character writing

Luphase: I will follow...

I do not know why it never occurred to me to ask the Kin. No one is more intimately familiar with the world beyond than the children of its guide. Their knowledge is absent from the arcane texts because theirs is an oral tradition, and they rarely speak of it to those not of their kind. The rogue, however, has no one else to listen.

When I found her, she stood on the deck of a ghost ship with her arms crossed upon its rail, her eyes staring endlessly out to sea. There is a touch of Marley in her; Marley, who says she has played the waiting game for far longer than Elizabeth, and is far better at it.

"Well. I shouldn't be telling you these things, but I suppose there isn't much harm in it now. And it's not as if I'm a stickler for the rules." When she laughs, it sounds like the bark of an exhausted dog; sharp and rasping. It was followed soon enough by a scowl, however. I think she is jealous that in death, I am at last perhaps more fortunate; for I stand to retrieve what I have lost. What she chases lives still, and but chooses not to return.

"There's a terminal boundary to Shadow, and it's the edge of death," she continued; never taking her gaze off the horizon. "Once you cross it, the physical ceases to exist. That's why we try not to walk too close to it - we take our bodies with us when we part the Veil, and if we lose them, they're gone forever. It's no different than if we'd died in the Seen World, except that nothing remains on the other side.

"When something dies, its connection to the Seen World is severed. The body is left behind, and the soul is thrust through the Veil. The ta'anna, the non-kin, you don't know the way through Shadow like we do. That's why the Guide exists in the first place - he leads lost souls to the edge, and helps them across if they fear to go. Or just don't want to.

"Now, once they've seen the way - there's actually nothing that prevents them from leaving the beyond, if they want to. Most of them just don't. Those who died a truly natural death; those who went in peace, those who died of old age or long illness - it's very rare that they're not happy on the other side. Even the ones who went before their time often find enough peace there to ease their sorrow. There's an understanding that comes once you're there. The living possess it, but don't always have the ability to grasp it. It's why we grieve. We're not weeping for the dead, because that part of us knows they're okay. We're weeping for ourselves; for what we've lost and what we can't yet have.

"Sometimes, though, the souls who were severed in crueller and cruder ways - victims of the most vicious murders, for example - or those who, for whatever reason, simply can't let go of life - those are the ones that try to return. The problem is that, like all the others, they no longer have their connection to this world. They can cross the Edge, and those that are truly driven can even pass through the Veil - but they're no longer a part of what lies on this side. If they're lucky, the sensitive - either the Gifted, or those who shared their connection - might be able to see or hear them, and occasionally, some can summon enough will to have an effect on a solid object. That's what poltergeists are, souls that have pierced the Veil and are fighting for notice. But that's about it. They can't reanimate their bodies because their bodies don't recognize them. Consciousness comes from the spirit. The rest is only flesh doing what flesh does. As long as there's still a tie, even of the most tenuous sort, the cells continue receiving the signal that says to go on performing their functions. That's why bodies whose souls are absent but not departed don't rot; at least not in the same way that corpses do. The longer the soul is gone, the more chance the signal has of becoming scrambled, but it won't be cut off completely until the moment of death.

"And death, no matter what form it comes in, is a natural process. That's why reforging the connection is such a difficult prospect, and why true resurrection is all but impossible. The laws of nature object to being undone. You can see the proof of that in most necromancy - all those walking corpses, the ones that continue to break down even after the soul is returned, that's because of what I just said - because animation comes from consciousness, it's possible to re-attach a soul sufficiently for it to exert some control, but a mortal spirit isn't capable of halting the processes that have already been set in motion and the body doesn't have any way of realizing that it's 'supposed' to. Better necromancers can arrest those processes, but even they don't possess the sort of power that's going to allow a proper connection to be forged. You're still talking about artifical animation and pseudo-life. It's really sort of cruel; particularly when a soul is very aware of what's going on and can't escape its prison."

I couldn't help but interrupt her at this point, because something in there didn't seem to add up - "What about resuscitation? Isn't that a form of resurrection?"

She was silent for a time, and I thought I must have caught her in whatever lie her elders had fed her. "Alright. I'll grant you that," she replied at last. She cast a glance over her shoulder; those golden eyes that could never belong to anything less than a wild dog. "What happens in ninety percent of those cases, though, is shock - the soul is either so frightened that it jumps out of its body, or is assuming that it's going to die and is preparing to meet the Guide. Generally, it's still in the vicinity - just beyond the Veil, and often directly above or beside its flesh. So long as it can be convinced to return before he arrives, and the damage is repairable, the connection shouldn't be completely severed. The rest of the time, it's a kink in the threads of Fate - a soul who isn't meant to be taken yet. Very, very rarely, Death can be convinced to stay his knife - but even he can't hold the threads together forever, and if you go about it indirectly - through a third party, for example - there's usually a price to pay for it.

"Interestingly, that's also what prevents vampires from becoming the walking rot - even though their maker takes them to the point of death, he intervenes just before the connection is severed. But again - that's one with a price. To forge the sort of connection that will grant true life, and to do it without cost, you either have to be a god, or you have to have the power of a god behind you. And most gods don't want to share that." She returned her eyes to the sea; bells tinkling as the wind flowed through her hair.

"...what about the Rite of Binding?"

"...the Rite of Binding?" I thought the corners of her mouth twitched as with a barely-restrained smile. Suddenly, she turned to face me. "The Rite of Binding works on your kind because you're not alive. There's not a one of you who's had a proper body in your entire existance, and you're so desperate to taste the solid world that you'll take whatever you can get. You go and find one of the old ones, the ones who were at the Exile, the ones who gave up their bodies, and you see if they want to go through it. You might find one or two who do, but I guarantee you that as soon as they see what it really means, they'll be fighting to break it. You don't know what you're missing, so you don't know the difference. They do. The only way you'd get a once-living spirit to tolerate that would be to do it to one who's become so twisted and bitter as to not care anymore."

"But it could be done."

She was again silent for some time. Eventually, she shook her head; her hands passing behind her to brace once more against the rail. "I don't know." Her shoulders rose and fell. "Your main problem is going to be finding the soul. If you're already in contact with it, you're halfway there. Then it's just a matter of performing the rite. But if you're not - well, any soul so miserable as to consider that has probably already come back over the Edge. But Shadow's a funny place, and that far in, there's no telling where you'll come out. It could be worlds away from the one it left."

"I've already come this far," I reminded her dryly. "And I have all the time in any of them, seeing as I'm not alive." There was enough venom in the last few words to kill a cobra, but the way she'd said it herself had been uncalled for. She merely shrugged, and I remembered then that her kind has so often been on the receiving end of such that most of them have become immune.

"That's the only thing I know to tell you, then." Ornamented hair rattled as her head shifted from side to side. "I don't know if you can pass into Shadow or not - since you're only spirit, you should at the very least be able to stay in it if a guide takes you through the Veil, so long as you leave that shell behind. You might even be able to cross the Edge without penalty - the most that would happen is that your bond to the solid would be severed, and you'd need someone to perform the Rite for you as well. I don't expect you'll need to, though, like I said."

"Where would I find a guide, then?" I pressed.

"You won't." She smiled thinly. "I can't think of a 'kin on Déchiré who'd help with that."

"Ah, but what about one who's worlds away from there? One who doesn't care about the laws?" I grinned, then, knowing I had her precisely where I wanted her.

She shrugged and released the rail; putting her back to me as her eyes cast over the endless ocean once more. "The Veil between Shadow and Seen is all but opaque. Between Shadow and Mist, though, it's much thinner. In places, they're almost the same. Look through it from there, and when you know where you want to cross, you'll know where to find the way in."

I left her then. The sun was setting, and as the sea cooled, the fog had begun to roll in.

Luphase: The Curse

I told her that as she uncovered my secrets, I would allow myself to be revealed to her. She has stumbled upon another, and so I will share it with you.

You may have read her tale of the torn world. It is there that my kind has their home. We were there from the beginning, and we were there when Getu laid down his wrath, and we were there when new gods rose to fill the void left in his wake. But for us, there was more to the story, and it had no happy ending.

This, this is the tale of our curse...

There were survivors. There are always survivors. Life, it is said, finds a way.

Watching from our sanctuary in the mists, we saw it all - clouds that churned like dust as chariots swept the faithful into the heavens; the hail of fire that signalled the descent of the host; the thrust of the blade that rent land from land and the great wave that rushed into the gap. The gravitational forces of the sun and moon seemed little more than children's tugs when compared to the tide of Getu. The water chased him from the earth, and when he no longer had hold of it, came flooding back - and with it came the memory of the first flood; the torrent that washed away not the Great One, but the Many.

In those first moments after Getu's departure, there was silence - a heavy blanket of it; reminiscent of that which surrounds a tomb. We were unsure then if the children of earth did indeed live still - certainly, it did not seem possible that such fragile creatures could have withstood the fire and the ice, or the cyclonic storms, or the maces and swords of Getu's punishing horde - and then there was the flood; swirling through battered forests and rising to consume skyscrapers that had snapped in half and snapped again. Yet, when the waters receded, they were there - clinging to frameworks and weary trees; huddling in sheltered closets and weeping behind altars. Why they sought refuge in the churches, I will never know - after all, if Getu had not found them to have earned salvation already, last-minute prayers and desperate affirmations of faithfulness would never have earned his mercy - but I suppose it did save their lives, in the end.

Some did not emerge for hours. Others cowered for days; crawling from their holes only when hunger and dehydration drove them out. Most, I suspect, feared that Getu laid in wait to finish them off. We felt great pity for them, having once been the victims of such wrath ourselves; and so we crept from the mists to offer what aid we could.

True, it would be a lie to claim that it was a completely selfless act. It had been eons since we were able to move through the Seen World without fear, and we rejoiced in Getu's abandonment of his prize. The earth-children ached to rebuild their civilization; and we, too, sought eagerly to reclaim the lives we had lost. Even those who had not been present at the exodus - the after-born, and the self-created - knew the tale of how our kind came to the mists, and why we were denied the right to leave them.

And so, talk turned to how we might best accomplish this. We had long before sought the resting places of our gods, though we kept their locations secret once discovered. At last, we gave up this information; believing that perhaps our Creators could be brought forth to rule once more.

Was it a mistake? Some will tell you that it was - it all depends on who you ask. Obviously, those who benefited from it would never admit to erring. As for myself, I believe the mistake was not in what we did, but how we went about it.

I remember the priest. He was a young man, and quite the attractive one at that. He was not the sort of man who should have pledged to cloth, for he had a weakness for flesh as lovely as his own. They cast him from the sect, but not before he had learned many of their secrets. It was his idea to adapt their holiest of rites to our heathen purposes.

A council was held to determine who would receive the body and blood of the gods, and so become them. Each race, be it man or child of mist, was promised representation at the council; and from those representatives would be chosen the final candidates. It seemed a suitable plan; but alas, we failed to take into consideration the basest natures of sentient beings. Greed and gluttony; lust and wrath - the Church called them sins, and for good reason. Each candidate thought he or she had as much right - or more - than the next to assume the role of god to their kind. Even representatives from the same race fought bitterly for the position. In the end, all who were present tore blindly at the bodies of the gods; devouring what they could and struggling madly to deny others the remains. Those who managed to seize the heart of a god, or who simply consumed excessive amounts of their flesh, won the powers they so desperately desired. Others, left with less choice, found that they even they became superior beings. Some received none at all, and so remained as they were.

For us, the degeneration of the council into an orgy of cannibalism was a bitter blow. We had been depending on our representatives to return us to - or in some cases, grant for the first time - physical bodies. A few of the fae-races were fortunate enough to have sent honest candidates, and they found those promises fulfilled. The rest were not so lucky - and of these, it was perhaps my kind who were dealt the harshest hand. We had sent only one representative, but he was the most strong-willed among us. Too, he was a vicious fighter, and won well the heart of our god - but we should have looked beyond those qualities; for we found that he was also selfish, petty, and cruel. He refused us the bodies we so craved - "Why should I share what I have come into on my own?" he asked. "Why should I lessen myself for you?" - and abandoned us to our fate.

"Such is the way of man," the priest murmured later, sadly. Ironically, he, too, had been unable to claim his share of godflesh. Had such not been the case, I might have hated him as I came to hate the others - but we were in the same boat, and I felt for him. Besides, he really was quite pretty; and he seemed to enjoy the ethereal touches I laid upon him. He could sense my hands, if not feel them as one feels that which is 'real', and responded to them much as if they were truly there. "Do not let it consume you," he added - and then gave a gasp and an arch - but I could not help it. I hid it from him, lest it cause his affection for me to dwindle; but within, I became twisted, bitter, and vengeful. As I watched him age and die, knowing that it could have been prevented if he had received but a taste of the gods, my hatred only grew stronger - and on the day that he passed from the Seen World into the part of the Unseen where even I cannot go, I allowed it to come forth completely.

I summoned my kin to the council-stone, the Unseen mirror of the place where the gods had been torn asunder and devoured. I viewed myself as an avenging angel, and as I stood atop it, sword in hand, spread wings that I had not known I possessed until then. "If I tell you how to evade this curse," I asked, "if I tell you the secrets that will allow you to escape the mists and assume a physical body - will you make me your king?"

How readily they agreed; as eager as I to wreak havoc on he who had once been our champion - to find him and feed upon him; to claim what was rightfully ours. And so I showed them the ancient texts of my lover's library; the tomes of alchemy, the illuminated plates detailing the rite of transmutation. The bodies acquired thus might not be as perfect as we might have hoped, but they would be better than nothing.

As flakes of snow gathered on my wings and hair, and left the ground around me sparkling, the Invidia crowned me king - though I ruled as a queen; beautiful, graceful, and every bit as devious and manipulative as any true female. I watched as my brethren wooed and conned their mortal prey, and bid them sweet farewells as they departed the mists for a more solid existence. Yet still I lingered; as if the endless winter had frozen me to my throne.

Time passed and the world changed, and I realized at last that our careless god was no longer within it - not dead, but fled it. Suddenly, I understood the rage of Getu; the consuming rush that could drive a being to desecration and destruction. I rose up, and leaving my empire to its prince, pursued him into the mists. I knew that it might mean I would never return to my own world, but I no longer cared. I would roam until I found him, and then I would strike him down.

And so it has been since that day. At long last, I think I have found the world where he settled - and in it, the one who would grant me my body. She, as hollow and bitter and wrathful as me, fell easy prey to the brush of my wings; just as a priest once did my hands. In her arms, I will wait; and someday, she will lead me to him.

For he whispers to her himself. I know he does. I see his shadow in the back of her mind; and I hear the rasp of his empty words. He is coming, and when he does -

I will be here.

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