Frygyd's Forgetful Lane

[Frygyd]

It is a wide corridor with many doors and shadowed archways along its length. The distance is starkly defined, well lit and clear however much further than the eye can see and the manner of its clarity will be argued for all the days of your calculated years. Your feet can tread the distance for as long as your spirit can bear the journey. The traveling is none to kind even with its glittering baubles of reward to make a-glimmer the avarice of jaundiced eye for its very architecture was meant to whittle away your gifts even as they are displayed to you in full joy. How you come to walk this path is neither here nor there. Perhaps the walk is but one spoke on a maze far too expansive and intricate to comprehend or to revere. Poetic. Perhaps. You can look back and see the distance traveled though the markers of your passage may be faded, foggy, too sharp in contrast or altogether missing from your sight. Fearfully you may come to realize you've made up markers just to soothe your mind and with wary trepidation glance furtively at the other markers and worry at their validity. So very fragile the state of reality when based so subjectively. I was there. I wasn't there. This happened. That could not have happened. See how the clarity is smeared with each step we take away. I forgot. I could not forget. You chose to be this way and the distance you have traveled only reaffirms with quiet mocking silence. Caged within your vast and ever advancing hall.

Blocking the way is a door.  Looking back is a door. To the left and right; a door.

They are locked.

Whispers.

Cackling.

Stronger.

"Where am I?" she asked.

Silence.

[Frygyd]

Wine dribbling down the front of her robes, smeared with jeweled-ring adorned fingers the Mage was having a helluva time. She loved to laugh and laugh and laugh.  No matter how the rest of the Grim looked at her she couldn't get enough of it.  Couldn't get enough drink, staring, feeling. Carving up this fae body, literally with sharp knife never far from ready fingers, was a heckuva trip. Trickling blood; nothing felt so real or alive. The world looked so queer through fae eyes but it had been forever and why not indulge a little. Couldn't help but be mesmerized now and then staring deeper and deeper and deeper at something, anything, just to really look and see. And drink. Always the lovely drink and a little carving, a laugh, more laughing, it felt so good to be her.

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"Where am I" she asked again.

'Lost.'

She was not sure where the voice came from or even if it was a voice.  Looking around she realized with a certain amount of terror that she did not see her body when looking down, nor feel a living body of breathing lungs and pounding heart, no limbs to bend and move and stretch. She felt nothing. And that realization, that clarity of moment, took quite some time for her to bring out of frenzied terror, with thoughts fragmenting and darting off randomly in horrified flight, in order to focus.  Focus now.  Pull yourself together.

'Lost.'

"SHUT UP!" she snarled.  The flash of anger was quickly replaced by a welling up of self pity as she plumetted down into blind misery. It had finally happened. They had gotten through. Defeated her. So very tired of fighting them off day after day, year after wearying year. What would become of her now?

'Lost.'

Had she been sleeping, injured, something else that had weakened her defenses to allow their tireless efforts to see them through her strongly fortified mental barriers? What had she done wrong? Where had she slipped up? What had they done to her? How would she get back what was hers? What would she come back to?

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The mage leered drunkenly at the Tauren as she swayed sensually across the room, "Why yessss I do think we could have some fun together, bully boy." She loved to laugh and drink and cut up the pretty fae. And laugh and laugh and laugh.