Angol
The dwindling, ragged group of sorcerers and seekers traveling the realms keeps searching for the elusive prize they fear they may never find, keeps passing through portals and walking vast foreign realms. What started out as one thing has become something completely different. Janet knows that feeling well. It is what she feels every time she finds herself in front of a mirror. They have become her. She has become them. They can hardly see past the moment of their possible success. She can only glimpse it as unending mist in the horizon.
The blade of their swords has turned sharp, their minds dull. The original purpose remains.
They travel on, bound in hatred and desolation, towards the inevitable confrontation awaiting them at some point in a dark and distant future. All of them know this, even in the murkiest part of their hazy awareness.
They fight on!
Janet has fallen as far as any being can possibly fall; to the bottom.
She has become like a banshee, a specter drifting aimlessly through realms and territories she can not name, an Afterglow of scars and emotions that would kill any ordinary human being.
But she survives, survives wounds grave enough to bury several others, survives drowning, stabbings and the darkest sorcery and wounds of the soul. Sometimes she wonders if anything can kill her or truly hurt her anymore, and she wonders why she cares, why she keeps putting one foot in front of the other.
Something makes her do that, something she can not quite fathom or reach, but is aware of none the less. It makes her rise from bed each morning. It makes her lift her sword in defense and offence, makes her kill time and time again.
