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Message: <blockquote data-quote="(contact)" data-source="post: 1256185" data-attributes="member: 41">Interlude—Home and hope, one letter apart.The center of all that is, Sigil is a spatial quandary—a city within a ring that floats at the apex of an infinite spire, a spire which itself rises from the center of an infinite space.  Within Sigil, what might be expected is not,  what could be usually is, and there is only one Will within that is of any consequence.The heroes arrive beneath an awning covering the entrance to a busy marketplace.  Planar creatures and prime beings of all sorts gather, jostling the newcomers aside as they pursue their business.  Sigil is built within the inner face of a massive ring—the structures of the opposite side can be seen through the fog above, and the air is filled with a thick and vaguely chemical scent.  Humans, gith and goat-men surround the heroes, and here and there a true celestial or demon can be seen.  Spikes and blades protrude from nearby buildings at random angles, and the architecture seems sharp, cold and unforgiving.  A bladed twining vine covers nearly every surface untrod by the feet of Sigil’s citizens.Upon their arrival, three tall brown-skinned humanoids appear from thin air before them.  The entities do not speak, but they silently lead the group across the marketplace which has grown silent and still.  Standing as motionless as a statue, a lone figure regards them.  A woman, she appears to be wearing a mask wrought of some strange metal—a number of bladed protrusions radiate out from the mask like the spokes of a wheel, or the rays of some unimagined sun.  The Lady of Pain, mistress of Sigil is before them.  This is her place, it is known.  And none remain save by her consent.The crowd parts like the ripples on a pond, hastily backing away from Sigil’s enigmatic mistress.  The Lady beckons and the bewildered Champions follow.  She leads them to a small dwelling, well off the beaten path, its doorway difficult to notice among the spiked and flanged architecture of its façade.  Once there, she is gone as suddenly as she arrived.  One of the tall creatures places an ornate brass key into Thelbar’s hand, and then they too silently disappear.It won’t take long for word to spread—these powerful primes saw the Lady and lived. “She spoke to me,” Elgin says, “in my mind.  She said, ‘You cannot loose what you have never had.’”Thelbar sinks to the ground, there in the doorway of his new home.  He is crying, although no tears emerge.  Gorquen looks around at her companions, hoping perhaps to find some comfort, but there is none to be had.“My spells are gone,” Ilwe says to himself.  “How is this possible?”“As are my own,” Elgin replies.  He absentmindedly takes the key from Thelbar’s unfeeling hand and opens the doorway.  One by one, the heroes stagger in, close the door behind themselves, and find whatever solitude they can.  Some cry, others pray, but none of them are able to sleep.  -----Across Faerun, clerics of all the faiths involved in the Blood Solstice loose contact with their deities for the span of two weeks.  It is a dark and fearsome time, and many conflicts that had been bubbling erupt into full bloom.  The evil faiths make use of the opportunity, and sack many churches of Good—the priesthoods of Illmater, Helm and Tempus are shattered, their remnants finding sanctuary with allies, or simply fleeing civilization altogether.For those two weeks, the Champions of the Risen Goddess lurk within their new home, too frightened to leave, and too traumatized to really rest.  Elgin and Ilwe are the hardest hit—neither of them are willing to discuss their experience.  Thelbar and Gorquen likewise lock themselves away, struggling to grasp those things that can not be accepted—and bury them deep.  Khuumar announces that his place is alongside the drow of New Ithor.  Whatever may come, they are his people, and he intends to return.  Only Taran is present to see him off.  Khuumar has come a long way since they first met; gone is the cringing drow traitor following the brothers Tar-Ilou with a deific axe over his head.  In his place, a committed and focused divine champion to a goddess newly reborn.  Taran smiles and clasps Khuumar’s hand.  “You’re still pretty much worthless,” he says, “but you were right about Nathè, and I’ll miss you.”Alone among his friends, Taran is at ease.  While his companions mourn, he practices his swordsmanship and fantasizes about revenge.  For he knows one small truth—this time, he tells himself, I survived.  The pasoun is an echo, lives repeating lives, but so long as life remains, so lives hope.</blockquote>

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