Basic Information
Name: Urlaste Kalla
Aliases: Siren
Gender: Female
Race: Devil-blooded Elf
Age: Approximately 130
Profession: <what does your character do for living?>
Languages: Common, Elven, Infernal, Draconic
Accent: None
Physical Information
Height: She is exceptionally tall by elven standards.
Weight: It is proportionate to her height.
Body build: Her body is lithe, but there is something off about it, as if around the edges it's not quite right.
Skin type: Her skin is smooth.
Hair style: Siren's hair is straight, generally tucked behind one ear.
Scars: None
Tattoos: None
Hair: A deep blue verging on black.
Eyes:Pale silver.
Skin: Her skin is a faint, chilled blue, almost ivory.
Mental Information
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Philosophy: No philosophy or perspective, even this one, contains all that there is. Keep your mind ruthlessly open to exploit the most useful or entertaining.
Deity/Beliefs: Undetermined
Personality: From all appearances she is mischievous but ultimately friendly in her intent, although she can be aggressive and highly mercurial depending on the circumstances. At times she is given to long periods of contemplation.
Additional Information
Gear: A gauntlet and armguard that she never publically removes.
Jewelry: The only thing of note is a black choker with an obsidian bell dangling from it.
Habbits/hobbies: Translation and nefarious activities not worht mentioning.
General Health: Siren is in exceptionally good health.
Favorite Drink: Whiskey.
Weaknesses: Extreme pride. If Siren feels she is not properly appreciated she has a tendency to view the world in a scewed light in which she is the victim of disregard.
Siren
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*Donovan42
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
A slow, steady pacing back and forth, back and forth. Her trance wouldn't come easy this evening although that was different from no other. There were too many thoughts to gather, too many strands she'd cast out that were bearing fruit or rot to keep up with. It was in a way like the time before the wizard, the temple. At the thought of the temple her eyes immediately glance down to her arm and she gives an experimental wiggle of the fingers. Too loose, poor penetration. That single press to her gauntlet leaves her shuddering for a moment, but it serves to clear her thoughts enough, to bring her back to the particular strand she persued.
Not since the Temple had things become complex again. A decade spent catering to a doddering wizard until she finally slept him to her way of thinking and to opening a portal, that had given her cause for peace. It was a troubling state, one that led to complacency. Fortunately she always bore her reminders, the unfinished phylactery, the gauntlet, the tome full of infernal scrawlings that drove her life forward. There were other trophies as well, but none that held much value in comparision. Her sister's needles which she'd finally had occasion to use, those were worth keeping for their novelty alone. Still, she knew all of this and was uncertain why she dwelled on it. What suffering there was from that time, enough that at times she'd believed herself in the Hells, she'd dissected, methodically examined until she'd stretched it out on a lattice, speared each individual occasion of her weakness, and purged all sympathy for herself. A void would have been easy, a way to shunt it all away, pretend it wasn't there, but rather, she liked the feel of it on her fingertips, the slick runnels always within her grasp, more intense than any trophy could ever be. There was a primal immediacy to it that kept her from becoming comfortable.
But, if she let her thoughts drift so she'd simply spend another night dancing through the past, crying out in rage at her enemies and relishing when she claimed her first vengeance, and when ultimately she saw them all dead. Her brother, the favourite meant to kill her, bound to the alter with the red ribbons stretched above him. Her mother's snarl when she realized the mistake, the illusion. Her own glee when she'd pushed the woman into death's embrace screaming, writhing, begging before the others. They were sweet memories, ones that affirmed why she kept following the path she did. If she suffered so much, if she killed so many, then there must be a reason for it. The power, that was the reason that always slipped her mind. The power. She hadn't done so much out of pure survival, no, she wasn't a creature as base as that, driven by fear. It had been planned the entire time. She was certain of it to the brink of madness. Even when they'd pulled off those first strips of flesh after a failed lesson, her screams had been louder than necessary, to make them think she was weak. She did not survive. No, she won, and any that denied her that distinction weren't worthy of her prescence.
To the present, Siren, to the present. Upon arriving in Sigil her wildest dreams were realized, all of the resources she needed to translate the tome, to prepare the rituals, to grow. There was none of the fear present, at least not directed towards a lone elf with a strange book and a mildly bizarre appearance. There was no need to use the minor illusions to mask aspects of her features anymore and mask what she'd rightly earned. For a time nothing of note occurred beyond a string of intial contacts until she made her first proper arrangements. A surgeon, one needed for the ritual, an old scholar to track down the initial ingredients, and a deal with a fey'ri for the awful substance that let her read Abyssal. That one had cost her dearly in blood and coin. Her blood was valuable after all, and as much of it as had been spilled she had no qualms filling as many vials as the fey'ri desired, or her most remarkable companion. Still, this first period, the period of her adaption and translation, had yielded many new faces, all who had some potential use to her if she just took the time to work it out. She would eventually. Everyone was useful, dead, living, or those betwixt. Some were even entertainint and, at the thought, her finger lightly rings the bell dangling from her throat. It had been an interesting aside.
Her pacing around the room speeds up, her face darkening as her thoughts tumble along. Normally it didn't take her this much time to get her mind to the point, to bring the world into focus. Still, she presses on. After her initial strides into Sigil the confusion had begun, taking hold of her thoughts. Things were starting to matter, and this disturbed her. She found herself, in a moment of poor taste on her part, lowering her guard to the degree that she allowed something to be seen she shouldn't have. The reaction on some fronts was noticeably poor but, after her injured pride was soothed it had dawned on her that someone had bothered to sooth it in the first place. Or, at least forced her to a point of concession she didn't often reach. This disturbed her more than anything else, the idea that someone had a use for her, or at least enough of one to care for her feelings. She decided at that time to watch her more closely so she could determine the exact purpose behind it all. And the man as well, the one who had been quickest to show a degree of compassion. That was worrisome, something so quickly given couldn't readily be accepted unless she wished to become a fool.
Afterwards events moved in a steadily accelerated blur as she met more people and gained a friendly rapport with them. It was fortunate most didn't realize she imagined how they screamed when she heard their voices, or the ways in which she would turn on them when the time came for them to hurt her. The smirk itself was a product of her own awareness of just how much discomfort her blunt honesty would bring. And her stare, that steady gaze. Another thing to keep to herself, the mild edge of decay she had started seeing around everything as her work progressed. The people were still solid, real and untainted, but the world around her that she enjoyed so much was gradually being corrupted. Or perhaps it was always that way and it was only just time for her to realize that, to spur her onward. Her Actress brought things into focus for a time, until she left the stage, a creature that she tapped an unusually sensitive vein with, hitting nerves unintentionally. She, she was dangerous, someone that could get under her skin, learn her too well. The moment Siren had given her true name she regretted it, but it was a done deed and her trust was at least partially realized. And when the woman suffered she had felt a need to comfort her, through no ulterior motive. Disgusting, but there it was. After she recollects this she freezes in her pacing, a finger pressing to that gauntlet and another shiver passing through her. Focus returns once more.
There is another jumble then, the scornful alchemist who reminded her how to hate, who seemed to have a cruelty that would bring her back to focus, banish the weakness that had been growing. Someone that at first seem assured in their spite, but who proved more complex and befuddling. It was worth persuing, for the knowledge if nothing else, to correct the flaws in the rituals. Her vision had cleared as a result of the work, although the hint of that cloud still lingered in it, and at times her food tasted rotten. Then had come Shells, a man who carried himself like a barmy beggar, likely was a barmy at least, but proved infinetly useful in leading to the tiefling she sought, Gregor, locked up in the Gatehouse. She'd find a way, and Prod had proven useful enough that something might come of it.
A lull in her plotting arrived as more players in her lyrics came into focus, a few of note catching her attention. There was Trouble, who knew what she was doing on enough levels to impress Siren. Someone worth seeing succeed, if nothing else because they had the will to earn it, and they would likely be of extreme use. Straightforward for the most part, competent, sane. A rarity when put all together. Then there was Porcelain, shattered in flesh, spirit, and mind, although perplexingly tough. Her name was an irony after all, one that she hadn't shared quite yet. It was still hard to say whether the woman was a threat or a potential ally, but she had so much in common that Siren could not ignore her and consider herself wise. She wouldn't fail as Porcelain did although she'd have to heed the warnings. The surgeon was back on the stage by this time, intriguing as always and refreshingly open in his approach, one to be watched and counted as an ally, at least for the time.
This finally brings Siren's thoughts to the present, or close enough to the present to become relevant to her. She abruptly halts in her pacing and almost runs to her desk, throwing open her tome and scribbling with her new pin, the feather of an erinyes. After a moment she has the page decoded. The momentary interruption doesn't jar her steady progression though, no, rather it underlines it, even as her fingers grip the quill. Something truly disturbing had happened to her. In one conversation with the woman whose true purpose she had yet to learn, Siren's ambitions had utterly shifted, become grander, more dangerous indeed, but also far more profitable. It would be harder to accomplish, but one infernal lawyer that could be trusted, at least relatively, would be the key. But, more importantly, she found herself hiring this woman to hunt down an old enemy of hers, a personal tormenter, dearest to her proginetor. The night before she departed, the Huntress had learned her names, both of them, who Urlaste was and who Siren was. Worse, far worse, when the woman returned Siren realized she had felt concern for her. It was a bad sign, and when with the woman's advice Siren failed to claim her trophy as she planned, but rather disposed of it, Siren realized she trusted her. Even though she'd uttered those words much earlier, she herself had thought it a ploy until the realization dawned that she spoke the truth. It was a weakness of hers, but it was one that she couldn't purge regardless of her efforst.
She'd worked out the initial rage provoked by this on her captive, the erinyes Hellena, beloved of her progenitor and one of the foremost among her tormentors. The torture had been sweet enough, although it was shortlived. When Siren was in Minauros, when her fingers were wrapped about Hellena's heart, or at least the lump where one would be, and the fear of oblivion danced through Hellena's eyes, when the erinyes begged, bargained, seduced, then when she had died screaming in absolute terror, the second thing troubled Siren's mind. She didn't feel remorse, no, but she'd felt disgusted with herself. A clean cut to the throat was all that it would have taken. For half a century she'd wanted to kill the erinyes, to utterly destroy her, but when the moment finally came, when she uttered the exact words she'd chanted between screams, she felt herself too satisfied. She was moving beyond her own control. It was the gnawing idea that even in the way Hellena had met oblivion the creature had twisted Siren, allowed her to enjoy it too much. If she hadn't gotten a glimpse of something sane afterwards, if the first doubt hadn't already been in place, perhaps she would not have noticed. She'd felt the hate in her blood. Porcelain's words rang far too true for her tastes.
The last thing troubling her, the third in the triumverate of doubt, was at its core simple. She had met someone utterly sincere in their disposition, thoughts, and actions, and in a single afternoon this person had burrowed down to her core and left her at ease. Safe. That was far more forbidden to her than any other taboo, even the vague possibility of it. Before all of this she'd had three immutable possessions that had had been stripped from her; she had her paranoia, her self assurance, and her ambition. Afterwards, all that was left was trust, doubt, and safety.
Siren never ceases in her pacing and, except for her almost mad scribblings in the codex, never stops mulling over these three icons of what would lead to her failure if she allowed them. They were dangerous perspectives, ones she refused to truly adapt, yet they had forced themselves upon her. For the moment she could not think of a more lethal blow.
Not since the Temple had things become complex again. A decade spent catering to a doddering wizard until she finally slept him to her way of thinking and to opening a portal, that had given her cause for peace. It was a troubling state, one that led to complacency. Fortunately she always bore her reminders, the unfinished phylactery, the gauntlet, the tome full of infernal scrawlings that drove her life forward. There were other trophies as well, but none that held much value in comparision. Her sister's needles which she'd finally had occasion to use, those were worth keeping for their novelty alone. Still, she knew all of this and was uncertain why she dwelled on it. What suffering there was from that time, enough that at times she'd believed herself in the Hells, she'd dissected, methodically examined until she'd stretched it out on a lattice, speared each individual occasion of her weakness, and purged all sympathy for herself. A void would have been easy, a way to shunt it all away, pretend it wasn't there, but rather, she liked the feel of it on her fingertips, the slick runnels always within her grasp, more intense than any trophy could ever be. There was a primal immediacy to it that kept her from becoming comfortable.
But, if she let her thoughts drift so she'd simply spend another night dancing through the past, crying out in rage at her enemies and relishing when she claimed her first vengeance, and when ultimately she saw them all dead. Her brother, the favourite meant to kill her, bound to the alter with the red ribbons stretched above him. Her mother's snarl when she realized the mistake, the illusion. Her own glee when she'd pushed the woman into death's embrace screaming, writhing, begging before the others. They were sweet memories, ones that affirmed why she kept following the path she did. If she suffered so much, if she killed so many, then there must be a reason for it. The power, that was the reason that always slipped her mind. The power. She hadn't done so much out of pure survival, no, she wasn't a creature as base as that, driven by fear. It had been planned the entire time. She was certain of it to the brink of madness. Even when they'd pulled off those first strips of flesh after a failed lesson, her screams had been louder than necessary, to make them think she was weak. She did not survive. No, she won, and any that denied her that distinction weren't worthy of her prescence.
To the present, Siren, to the present. Upon arriving in Sigil her wildest dreams were realized, all of the resources she needed to translate the tome, to prepare the rituals, to grow. There was none of the fear present, at least not directed towards a lone elf with a strange book and a mildly bizarre appearance. There was no need to use the minor illusions to mask aspects of her features anymore and mask what she'd rightly earned. For a time nothing of note occurred beyond a string of intial contacts until she made her first proper arrangements. A surgeon, one needed for the ritual, an old scholar to track down the initial ingredients, and a deal with a fey'ri for the awful substance that let her read Abyssal. That one had cost her dearly in blood and coin. Her blood was valuable after all, and as much of it as had been spilled she had no qualms filling as many vials as the fey'ri desired, or her most remarkable companion. Still, this first period, the period of her adaption and translation, had yielded many new faces, all who had some potential use to her if she just took the time to work it out. She would eventually. Everyone was useful, dead, living, or those betwixt. Some were even entertainint and, at the thought, her finger lightly rings the bell dangling from her throat. It had been an interesting aside.
Her pacing around the room speeds up, her face darkening as her thoughts tumble along. Normally it didn't take her this much time to get her mind to the point, to bring the world into focus. Still, she presses on. After her initial strides into Sigil the confusion had begun, taking hold of her thoughts. Things were starting to matter, and this disturbed her. She found herself, in a moment of poor taste on her part, lowering her guard to the degree that she allowed something to be seen she shouldn't have. The reaction on some fronts was noticeably poor but, after her injured pride was soothed it had dawned on her that someone had bothered to sooth it in the first place. Or, at least forced her to a point of concession she didn't often reach. This disturbed her more than anything else, the idea that someone had a use for her, or at least enough of one to care for her feelings. She decided at that time to watch her more closely so she could determine the exact purpose behind it all. And the man as well, the one who had been quickest to show a degree of compassion. That was worrisome, something so quickly given couldn't readily be accepted unless she wished to become a fool.
Afterwards events moved in a steadily accelerated blur as she met more people and gained a friendly rapport with them. It was fortunate most didn't realize she imagined how they screamed when she heard their voices, or the ways in which she would turn on them when the time came for them to hurt her. The smirk itself was a product of her own awareness of just how much discomfort her blunt honesty would bring. And her stare, that steady gaze. Another thing to keep to herself, the mild edge of decay she had started seeing around everything as her work progressed. The people were still solid, real and untainted, but the world around her that she enjoyed so much was gradually being corrupted. Or perhaps it was always that way and it was only just time for her to realize that, to spur her onward. Her Actress brought things into focus for a time, until she left the stage, a creature that she tapped an unusually sensitive vein with, hitting nerves unintentionally. She, she was dangerous, someone that could get under her skin, learn her too well. The moment Siren had given her true name she regretted it, but it was a done deed and her trust was at least partially realized. And when the woman suffered she had felt a need to comfort her, through no ulterior motive. Disgusting, but there it was. After she recollects this she freezes in her pacing, a finger pressing to that gauntlet and another shiver passing through her. Focus returns once more.
There is another jumble then, the scornful alchemist who reminded her how to hate, who seemed to have a cruelty that would bring her back to focus, banish the weakness that had been growing. Someone that at first seem assured in their spite, but who proved more complex and befuddling. It was worth persuing, for the knowledge if nothing else, to correct the flaws in the rituals. Her vision had cleared as a result of the work, although the hint of that cloud still lingered in it, and at times her food tasted rotten. Then had come Shells, a man who carried himself like a barmy beggar, likely was a barmy at least, but proved infinetly useful in leading to the tiefling she sought, Gregor, locked up in the Gatehouse. She'd find a way, and Prod had proven useful enough that something might come of it.
A lull in her plotting arrived as more players in her lyrics came into focus, a few of note catching her attention. There was Trouble, who knew what she was doing on enough levels to impress Siren. Someone worth seeing succeed, if nothing else because they had the will to earn it, and they would likely be of extreme use. Straightforward for the most part, competent, sane. A rarity when put all together. Then there was Porcelain, shattered in flesh, spirit, and mind, although perplexingly tough. Her name was an irony after all, one that she hadn't shared quite yet. It was still hard to say whether the woman was a threat or a potential ally, but she had so much in common that Siren could not ignore her and consider herself wise. She wouldn't fail as Porcelain did although she'd have to heed the warnings. The surgeon was back on the stage by this time, intriguing as always and refreshingly open in his approach, one to be watched and counted as an ally, at least for the time.
This finally brings Siren's thoughts to the present, or close enough to the present to become relevant to her. She abruptly halts in her pacing and almost runs to her desk, throwing open her tome and scribbling with her new pin, the feather of an erinyes. After a moment she has the page decoded. The momentary interruption doesn't jar her steady progression though, no, rather it underlines it, even as her fingers grip the quill. Something truly disturbing had happened to her. In one conversation with the woman whose true purpose she had yet to learn, Siren's ambitions had utterly shifted, become grander, more dangerous indeed, but also far more profitable. It would be harder to accomplish, but one infernal lawyer that could be trusted, at least relatively, would be the key. But, more importantly, she found herself hiring this woman to hunt down an old enemy of hers, a personal tormenter, dearest to her proginetor. The night before she departed, the Huntress had learned her names, both of them, who Urlaste was and who Siren was. Worse, far worse, when the woman returned Siren realized she had felt concern for her. It was a bad sign, and when with the woman's advice Siren failed to claim her trophy as she planned, but rather disposed of it, Siren realized she trusted her. Even though she'd uttered those words much earlier, she herself had thought it a ploy until the realization dawned that she spoke the truth. It was a weakness of hers, but it was one that she couldn't purge regardless of her efforst.
She'd worked out the initial rage provoked by this on her captive, the erinyes Hellena, beloved of her progenitor and one of the foremost among her tormentors. The torture had been sweet enough, although it was shortlived. When Siren was in Minauros, when her fingers were wrapped about Hellena's heart, or at least the lump where one would be, and the fear of oblivion danced through Hellena's eyes, when the erinyes begged, bargained, seduced, then when she had died screaming in absolute terror, the second thing troubled Siren's mind. She didn't feel remorse, no, but she'd felt disgusted with herself. A clean cut to the throat was all that it would have taken. For half a century she'd wanted to kill the erinyes, to utterly destroy her, but when the moment finally came, when she uttered the exact words she'd chanted between screams, she felt herself too satisfied. She was moving beyond her own control. It was the gnawing idea that even in the way Hellena had met oblivion the creature had twisted Siren, allowed her to enjoy it too much. If she hadn't gotten a glimpse of something sane afterwards, if the first doubt hadn't already been in place, perhaps she would not have noticed. She'd felt the hate in her blood. Porcelain's words rang far too true for her tastes.
The last thing troubling her, the third in the triumverate of doubt, was at its core simple. She had met someone utterly sincere in their disposition, thoughts, and actions, and in a single afternoon this person had burrowed down to her core and left her at ease. Safe. That was far more forbidden to her than any other taboo, even the vague possibility of it. Before all of this she'd had three immutable possessions that had had been stripped from her; she had her paranoia, her self assurance, and her ambition. Afterwards, all that was left was trust, doubt, and safety.
Siren never ceases in her pacing and, except for her almost mad scribblings in the codex, never stops mulling over these three icons of what would lead to her failure if she allowed them. They were dangerous perspectives, ones she refused to truly adapt, yet they had forced themselves upon her. For the moment she could not think of a more lethal blow.
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*Donovan42
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Siren took a moment to think about Hellena, the look on the devil's face when she understood her life was coming to an end. Then, the look on her own face, or at least what it must have been, the first time the erinyes took a blade to her. The creature's fate, the knowledge she'd ended the beast, made her smile, even as she ducked into one of the side alleys. The resposne to the death had come quickly, as she hoped, in the form of a pack of dogai that even now were stalking her through the streets of Sigil. Unfortunately, they'd decided to toy with her first, and so for three weeks she'd ducked and woven her way through Sigil, waiting for an attack she wanted to come that never materialized. They thought her weaker than she was, given she usually acted by proxy, some little information monger with delusions of granduer. Her father, his slaves...none of them realized she was already nearing the end of her work, a few more rituals to be translated and corrected, then the right blood, and she would be on the final road she needed to travel. Her fingers dance over her gauntlet for a moment, fixing it back in its proper place with a few presses to the warm metal.
Ever since getting to Sigil, since her plans started truly moving, she'd had trouble trancing and now with the assassins following her about she no longer could. It was like being young again, the constant tension, the fear of the unknown, because, for all her strength, they WERE devils and there was only so much planning she could do. It was possible she would fail in this and end up wishing she were dead. That was a road well travelled already, and one Siren was less than eager to walk once more. The worst part of it all though was her own reaction. Despite her craving for tension, excitement, the thrill of danger, she was realizing she no longer enjoyed those things once she had them. It was one thing when she had no choice but, now that she was mostly free, able to simply walk away, and had found a few people that were perhaps worth relating too on a basis more than superficial, the world was throwing options at her. Temptations really to lure her back into weakness. Safety...no, it was a different creature assailing her now, undermining her usual caution, it was comfort. Safety was gone thankfully, although there were still a few who provoked it. No, it was the potential of constant comfort that made her path seem that much harder. And so, she'd found herself honestly afraid, losing her focus.
Three weeks. They had waited three weeks, going on four, without acting. The elf finally brings herself out of the alley and creeps over to one of the local dives she knows, run by a bastard of a thief that spent as much time trying to rob his customers as trying to serve them. A place full of paranoid people, appropriate for her and good at keeping an eye out. She swipes a bottle of whiskey, only paying when she's cussed at by the bartender, one of the traditions. That if nothing else brings a smirk to those blue lips, although it fades away as she hauls her catch off into a corner. For a while, the taste is enough to keep her busy, a burning, godawful sensation even to her altered chemistry that's enough to make her eyes tear. It takes half a bottle before it fades to the point she's focused on the world around her again. It was getting less effective...she'd have to start drinking poison at this rate, hopefully just to keep her body in enough agony to block it all out. There was nothing for it but to actually consider the matters that had roamed through her head recently. The constant threat of capture and torture at the hands of assassins was in check, held in her mind like some held an ulcer in their stomachs, an acid that ate away at everything she saw, turnign the usual brown tinge closer to black. That was a distraction. It shouldn't be black, too soon for that much color alteration. She finishes the rest of the bottle fast enough to make everyone but the orc in the bar stare, then adjusts her gauntlet. The colors fade back to normal, and her thoughts careen ahead.
Actress, that was one name she did not expect to use again. It seems they had withdrawn, a shame in one way, but, on another note, one less person she was growing fond of to eat away at her paranoia. That was good then. There were others too that she should lose, but, until the inevitable happened, Siren couldn't help but think she wanted them to stay. Weakness, another ulcer to eat away at her. There was the half dryad still, a grove she could retreat into when she needed the respite. Porcelain. There was an interesting woman, one who seemed on the verge of killing Siren or trying to seduce her at any given moment. It was peculiar but the kind of danger that was enjoyable, a game a bit more within her own control at least for the moment. Recently though she could swear the woman was stalking her along with the assassins. Once, she'd seen a stuffed animal in the shame of a balor fly towards her head out of a dark alley. A perverse sense of humor. It'd made her laugh once she'd burnt off the sewage from her reflexive leap, at least. Her other companions, she felt like she was orbiting loosely around them, never quite in contact. It was a good way to be about it, not too involved, avoiding any further entanglements.
Of course, she was too much her mother's daughter to show the restraint she needed, and recently she'd found someone who held her attention quite well. The moment they did, there was an occurance that had the Sinkers firmly listed as enemies to Siren, and an immediate illustration of the dangers of close association. She'd almost acted on a paladin's behalf, an acquaintance not known well enough to be a true friend, simply because the paladin's situation displeased her companion at the time. Fortunately the Sinkers had left before it came to anything, but she would have revealed her power, given the assassins the final edge they'd need to kill her. It was stupid, reckless, everything Siren needed to avoid right now. And later, she'd offered help because she considered someone a friend. The situation itself made little difference to her, but through her relation alone she felt spurred to act. She looks up from the empty bottle to notice more than a few still staring, as if expecting the elf to fall over dead from what she just drank. A cheeky smile sets them grumbling or smirking, giving her the peace she needs to finish thinking things out before going back into the street, ready to dodge and duck her way through another miserable day without a proper fight against the assassins. On some level she was tempted to tie herself up naked in Minauros and beg them to attack her, just to get the blasted mess over with.
Seven of her traps they'd avoided so far as well, something that was troubling her an increasing amount. But, all of that was momentarily set aside in her mind to consider her position starkly as it was at the moment. She was being stalked by assassins. True. Her translation and decoding was almost completed. True. She even had an alchemist correcting the flaws in the rituals, and most of her ingredients were in place. True. Her agents were ready to act when the time came, her lawyer prepared to divide up the estates once her father was dead, her spies in place to follow the trail left when the assassins finally did their job, all of this was true. And still, with everything in place she was disatisfied, something gnawing away at the back of her mind that wasn't fully clicking, an experience foreign to her. For the first time in her life Siren was coming to realize that those she knew did not inevitably bring betrayal, suffering of some kind, or a plot against her. Some...were just nice to be around. The elf gives a loud curse and slouches back, looking around the bar. In those moments without what she was forced to concede those she counted as friends, well...In those moments, Siren realized she was lonely.
Ever since getting to Sigil, since her plans started truly moving, she'd had trouble trancing and now with the assassins following her about she no longer could. It was like being young again, the constant tension, the fear of the unknown, because, for all her strength, they WERE devils and there was only so much planning she could do. It was possible she would fail in this and end up wishing she were dead. That was a road well travelled already, and one Siren was less than eager to walk once more. The worst part of it all though was her own reaction. Despite her craving for tension, excitement, the thrill of danger, she was realizing she no longer enjoyed those things once she had them. It was one thing when she had no choice but, now that she was mostly free, able to simply walk away, and had found a few people that were perhaps worth relating too on a basis more than superficial, the world was throwing options at her. Temptations really to lure her back into weakness. Safety...no, it was a different creature assailing her now, undermining her usual caution, it was comfort. Safety was gone thankfully, although there were still a few who provoked it. No, it was the potential of constant comfort that made her path seem that much harder. And so, she'd found herself honestly afraid, losing her focus.
Three weeks. They had waited three weeks, going on four, without acting. The elf finally brings herself out of the alley and creeps over to one of the local dives she knows, run by a bastard of a thief that spent as much time trying to rob his customers as trying to serve them. A place full of paranoid people, appropriate for her and good at keeping an eye out. She swipes a bottle of whiskey, only paying when she's cussed at by the bartender, one of the traditions. That if nothing else brings a smirk to those blue lips, although it fades away as she hauls her catch off into a corner. For a while, the taste is enough to keep her busy, a burning, godawful sensation even to her altered chemistry that's enough to make her eyes tear. It takes half a bottle before it fades to the point she's focused on the world around her again. It was getting less effective...she'd have to start drinking poison at this rate, hopefully just to keep her body in enough agony to block it all out. There was nothing for it but to actually consider the matters that had roamed through her head recently. The constant threat of capture and torture at the hands of assassins was in check, held in her mind like some held an ulcer in their stomachs, an acid that ate away at everything she saw, turnign the usual brown tinge closer to black. That was a distraction. It shouldn't be black, too soon for that much color alteration. She finishes the rest of the bottle fast enough to make everyone but the orc in the bar stare, then adjusts her gauntlet. The colors fade back to normal, and her thoughts careen ahead.
Actress, that was one name she did not expect to use again. It seems they had withdrawn, a shame in one way, but, on another note, one less person she was growing fond of to eat away at her paranoia. That was good then. There were others too that she should lose, but, until the inevitable happened, Siren couldn't help but think she wanted them to stay. Weakness, another ulcer to eat away at her. There was the half dryad still, a grove she could retreat into when she needed the respite. Porcelain. There was an interesting woman, one who seemed on the verge of killing Siren or trying to seduce her at any given moment. It was peculiar but the kind of danger that was enjoyable, a game a bit more within her own control at least for the moment. Recently though she could swear the woman was stalking her along with the assassins. Once, she'd seen a stuffed animal in the shame of a balor fly towards her head out of a dark alley. A perverse sense of humor. It'd made her laugh once she'd burnt off the sewage from her reflexive leap, at least. Her other companions, she felt like she was orbiting loosely around them, never quite in contact. It was a good way to be about it, not too involved, avoiding any further entanglements.
Of course, she was too much her mother's daughter to show the restraint she needed, and recently she'd found someone who held her attention quite well. The moment they did, there was an occurance that had the Sinkers firmly listed as enemies to Siren, and an immediate illustration of the dangers of close association. She'd almost acted on a paladin's behalf, an acquaintance not known well enough to be a true friend, simply because the paladin's situation displeased her companion at the time. Fortunately the Sinkers had left before it came to anything, but she would have revealed her power, given the assassins the final edge they'd need to kill her. It was stupid, reckless, everything Siren needed to avoid right now. And later, she'd offered help because she considered someone a friend. The situation itself made little difference to her, but through her relation alone she felt spurred to act. She looks up from the empty bottle to notice more than a few still staring, as if expecting the elf to fall over dead from what she just drank. A cheeky smile sets them grumbling or smirking, giving her the peace she needs to finish thinking things out before going back into the street, ready to dodge and duck her way through another miserable day without a proper fight against the assassins. On some level she was tempted to tie herself up naked in Minauros and beg them to attack her, just to get the blasted mess over with.
Seven of her traps they'd avoided so far as well, something that was troubling her an increasing amount. But, all of that was momentarily set aside in her mind to consider her position starkly as it was at the moment. She was being stalked by assassins. True. Her translation and decoding was almost completed. True. She even had an alchemist correcting the flaws in the rituals, and most of her ingredients were in place. True. Her agents were ready to act when the time came, her lawyer prepared to divide up the estates once her father was dead, her spies in place to follow the trail left when the assassins finally did their job, all of this was true. And still, with everything in place she was disatisfied, something gnawing away at the back of her mind that wasn't fully clicking, an experience foreign to her. For the first time in her life Siren was coming to realize that those she knew did not inevitably bring betrayal, suffering of some kind, or a plot against her. Some...were just nice to be around. The elf gives a loud curse and slouches back, looking around the bar. In those moments without what she was forced to concede those she counted as friends, well...In those moments, Siren realized she was lonely.