely a force of nature. But they lie, I know they do. The fire was alive when I watched it. And I watched it with my back seared into the planks of the walls already ravaged by its relentless, ravenous hunger. I watched through a veil of smoke and flame as it stretched across the rooms, voracious and depraved in its cruelty. It wrapped its arms around them like a lover, and I had to watch as it clawed at their clothing and their eyes and their skin. I had to see them throw their heads back in agony and run about in frantic motions, arms beating at their sides, trapped in a raging inferno and unable to escape. Fire doesn't just like to give the dead things life. It doesn't just creep into the empty cracks and fissures of the fallen logs and rotting leaves. Oh no, I know the truth. What it really hungers for is living flesh; to scorch through it as a sculptor molds clay into the pattern they desire. Except fire does not want to create beauty. It wants to devastate and to leave gnarled and writhing, to leave behind nothing but an empty black husk with missing eyes and grinning teeth.

I drug myself on hands and knees. The floorboards crackled beneath my touch, caving in, sending cinders up to blind my eyes. I pressed my body against the door, and I could hear their screams echoing in my head like a chaotic chorus. The wall crumbled and it should have crushed me. Gods, how I wish it had crushed me and ended me there. Perhaps I could have wandered in the death realm with my family till the end of my days, till the Dark Lady's kingdom sucked the power from my muscles, the life from my blood, the marrow from my bones. That end would have been sweet as honeysuckle, I would have welcomed death with open arms and raucous laughter.

But I did not die. I stumbled away from the burning house and collapsed in the snow, sinking deep into it. The cold was a knife; it sunk into my steaming flesh and made a home inside my heart. I could not cry, I could feel nothing. I was numb as I lay there in the icy blanket, watching the roof of the house collapse and the walls fall in with a crash, crash, crash. The cacophony reverberated in my chest. The strong beams fell in as though performing a well-practiced dance. Conductor, arms held out to the instruments, now this, and that, and follow the rhythm. The fire lapped with desperation at what remained until there was nothing left behind but so much black ash and tinder. Then it destroyed itself, fizzled out as though it never was, leaving nothing but those deviously innocent looking embers that glowed softly upon the ground.

My breath fogged the night air with cloudy crystals. I raised my hand and stared at the morphed, hideous flesh for the first time. Red, weeping flesh, already showing the craggy evidence of the fire's crooked fingers. My gaze followed the extent of the damage down to my body. Bits of clothing clung to my skin, and I peeled it away from where the cloth had melded with this now cracked carapace that had become me. I felt like my mind was cracking as well. I could feel it splinter beneath the weight of what had happened. It could not grasp the devastation it had just witnessed. It needed something to blame, something to point an accusing finger at. It needed evil to pursue with valorous intent, something to wreak vengeance upon.

But no one had done this except the fire.


Two.

It was months before I killed myself the first time. It's quite funny how incredibly fragile and delicate life is. How easily it can be forced out of the body. Simple as one artery severed just so, one organ malfunctioning for mere minutes, one thick piece of twine wrapped round the neck and held there for so long...

All it took was a simple draft of clear, thick liquid, and I awoke upon the threshold of Dakkru's door. I meandered my way past the entrance and onto the rocky face of the twisted path. I could feel nothing there either, and despite my dying, my skin remained ruined beneath my clothing like a perverted memento. My tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth, perhaps the residual leftovers of the sappy substance that had allowed me to be here. I opened my mouth and drank deeply of the stale air, filling my lungs and cupping my hands to my lips. And I screamed.

“WHERE ARE YOU?”

My voice bounced off of the walls and from the depths of the canyon below my feet. It came back to me and repeated my query, mocking me.

Where are you? Where are you? Where are you little girl?

I walked until my feet ached within my worn leather shoes. The soles slapped the stones in a staccato flop with every step that I took.  The hissing of the strange flying creatures followed me, their beady red eyes glaring at me with fury at my trespassing, their talons flexing and groping in the darkness. I counted my footfalls in my head to keep me calm, one two, one two, following the path that wound farther and farther into nothingness. My lips formed these numbers, one two, one two, again and again, wordlessly mouthing them as I stared down at the ground to keep from acknowledging whatever hideous atrocities I might see if I raised my eyes to glimpse my surroundings.

How ironic that soon numbers would become the very thing that tormented me, yet in this moment, they kept me from losing my mind.

I rounded a corner down into a narrow path, and I let my palms drag along the jagged walls. I saw the purple light throbbing like the pulse of a large beast's heart then, dancing upon the wall to my right. I watched it in confusion, thoughtlessly, before I turned my head towards the doorway that was leaking this ethereal glow. My feet stumbled their way into the room and I gazed upon Her blasted crystal for the first time, my eyes reflecting the light it generated like mirrors in the dark.

The voice that spoke to me was more of a hum than a whisper. It traced with the barest of breaths over my mind, rather than gently tapping my eardrums so that I could hear. It was eerily childlike and strangely soothing, that voice, but I know that the softness in it was a lie. I would grow to hate it. I think I hated it even then, as it spoke to me, because I knew the moment it stated its request that I was going to become something that all rational beings would hate.

“It's your family that you want, child,” Dakkru said softly. The dark crystal thumped and shimmered in time to her words. “But I grow lonely, oh so lonely, down in this place. The people do not appreciate all that I do for them up above, and I wish more could come and see my glorious domain. One hundred lives for the four you seek. Bring me one hundred, and I shall set them free.”

My voice squeaked past dry lips, past a tight throat. I used my tongue to try and deliver some moisture to them and raised my voice, but even then I could barely manage to  utter my reply.

“One hundred?”

“One hundred lives, dear. I'm certain you can count that high, though I admit, judging by your size perhaps that math is a tad too advanced for you. One hundred lives, I do not care how you do it. A slit to the throat, a poison in the beer, perhaps even something more elaborate once you become a bit more creative. Your number is one hundred.”

I felt the chill spread out into my limbs then, colder than anything I'd ever felt before. I was small, barely past childhood at the time. Even if I wanted to agree to the outlandish request, how could one such as me kill one hundred people all alone? And even if I could manage that, what would become of me after it was all said and done? Even if I managed not to be caught and thrown into the glorious crystal above, my soul would be tarnished like oil leaking into water. I would never be the same. My family would look upon me and raise shaking fingers to gaping mouths, saying monster, monster, monster.

My head dipped once, twice, a mechanical motion. Even as logic raved against passion, I knew then what my answer must be. I could not leave them down in this damned place. I could not let them dwindle into nothingness until their carcasses collapsed in devastated dilapidation. I had no choice. I must do as this goddess demanded.

I agreed to soak my hands with blood.
I agreed to become as relentless and cruel as any fire.
I agreed to let this evil pump into my veins and layer my emotions in stone.

My number is one hundred.

Three.

The first life was the worst one to take. I remember the way I sobbed, begging him to stop struggling against my thin, boney hold. I surely would have failed if I'd not selected such a weak and sickly target; the old beggar hobbling amidst the alleyways and sending rats skittering away from his stench. I kept my body gripped onto his as a leach latches to its host. I cut off the supply of air to his lungs and had to listen with my ear right by his mouth as he gasped again, and again. One, two, three, four...

He stopped breathing. He went limp and his eyes rolled back in his head to stare up at me as if he wanted to say hello. He toppled forward and I heard one of his arms snap beneath him sickeningly as it took the brunt force of his weight. The bone pierced through some of his skin and he lay beneath me upon the cold unforgiving ground, neck twisted at an awkward angle, eyes boring holes with their haunting emptiness.

I darted away from him and fell to my knees, my tears staining my cheeks as I relieved my stomach of what little contents it had. My tiny fingers curled around the stones and I had the urge to smash them to bits with them, to break them for this transgression that I'd been forced to commit. I heaved again, and again, until I slumped down in exhaustion in this puddle of my own vomit and sobbed openly, staring up at the azure sky that glowed with brightness to mock my darkness.

My body twitched with erratic spasms upon the ground for a long while. The beggar's corpse was long gone by the time I'd pushed myself to my knees and roughly wiped the snot and tears from my face. I staggered to my feet as though I was intoxicated and sagged against the wall.

That was the first real crack in the foundation of everything that I had been. The innocence and wide-eyed contentment of the child I was was being torn away from me. It left me bare and empty. Empty and waiting to be filled with something else, something that I cannot name. I only know that then, my old self died, and the new self was forced to assert itself with malicious intent. I thrust myself away from the wall and strode from the alley, my eyes fixed straight ahead and my fists clenched tightly at my sides.

My number is one.

Four.

It is strange how easily a person can change. Kind to evil is, what I would tend to believe, the true transformation that takes precedence in society to be. There is simply not enough good to prove otherwise. If there is, I've not seen it. I've only seen how the land is laid out so that certain individuals are loved. The pretty ones with lovely eyes and noses that fit just right upon a perfectly formed face. The effervescent ones that always know just what words to say to make those around them laugh or feel at ease. The intelligent ones that awe and astound the mind with their complex and intriguing thoughts.

But ah, the outcasts. So many of them there are; those that do not fit into the stereotypical norms that define these strategic and stubborn societal strains. They are like a stain upon a well-planned tapestry; a missed line of threading inside the intricately woven pattern. And as such, they are hated by the artist, by the rest of the people wandering about in their daily lives. I feel compassion for them. They have become my targets, because, though most of them have done nothing truly wrong, it is amazing how forgiving or forgetful the masses can be when one of them experiences an unpleasant accident.

Oh, brilliant dance. Wonderful facade. Lovely and glorious and glamorous play. One only needs to walk into a room and look for a few moments before they can spot them. The shady one there in the corner, with his hood drawn over a face that is riddled with scars, his trembling lips nursing heavy liquor. That one, over there, sitting all alone at a table with sad eyes and a broken heart, her hands shaking as they grip her glass. And yet another, right there, leaning, looking over the railing at those gathered but too afraid or perhaps unable to make the connection that he seeks. So he is forced merely to watch, and to be forever, forever alone. One, two, three, like me.

I like to think that they receive a bit of a break from these vices when I kill them. And I don't do it with cruelty, oh no. I am very kind and gracious. I am quick and nimble and assured. Sometimes, I bet they don't even know what hit them. One moment they are fine and breathing, the next, dead, a sack of potatoes smacking against the floor and then a lost soul left to wander the Realm for a undisclosed amount of time. I tell myself this to make me feel better, but what terrifies me as I move from city to city is that slowly, oh so slowly...

I am beginning to believe it is true.

My number is thirty.

Five.

Someone save me. Someone show me that there is something left, a tiny little sliver of salvation, a small smidgeon of grace. Silence the voices in my head and scream and shout in harsh whispers. Tell them that they are wrong, that what they say is not true. I cannot fight against them much longer. I cannot force them into the corners and batter them with arguments against their accusations. What's the matter, Rye? Can't stand looking in the mirror? Can you see the decay as it spreads up from your scars and envelopes your spirit?

But worse is the growing nonchalance about the entire thing. The increasing level of callous uncaring. The side of me that is beginning to kill and maim without a second thought as to the wrongness of the deed. Before it was simply a niggling, but now I feel myself becoming contaminated by it, body and soul.

I am losing the last vestiges of my humanity. I am no longer capable of feeling anything, truly feeling anything, anymore. I am a massive hollow cavern wrapped in sweet caresses and flirtatious smiles. Enjoy what you see, dear brothers and sisters, for if you delve deeper you shall face something darker than the deepest crevasse of the death realm. I do not understand what stuff holds me up and keeps me walking. I feel like a moving vehicle of bone and blood and skin, but what is the spark that keeps me alive? What is the thing that fuels my desires, my motivations?

Only my goal is left with me now. I've been scraped clean of everything else. My identity lies in tattered ruins around my feet, flung into the proverbial abyss of what is right and what is wrong, and what lays in between.

There is no longer any black and white for me. There is no dark and there is no light. There is only the gray, the petrifying greyness of dispassion. Lo and behold, I have become that little snippet of nothingness that you experience right after you die and before the Dark Lady whisks you off to be hammered and molded back to wholeness. I am that putrid stench that assails your senses when you stumble upon the rotting body of some unfortunate being long dead.

Do not look long, for surely what lay beneath will scald your thoughts with travesty.

My number is forty six.

Six.

My mind and body are honed for this. I feel no remorse and no chagrin for what I must do. It is merely a part of life, as sure as drinking water or breathing air. As sure as the crystal will cycle, so I must kill for the freedom of my family. My guilt corroded at my purpose; my shame squelched my noble intent. So I crammed it down into the smallest crevice of my consciousness to eliminate its effects. There was no use for it that would help me carry out my assignment. For surely there is nothing more righteous than laying down the lives of others for your friends. Or was it laying down your own life?

I've almost lost track a few times. I've never experienced such plain, bald panic before. I had to go through them all meticulously in my head, reliving every little detail in vivid first person perspective:
Thirty six, drowned in the pool of stealth, forty three, strangled with a leather belt, fifty five, pushed from the eagle bridge...

I've taken to drawing their images, the way I saw them before I killed them. I draw their pictures and label them with the names I've given them, sometimes I rhyme them with their allotted number just so I can more easily keep track of what I have done and what is still left to come. Their faces are branded forever in my mind, reminders that used to torment me, but now I see them almost as kin, forced into this morbid series of events by my own hand.

I can only spend so long within each city before people grow suspicious. It is a blessing that my appearance is so unassuming. They see the lovely girl with the delicate chin and brilliant eyes. They see the slender girl with generous locks to frame a dainty face and pink, smiling lips. I find it ironic that their own stereotypes often become the end of them. They do not suspect that my level of depravity can hide behind so slight and guiltless a form. Nevertheless, even a blind man can smell a fire if he's left long enough so that the fumes reach his nostrils. So on and on I travel, ever upwards, spiraling towards the sky so that I can drag more down to the depths with me.

My number is seventy four.

Seven.

I've reached the end of my grueling journey. Sometimes my hands tremble when I write, and I do not know why. My writing has become a part of me, and though I know this journal will be my doom if I ever lose it, I cannot bring myself to throw it away. I cannot bring myself to destroy it. It is the only evidence I have that what I do is not because I am truly wicked. I only do what is right. I only do what I must. Perhaps after this is all through, somehow, I can find redemption. Perhaps the deepest part of me still has something inside that could be salvaged amongst the reeking refuse of my own soul. I count the things that I have done right in my life, and I feel as though I cannot even label a number high enough to match the fingers on my hand. One. Two. Three. Forever damned ye be.

So many lives, and so many years. I began as a child, and now I am a woman with a heart as cold and lifeless as any void. I am near the end of it all, and I ponder what I shall be when I am through. I've no skill beyond this impure motivation to exterminate. When I have finally finished what I set out to do, when I finally shake my fist in Dakkru's face and jab my finger towards that final soul that I sent into Her realm, and when I can finally glimpse my family once again, what will become of me? I already know that they shall flee in horror from me; the hideous creature that devoured their sweet little girl that they remembered with smiling eyes and dimpling cheeks. They shall not know me, and I shall sneer at them for their weakness.

There is nothing left inside of me that is good. I now only carry out this mission because there is nothing left for me in this world. I am the faceless body that personifies death. I have no individuality, nothing that I can claim as my own any longer. Death has sunk its tendrils into my entire being; it permeates throughout my very core. It is all that I dream about, and all that I see, and the ultimate end to everything that lives or moves or breathes.

Yet despite it all, here I stand before the precipice, before the edge, where I shall make my final leap and offer up my final sacrifice to the goddess I serve and the goddess I loath. I bend the knee to do Her bidding and curse Her name beneath my breath.

I shall finish it here in Hydlaa. I shall perhaps begin with that slight looking klyros to my right, I would relish the chance to kill a red way mage. Perhaps with that nolthrir to my left, she seems so happy and smiling, with a funny little amulet of Xiosia hanging from her neck no less. Dakkru would like that. Or maybe even that menki in the corner, yes, that one right there. A clamod with a crystal way staff betwixt his paws, I believe I could beguile him into following me. Best set to work, little girl, before they truly see, before they see the darkness infesting thee.

Ah, there is my candidate, lucky lad. Why don't we sit and have a chat over some brew, don't worry, I'll be nice and gentle when I deliver you unto oblivion. Yes, note this warm expression upon my face, this divinely fictitious visage. Come closer, and I shall whisper things that make you feel wanted and loved and secure, fill you with the lyrics of a broken bird that suffers just as you.

It'll be too late for you when you realize the canary is really a snake.

My number is ninety three.

MY NUMBER IS SEVEN.

Hi all! I've actually got a question that I get mixed answers on:

Is it possible to do magic without glyphs?

When I pose this question, I mean, as in, is it possible to have this ability, but also would assume it comes with shaky control, possibly volitile actions, etc. In other words, it would affect your character greatly. (It's the struggle I'm interested in RP wise.) I've been told yes, I've been told no, and I'm not certain. I could understand both sides of the argument; such an implementation would have to be done with taste and not "ALL HAIL MY MIGHTY GOD-LIKE POWERZ" crud, but I'm curious as to whether it is an RP possibility.

Thanks for comments and replies in advance!
 

So I decided a character that stutters and struggles to speak wouldn't use words to communicate. i.e, Mariana's little sister Rheyai. Thought it'd be fun instead to do doodles in a journal. Here is an image of the fluffy creature I plan to have riding around on her shoulder. 



I want one 

   The darkness was inky and black, with an impermeable quality that made it difficult for his eyes to adjust. When he had decided it was his time to die, he had known the consequences would be this. He knew that Dakkru would not allow him to surface again after he had hung himself, after he had willingly taken his own life. Such was the punishment for those who treated death with such cold indifference.

   The hope had been, of course, to free himself of a life too unbearable to live. No more pointlessness. No more depression. No more pain. At first he had felt relief as his torturous thoughts dissipated upon his death, which was always the part that he strived for whenever he hung himself, or took a blade to his own throat. But now, standing staring at the death guardian, lost eternally in the labyrinth, he realized too well the folly of his decision. Piece by piece, he had lost his soul to Dakkru. And he had not gained peace. Quite the opposite had occurred. Now he was stranded here, in this nothingness, this terrible maze fraught with a myriad assortment of vicious and volatile creatures. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. No, the worst of it was being trapped with his own thoughts. His unending sense of worthlessness, the very thing that he had been trying to eliminate with his decision, was now his only companion.

He had to laugh at himself for the irony of it. Where before there were rare moments of happy distraction, now there was nothing around him but the agonized cries of those in a similar predicament as him. His soul and body unable to extricate itself from this proverbial hell of chaos and death, he instead was forced to wander this landscape that seemed to constantly shift with the rhythm of his own angst-riddled thoughts.

The dermorian found a suitable rock to sit upon, overlooking the bridge leading towards the exit from which he was barred. His eyes watched longingly as strangers passed through the veil leading back to Yliakum. He would give anything to give his mind rest. To find the peace he so voraciously craved. But he knew now that this could never be. And with this realization, he put his head in his hands and wept bitterly.

It was in the midst of this sorrow that he felt the presence in the back of his mind. It hovered like a query, a soft, gentle nudge, quietly asking for access. At any other time he would have been terrified. But here, facing so much aloneness, he almost welcomed the touch. He felt warmth seep into his mind; a strange sensation of happiness that he had not felt in a very long time.

"Greetings, my friend.”

The voice rang clearly into his head, but it was quiet and demure. It was difficult to place gender or infliction upon it, or even a specific tone, but it held a sort of depth and sincerity.

“
Hello?” The elf said, jerking his wide eyes around but seeing no one.

“Do you wish to be free?”

The elf paused, touching his temple with his fingers. His brow furrowed in concentration. He swallowed once, the first inklings of fear trickling into him.

“
Yes,” he said, after a moment of hesitation.

“I can heal your mind,” the voice continued, still failing to hold any signs of menace. “But to do this, there is a price. Life is always full of give and take. I am sure one such as you knows this well.”

The dermorian shuddered, but his heart beat faster with the promise of hope.

“Anything,” he whispered past trembling lips. “I’d give anything to be free.”

“Your body,” the voice continued. “I will heal your aches, your hurts, and your wounded heart. But what I ask in return: your body, once separated from your soul, shall be mine.”

It only took a moment for him to make his decision. Even though the consequences could be oblivion, even nothingness would be better than all of this. He nodded once, a slight bobbing of his head. He curled his knees under his chin and waited for some kind of overwhelming pain to bear down on him.
But what he felt was not pain. Instead, the warmth continued to make its way over his mind in small, undulating waves. It wove through the recesses of his memories, touching them lightly, trying to understand. It latched onto his deepest regrets, his most horrendous fears. And then it touched that place of deep sorrow, right in his heart, and wrenched that sorrow free.

The young elf gasped, and tears ran down his cheeks. He toppled to his side, overwhelmed by the feeling of relief that overcame him, clutching at his chest as though his heart were about to burst.

“Now for our agreement,” the voice said softly. There was a hint of remorse in it now. Instantly, the presence clamped down on his mind, burrowing deep into it. He felt a brief sense of duality, and then all feelings and sensations were lost as he was tossed from his body. He hovered, ethereal and translucent, staring down at his own face. His eyes looked at him, seeming much older and wiser than the ones he had glimpsed staring into the fountain so many times before.

“Be free.”

The words were uttered from his own throat, stirring his own vocal chords. But he had not told these functions to move. He started down at himself, and realized that there was nothing to be seen, only the ruddy red earth of the death realm below.

All at once, his vision burst with light as bright as the crystal, harsh and unrelenting. It seemed to fill him, moving into his very soul. He lost all concept of who he had been as everything was abandoned to this light, and his ghost-like visage dissipated like so much dust in the wind. His last impression was a burst of overwhelming joy, and then nothingness enfolded him like a rich, benevolent blanket.
~~
   Ziljhi Laneri brushed off his worn down outfit, giving Harnquist a nod before turning towards the path leading up to Kada El’s. First things first, he would need a pipe. He couldn’t go for long without one of those. He clicked his new teeth together regretfully, knowing they too would soon be stained as the ones he had had before. He knew precisely where the young elf had come from, would even take on his name, though he would avoid past friends and relatives for
obvious reasons. The memories knitted into the fabric of the brain now behind his eyes were short-lived, and that saddened him. Such a young life, filled with so much pain.
   
But none of that mattered now. The transfer was never easy, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it for long. If left alone, the boy would simply have wallowed in self pity until the death realm collapsed in upon itself. And what kind of life would that be?
Besides, now this body could be put to good use.
And he had much work to do.