H130, Day 188, 7A.P. [Open]

[Uathach Blackmantle]

The Lazz School of Vivid Unpleasantness rose in stark, jagged relief against the fading Clerk's Ward skyline. It is a garish structure of eccentric character, catering to the weird, the bizarre, the terrible... All those traits the less conservative individuals could openly embrace. Yet to most, it was an eyesore; a mottley mix of clashing mosaics, mismatched masonry, impossible spikes and angles, and bright, jarring murals all thrown carelessly together, seemingly by the hand of a barmy Xaositect.

Perhaps it was, at that... A monstrosity, an abomination that should never have been built, or better yet, torn down long ago. Yet none could deny it's usefulness in the Cage's sprawling, multicultural scenery, for it was a foothold, a fortress, for the tasteless, the strange and otherwise hideous art, that had no other place elsewhere.

The perpetual rainfall had abated for now, yet a fine grey haze, and a dank, numbing chill still lingered here, drifting in lazy currents over the dusk enshrouded buildings. It was a fine enough evening, by Sigillian standards, for a Cager to venture out, and partake of the nightlife's varied delights. Especially here in the Clerk's Ward, home of the renowned Civic Festhall, and the stomping grounds of those colouful cutters who breathed life into Sigil the Grey...

A cloaked and veiled Dead drifted silently through the bustling traffic, encumbered as usual, and not merely from the weight of her worn leather pack. She sidestepped a brackish puddle here, jumped aside to avoid being rundown by a cedan chair passing by the Hall of Information, much to the head porter's chagrin, and generally tried her best not to step on any toes, or bump into anyone.

Not an easy task, either, when so many sourfaced, tired, determined or capricious individiuals streamed by through the gathering gloom. Streetlamps illuminated every corner here, each flickering motion of the lantern flames dancing like fireflies in the eerie, drifting veil of mist.

Wraith turned left onto Dew Lane, and so was enveloped by the Lazz School's festive, avant garde atmosphere. She wasn't here for the buskers, the dancers or the plays, but rather for the morbid installation of Tanar'ric expressionism. It was the exhibition's final day, at least according to a crumpled flyer that drifted across her path from a pile of garbage, earlier that morning.

She pays scant attention to the colourful crowd and their applause, as yet another comedy duo begins with a risque warm-up act, and slips quietly into the near deserted exhibition. The atmosphere here is gloomy and subdued, vaguely reminiscent of the Mortuary's silence, save for the dim, infernal lighting.

Artworks of every manner and description line the black draped walls, and weird swirling patterns create a cascade of fluid motion upon the ceilings and floor. Tall wrought iron candelabras and braziers burn with purple, orange and dull red flames, belching plumes of noxious smoke into the heavy, heady atmosphere.

The first artistic monstrosity to draw Wraith's attention was "Torture"; a peculiar lifelike effigy of a half-elf woman, mummified in barbed wire, hanging from the ceiling in a cage of concentric iron rings. She'd been bolted by the wrist and ankle joints to the hideous alien device, and other blackened iron rods passed through her body at various angles; to twist and tear her flesh with each oscillation of the outer shell of rings. Adding to the sculpture's realism, carefully woven illusions of blood spurted from the inflammed, supurating wounds.

The same anonymous artist had exhibited another sculpture, this one simply titled "Undying HandMaiden"; It was the "Iron Maiden", a coffin-like torture device. But most disturbing of all were the contents; an impaled half-elven man that could've easily been the tortured woman's twin. Rusty corkscrew spikes erupted in carmine arcs from his torn, emaciated husk.

Compelled by a morbid curiosity, Wraith completed her slow, thoughtful circuit of the exhibition, pausing occassionally to study a particularly macabre painting, sculpture or installation.

She witnessed abstract visions of damnation and ineffable torment; vast sprawling chiaroscuro vistas of Abyssal badlands, painted in shades of charcoal, obsidian, ash, bone dust and deep sanguine pigments; Savage Impressionist depictions, and harsh etchings of broken spires and sundered souls, scattered in torn heaps across a bloodsoaked battlefield.

Wraith nearly gagged, overwhealmed as she was by the soul-wrenching madness, unspeakable cruelty and pain, and cancerous hatred that festered in the hearts of the Tanar'ri, layered with a strange, antipathetic tenderness and care into each of these ugly artworks... and one of their wretched spawn was her father.

The final painting to catch her eye was the artist's exquisite vision of a Deva embraced in agony and rapture by her Tanar'ri captor. The canvas, however, was a patchwork of preserved flesh, stretched taut over a bamboo frame.

Beside the painting hung the fleshy mural so aptly titled "Faces"; quite literally the flayed faces of thirty distinctive races, one of each, and all so delicately sewn together with sinewy cords that were ropes of desiccated visera.

Wraith shuddered in disgust, wondering about the sundered mind who created this disturbing piece, and moved on again.


[OOC: I apologise for this being overly long. If need be, I can divide it into two separate posts. ]

[feq]

[ooc Sounds good as one post.]

Vatndir stepped out from behind the "Undying Handmaiden" Sculpture and continued his rounds of gallery. "I really don't know why I would imagine things like this, but I guess its better the thoughts turn to art than to reality." Vatndir continued on passed "Faces" gesturing to it to his companion, Nilou. "This one I don't even know... I'd rather not think more about it honestly."

Vatndir continued on, twisting through the gallery, glad that Sigil had provided a safe, if disturbing outlet for his more twisted thoughts. "I'm glad I thought to show us the listing for this .. . " Vatndir stopped short. His eye cought a familiar form across the way.

"OF COURSE." He shouted, quite louder than appropriate for the venue. He sprinted away, gesturing to Nilou to follow. Twisting between monstrosities, he pulled up in front of Wraith, cutting her off. "Ondfullr moer , I see you are still strong enough in my thoughts to once again cross paths in this great city." He started to talk to her, and his mind realized the flaw in his plan. Vatndir looked to make sure Nilou saw him "Come on Skald, surely great things are forming in my mind. Nothing of significance will ever happen if you aren't present."

[edisoncarter]

"Well, you know," Nilou said, not anywhere near as disturbed as one might think, "everything needs contrast. The dark with the light. The pain with the pleasure. Disturbing things and uplifting things. Everything has a place." Nilou half-heartedly plucked at her skin, wondering what it would feel like to be flayed.

Painful, yet bracing, she thought, since there'd be nothing to keep her muscles and bones from getting chilled in the bare air.

Suddenly Vatndir hollered, and Nilou clattered after him.

Important, important--nothing liek sprinting through a hall of horrors, she mused, letting the mixed darknesses of all the tortured souls--artists and canvasses, as it were--wash over her.

There must always be a little of each extreme. If not, the remaining one loses all its flavor, its individuality. The world is not a perfect place; if it were, it'd be miserably boring.

[Uathach Blackmantle]

Wraith's mind wanders, swimming in the chaos-soup of dark morbid thought, and grotesque imagery. She seems content for the moment to drift from one abstract installation to the other, with the light rustling steps of a spectral maiden. Yet closer inspection of her face through the ebon gauze reveals a shrouded, transfixed countenance, locked obsessively upon something dark and loathsome spawned from beyond the firmament.

Truth be known, she can't get these haunting images out of her head. Now more than ever, surrounded by the trappings of fiendish travesty, she longed - yearned - to learn more about her ancestry... to discover her roots:

To find her Cambion father...

Wraith reels back with a startled cry, nearly losing her footing, as a garishly garbed man, a Genasi in fact, darts without warning in front of her. Her ankle twists as her weight shifts onto that leg to counter her sudden loss of balance, and her boot slips on the muddied, damp slate...

Issuing a sudden, sharp Tanar'ri curse, coarse enough to make even the most hardened Doomguard soldier blush, Wraith hobbles on her sore ankle, and takes an instinctive swipe at the Genasi who nearly scared her out of her skin...

"Watch where you're going, berk... I... Vatndir?" The shaken Dead echoes incredulously, truly seeing the Signer for the first time, and blushes deeply in mortification beneath the concealing cloth of her veil. "I-I... I';m so sorry, cutter. I didn't realise that was you. But please, in future, bear in mind not scaring a tiefling half out of her mind." She adds with a nervous laugh, and a feeble, embarrassed smile.

After a tense, thoughtful moment, the tiefling Dead removes her veil, exposing the faded exotic face stained a deep red from shame. Her glazed amethyst eyes shift from her boots to a point on the wall somewhere behind Vatndir. Again, she doesn't meet his eyes, nor does she seem to see him.

"Actually, I was hoping I'd bump into you again at some point." She confesses at length, chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip. A tiny trickle of bright carmine dribbles down her chin unnoticed.

"I don't much like to ask others for favours, as I have little to offer in the way of jink - the little I have is barely enough to survive - but there's something I need from you, cutter." For the first time, Wraith's gaze locks firmly with Vatndir's ebon nereid orbs, and a sudden determined light banishes the shadows wrought by her sorrow. "Or rather, from someone you know."

[edisoncarter]

"Eh, 'ware the tiefling who asks a favor," Nilou says, butting in.

Never ignore a Sensate.

"You should know that from hanging around me as often as you do." But the words are softened by a wink aimed at the flustered young woman daring enough to ask Vatndir for help.

This will likely include things I've never experienced before.

[feq]

"Why Nilou.. Be nice. You know as well as I that a Teifling asking a favor is no worse than a Gensai agreeing to do it" Vatndir smiled broadly, hoping to ease the possible tention between his two friends. He turned back to Wraith.

"Jink will not be necessary. The smile you flashed upon our arrive seemed rare and valuable." Turning briefly to Nilou "I'd imagine its not something anyone would get to experience; beautiful and rare." Turning back to Wraith, he focused his eyes on hers, trying to pull her into his gaze. "Tell me what you need."

[Uathach Blackmantle]

Wraith casts a wary eye over her macabre surroundings, suggesting with a glance that she half-expects someone to be watching her, then relaxes again. Yet a certain tension remains, evident in her stiff posture, and the spiderweb lattice of worry lines, etched into her mouth and brow.

She sighs, at once dissatisafied and disconsolate, and stares down at her trembling hands. Her fingers restlessly pluck at the scalloped spill of black lace, adorning the neckline of her robe, and clasp something concealed between her breasts.

"I need you to speak to your companion, John, on my behalf." She begins slowly at first, lifting her gaze to meet Vatndir's glittering ebony eyes again. "I ask no favours; while I cannot offer jink, I can provide my services as a scholar, scribe, linguist or physician in fair exchange." Wraith pauses to wet her dry lips with a quick flick of her tongue, and resumes where she left off.

"I need information on my missing son, Aerin, a half-elven boy; and of my father, X'artru Blackmantle..." She takes a long draw of breath to help settle suddenly shaky nerves, and releases it with a sigh. "He's... a Cambion. I know nothing more than this. But I need to know if he still lives, and where to start to track him down.

I know in my heart that, if I can find him, and find my beloved son - powers willing, they both still draw breath - then maybe... maybe it will put this turmoil inside me to rest." Her voice is soft, subdued, an indication as clear as any other how important this is to her.

[feq]

Vatndir stiffens to seriousness, showing his uncharacteristic empathy in matters of lost children. Perhaps a hold over from his own split childhood, even Vatndir wouldn't seek to determine the reasoning.

"Yes. Of course. I think we shall have to bring this to his attention. I imagine nothing more important or pressing than seeking this information, even if it cannot take temporal priority at all times. I shall of course pass your message." Vatndir's eyes calmed, and his demeanor returned to normal. "Given John is constantly wounded, and travlining with Nilou and myself as slatr skjoldr, he would be quite enthralled with the idea of a physican. "

He contemplated something, clearly debating something in his own mind, then added "I imagine we'd all be delighted for an excuse to see you upon our returns to the city."

[Uathach Blackmantle]

Wraith's troubled expression eases, the deeply carved lines smoothed away by the gentle, soothing caress of Vatndir's words; a simple assurance to allieviate her cares, which was more than what most bashers ever willingly offered.

"Thankyou, Vatndir." She says with a soft grateful smile, and a relieved sparkle illuminating her weary eyes. "This means... so much to me, more than I can accurately express..." A clear amber tear limns one dark shaded, red rimmed purple eye, and she turns away to hide her sorrow.

All of a sudden, Wraith seems awkward and uncomfortable. She shifts restlessly from one foot to the other, wincing and gnawing her chapped lower lip as her scarce weight falls onto her injured ankle. These abrupt mercurial changes of mood take hold so swiftly, often without warning, that it's difficult to tell exactly what she's thinking, and feeling. She frowns, frustrated by her own inadequacies.

"I should leave. I must find lodgings for the eve... For too long I've spent tossing and turning on the floor of some lice-infested hovel in the Hive." Her words are sharp, and bitter. Nothing more needs to be said, to express her disgust at the Hive's appaling living conditions. "You'll find me at the Mortuary, or banging around one of many taverns that rise from the seedier sides of the city. I tend to move around a lot these days. Seek me out when your companion has made his decision."

A final ghost of a smile graces her autumn features, and she turns to walk away. She stops again as something occurs to her. "I wish you well on your travels, cutter." A pause; she seems regretful to have to say goodbye to an individual she regards as a friend. "When do you expect to return?"

[feq]

Vatndir seems troubled by Wraith's expression, but attempts to fight it with his smile. "No need to express things at all, the thought is more important anyway." He listened to what she had to say and then offered "I can be found regularly at the Open Shell, when I'm in town. I recommend it as a step up if you are tired of your current conditions. "

He contemplated his current employment, and answered "I think the return date is open ended, so I shall be sure to pass your message to John before we leave. We will get you a response as soon as I can imagine it possible. However, we plan to leave for the outter planes in about two days time, so I cannot make promises."

He turned to Nilou "Shall we head to John? I know its not as fun as a night in the art gallery, but I imagine it would be more pleasant as a duo than a solo."

[edisoncarter]

"I'd prefer Wraith's company to John's any day of the week," she mutters, knowing the phrase might end up offending someone.

"Of course," Nilou smiles brightly, responding to Vatndir. Her teeth seem extra bright in this sallow place. "Nothing like drawing barbed wire twixt my ears. And he smells of rust, too."

[feq]

Vatndir stops short. "Well I've had a better thought. Why don't the two of you get to know eachother better. I will head off to John myself. It will be easier for me to find both of you than one of you."

[edisoncarter]

Nilou smiles. "Well, if I didn't know Vatndir better, I'd say he was imagining himself a matchmaker," she laughs. "Indeed, Miss Blackmantle. Maybe...maybe getting out of this place will be a better venue for talk."

[Uathach Blackmantle]

"I recall the Open Shell clearly enough. I was there a week ago, now... I was bitten by a cranium rat, and my superior threatened you." Wraith explains to Vatndir with a wry smile, and a hint of colour staining her ashen cheeks. "I'll bear your suggestion mind."

She stands in contemplative silence, watching the Genasi Signer depart for his rendezvous with the greedy, sour-faced little man named John.

"'Tis a dark and dismal place in here. Almost makes the lacklustre vaults of Mortuary seem cheerful... Almost." Wraith murmurs at length, and runs a hand in an idle sweep over her fatigued features. She dons her veil once more. "I have no idea what drew me here in the first place. Morbid curiosity? That it could be, but more than likely, deep down, I'd hoped I would find some vestige of the monster who sired me." She mutters, and shrugs, heaving a resignated sigh.

The Dustwoman's fading purple gaze stares past the smoky black hall, and the macabre displays, to the entrance at the far end, leading back out onto the Lazz School's mosaic tiled courtyard.

Wraith turns back to Nilou, smiling faintly behind the concealing black gauze, and murmurs, "Shall we stroll about the Lazz School for a while then?" She frowns thoughtfully. "If... If you want, I can always invert my cloak, if you feel uncomfortable banging around with a cutter wreathed in the shadows of the Dead."

[edisoncarter]

Nilou smiles. "Dead don't bother me. Takes all things to fill the world."

She takes in the pain and suffering given form and mass. "Advice is like a gift--it can be taken, or left. But I'm not the usual kind of giver--I don't balk if you dont' take the gift.

"I'm not entirely sure what your reasons are for wanting to know your sire. But sometimes, we're stronger than the elements that make us; we are not slaves to our histories. You are not weak, and while wanting knowledge is a good thing, feeling trapped by it does no one any good."

[Uathach Blackmantle]

Wraith frowns thoughtfully. "I don't know why it haunts me so. Perhaps it's a lost cause, and I'll hit the blinds soon enough. But that doesn't change the fact that, sometimes I feel that knowing him will release some aspect of me that I feel is trapped... or missing. Maybe in understanding my heritage I'll be able to let go, and move on as I should." She shrugs, at a loss for words and ultimately seeming disatisfied will all she has confessed.

Casting a long, thoughtful eye over the garishly displayed macabre attrocities, she shudders inwardly and decides that perhaps it was time they leave. After all, a darkened Tanar'ri art gallery, dedicated to the grotesque and obscene, was no place for two ladies to be found wandering around at nightfal... even if they were Tieflings.

"Would you like to join me for a stroll about the Lazz School, Nilou?" Wraith asks, extending a slender and delicate, gloved hand to the exotic, dark skinned bard as she heads toward the veiled exit. "I've entertained the thought more than once of performing here, so I'm very interested in seeing what some of the artists do."

[edisoncarter]

"Oh, indeed, let's see what's about in the school, then," Nilou says brightly. Briefly she scowls. "These aren't good clothes for bleeding. Wish I'd known ahead of time. Oh, well--there's magic for it, I imagine."

And onward they went through the halls of the school, Nilou following Wraith wherever she chose to wander.

"I know you sing and play. Why aren't you Sensate? --Not that I'm trying to convert you or anything, a cutter's got to make the choice that's right for her, but the soul demands a lot of things, and if we can understand the roots of those demands, we can learn a lot about ourselves."

[Uathach Blackmantle]

Wraith stops outside the dark Tanar'ri art gallery, and sags against the wall. If she had pockets somewhere attached to her clothing, she'd be stuffing her narrow hands into them now. But instead, the tiefling Dead settles for folding her thin arms over her snug wasp-waist corset, and stares down at the muddied toes of her boots. She heaves a melancholy sigh, and mutters at length.

"The thought had crossed my mind... once, many years ago, before the bleakness of my youth tightened it's stranglehold on me." She sighs, and lifts her gaze to meet Nilou's exotic orbs. "My mother - the only mother I ever knew, that is - was a Sensate. But her profligate lifestyle cost her her life, when she was foolish enough to bed a Cambion... She fell ill with a wasting disease a few days later."

She stares off at the parade of avant-garde artists and gaudy revellers, surrounding the School's public performance arena, and her eyes grow misty with unshed tears. Wraith was surprised she could speak of this so objectively, given the circumstances of her mother's death, though she supposed that was in part due to time; and the doctrines of the Dustmen, engraved upon her soul.

"So you could say, if experience has taught me anything, it's that heeding the calls of the body and the blood can lead to so much pain. Death in the case of our kind." Wraith says in a soft, distant monotone.

"Though who am I to speak, when I've allowed the perverts of the Lower Ward and the Hive to slake their lusts upon me, for a scarce amount of jink? For a time there I was even dubbed the "Dead Whore", until I learned to accept my lot in existence, and shrug off their taunts and accusations." She sighs, and runs a gloved hand slowly over her faded face.

"Perhaps there is another way, another life, free from the lusts, the hunger, and the pain of the flesh we exist in... but it is far removed from this one."