Marrakt

The Genesis of Ansolera (Guardian Angel Haruki / Marrakt)

He walks in shadow. Around him, he cannot see where he stands. All he sees are the dark, flickering shadows as they twist and writhe in the black night. The shadows twist and writhe as they reach out inky black tentacles to engulf him. They slither and swirl on the floor, and from all around him. They come for him. They desire him. His warm, life-giving blood.

You are here fated one. You are the one who will give us life, and give us shape once more.

The first snakes towards him. It reaches out for his ankle. Stepping back, Merrill circles around as they come at him from all sides. He draws his sword, pointing it towards the thick shadows as they reach out towards him...... Slashing at the dark as the first of the shadows begins to crawl up his leg, his sword cuts through the shadow. It slices through tendrils of black, but they reform instantly.

His weapon is ineffectual.

Throwing it away to one side in frustration, Merrill screams as the first tendril touches his skin, turning his skin blue....

***

Lying on the bed in the inn, as the healer tends to his wound, Merrill suddenly thrashes and convulses. He wakes, opening his mouth, screaming.....

"The dark. It comes. It comes. It feeds. It will devour all of us."

His head jerks backwards and his mouth opens as a rasping, terrible scream emanates. And then, he collapses once more, unconscious.

***

The shadows are all about him. Where they touch him, he feels his skin turn to ice. Merrill screams......and he screams until his screams turn into a quiet, pained sob. Slumping forward to his knees, Merrill’s eyes turn to the ground as the shadows rise, over him. Over his head.

He looks up, seeing them coalesce like a tidal wave over him.....about to engulf him.

"So now it comes......Death."

***

He thrashes again, and his right hand shoots out, grabbing Callie’s wrist in his own as she stands watching the healer treat him.

He grips her tightly, and his head turns to her. His eyes are hollow. They are completely white. His mouth opens, and even though he cannot see, he speaks.

"So now it comes......Death."

Then he shudders, and suddenly Merrill coughs, blood streaming from his mouth. He retreats inside himself once more.

***

Merrill reaches into his pocket, defeated. In his hand, he clasps a small, round object. And then, finally, his jaw jutting up in defiance, his brown eyes stare clear. "LET ME SEE YOU IN MY LIGHT CREATURE!"

Holding his clenched fist out, inside it a bright, white light gleams. The shadow plunges and......stops. Hesitating. Merrill feels it. It is afraid. Smiling grimly, he stands, and he slowly opens his fist.

An explosion of bright light. The dark gives a strangled hiss, and it suddenly fades, disintegrating against the power of the light. The clearing morphs. It becomes one with the light, joining with it. The shadows cannot resist it. And then it is gone. Merrill is alone, in a wooded clearing. Around him, nothing but silence. A deep, impenetrable silence. Yet, he knows he is not alone.

There is another here.

Another who would do him harm.

Except..............

She comes. A ghostly, white wraith against the moonlit night. A shimmering, alabaster angel framed against the pale moonlight. A faint, feminine voice floats echoes around the gloom, echoing inside his mind. A formless, featureless spirit. Her name, her face, and her memories lost to the netherworld.

Would you dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?

He is not afraid anymore. He knows who she is. Merrill faces the spirit, his destiny, face on.

"I would dance with fate. I would dance this dance for eternity, spirit."

She reaches out, and she touches his face.

And so you shall.

The ghostly echo forms in his mind. The girl turns, and she separates into tiny, minute fragments. These fragments drift up into the sky, floating upwards, ever upwards until they stop. They form pale, bright stars, twinkling in and out of existence at a second's notice.

And then he hears the low growl behind him. Turning, Merrill sees the great silver wolf step into the clearing. He sees its eyes glow red. And he knows his death is upon him.

***

His sits up, the white's dissipating from his eyes. His brown eyes shine clear now as he blinks, looking around him. Feeling contact on his right side, Merrill glances over, realising that he is grasping onto something.....somebody. Looking over, he sees the auburn haired girl and he suddenly lets go, blinking again.

"I...ahh....I am sorry milady."

The Genesis of Ansolera (Guardian Angel Haruki / Marrakt)

It had seemed to be just another day for Callie. She had followed the same schedule as always...

Wake up.
Go to the market.
Do some chores.
And when evening comes, go to the Antsy Anklebiter to work.

One would think that the banality of the same schedule every day would be enough of a security for Callie. But she still found herself on edge. She could feel it. She could feel whatever magic plagued her grow stronger, desperate to reveal itself to the world. She just couldn't risk it, and there were only so many times where she can lock herself in a room...

However, this evening proved to be different than every other night.

As Callie headed for the tavern, she stopped when she heard whispers. Feeling a cold sweat, she at first wondered if something caused by her magic had happened, but when she looked to the source, she found that it was something, or rather, someone else. And they were really close to her.

A boy around her age...and he was hurt!

He reached out a shaking hand to her and whispered a plea for help before he fell unconscious. Acting quickly, Callie tried to lift the boy. She noticed that the others were still watching and whispering to each other, and she called "Everyone, please help! Can't you see he's hurt? Someone, please help me get him to the Antsy Anklebiter! We need a healer!"

At Callie's call, everyone around her acted. A taller man helped Callie lift the boy, while another rushed to go and get the healer. The tall man, Guy, told her, "It's alright. He's gonna be alright, Cal," as they walked him to the tavern.

As they entered, Bruenor turned to them and asked "Hm? Callie? Guy? What's going on?"
"A boy collapsed in the middle of town, we need a bed for him. A healer is going to come by and check on him,"

Not needing to be told twice, Bruenor opened the door, in the back room and said "Here! Use this one!"
"Thank you, Bruenor," Callie thanked him quickly before hurriedly getting the boy into the back room and onto the comfortable bed.

The Genesis of Ansolera (Guardian Angel Haruki / Marrakt)

He pushes through thick brush and scrub. Panting heavily, the man runs forward. He has been running for so long now that he can barely remember a life doing otherwise. Overhead, the blue sky is obscured by the treetops surrounding him. The tops of the great oak trees block the sun from shining down on him. Around him, he is surrounded by dark, impenetrable shadow. As he runs, he glances behind him.

Nothing but the dark, shrouded woodland trail that he has been fleeing down.

His lungs burn as he gasps in short lungfuls of air. And then, sudden pain, shooting up and down his leg. Wincing, the man falls to his knees, sprawling onto the dirt track. Rolling onto his back, he raises his hands up to ward off the attack that he is sure is about to come.

The attack that never does fall.

He is alone. Around him, the woodlands are silent. There is not even the sound of birds chirping to keep him company on his panicked flight.

Merrill. My name is Merrill.

Closing his eyes, he takes in deep lungfuls of air. His name was Merrill, and for three years now, he had been running for his life. For three years, he had been surviving in this barren wasteland of a life that was once meaningful. Running from his the shadows who wished him dead. Around him, his body ached, sending small needles of pain lancing up and through him. Blood trickled from innumerable cuts and scratches. Grunting, Merrill slowly climbs to his feet, ignoring the burning agony in his left leg. Right now, his need was more immediate than running from the shadowy figures that chased him. Right now, he simply needed to survive.

Merrill had seen terrible, terrible things with his own eyes. Ghostly whispers, and terrible, twisted beings who hunted him for what he knew. Dark shadows who could take form with taloned claw and sharp fang to rend and tear flesh from bone and heart from chest. Limping over, Merrill picked up his oaken shortbow, and shrugged his backpack onto his shoulders.

He had to survive.

Turning, he limped onwards, unable to put weight on his wounded leg.

"I am Merrill and I will live. I am Merrill and I will live. I am Merrill and I will live. I am Merrill and I will live. I am Merrill and I will live."

It became his chorus. His mantra. As he took one pained step after the next, the words became more than a litany to him. They became his only link to reality. As the hours continued to pass, and as Merrill continued to breathe and survive, the chant warded off the terrible, hallucinatory images that threatened to destroy him. Terrible, screaming banshees leapt at him from the shadows, conjured up by his own fractured mind. They looked to devour his heart, destroy his soul.

Finally the vegetation and the foliage began to recede. Finally, was this never-ending nightmare due to end?

Merrill came forth. He came forth into the light of the sun, beating down on him. Sun. Finally, was this terrible nightmare about to end?

The road angled down gently, leading to a collection of simple thatched huts. It was no more than a dwelling, yet to Merrill’s tortured eyes, it was the most beautiful sight imaginable. Limping slowly to the collection of thatched huts, Merrill saw the people going about their daily business, blissfully unaware of the fact that their lives were about to be turned upside down. They turned to regard him with widened eyes.

He held out a shaking hand, and his whispered voice carried forth, "Help......me....."

He could not see who it was he has asked. His grasping hand reached out to them, and then he collapsed, unconscious to the floor.

The Genesis of Ansolera (Guardian Angel Haruki / Marrakt)

Life in Edhel was a simple one. It had been countless centuries since the days of the powerful sorcerors who had founded the village. In those days, Edhel was a small, but prosperous community of farmers.

Most of the villagers had never travelled beyond the borders of Edhel. Had they, they would have seen relics of a world long gone. Another time, another age. Rusted, metallic skeletons embedded into the soiled earth. Their painted majesty providing a vision of an age of flying machines and deadly weapons. These relics were dotted around the landscape, providing a picture into a world that once was, but could never be again.

These days, this new Edhel was build on the skeletal ruins of the old one. A village of hard working people with one Inn, Edhel was a gathering of hard working farmer folk.

The sorcerors were long gone, and their lineage was now reviled. History had been revised and altered. Where once they were a line of heroes and their courage the thing of legend, things had changed. In these dark times, sorcerors and, indeed, all magic wielding folk were seen as cowardly, villainous, power-hungry despots. Twisted creatures of darkness who had struck out to conquer the world. This revisionism triggered by their association with the thing that had come to lay waste to most of the known world.

Magic.

Once, a number of centuries ago, wielders of magic walked the lands openly. Divine and Arcane magic alike was used to make the world a better place. But over the roll of years though, something happened. It started as a strange, subtle twisting of the magic. When a wizard used their ability to create light, for example, the light was tainted by dark shadows, flickering and burning in the air. That subtle manifestation gradually expanded, until the magic was twisted and altered in ways beyond the wielders control. This random, bizarre manifestation led to magic and magic wielders being barred from the major cities across the land.

Then, one day, the Plague appeared.

It began through use of magic, spreading from wielder to the next. It twisted their physical bodies as it had their magic, destroying their humanity. What began as a plague carried by magic wielders quickly spread through the rest of civilisation. Despite every possible effort, there was no containing it. In a matter of months, humanity had been devastated, and the twisted, dead bodies of the plague's victims lay broken and rotting across the land. Civilisation was reduced to ash and dust. Those that survived the effects of the plague were twisted into hideous mutants. Their minds shattered, they were reduced to base, murderous killers. They scavenged the ruined wastelands in search of victims to feed their insatiable bloodlust.

Ansolera was dying.

Over the two centuries since, small pockets of civilisation sprung up once more. The survivors of the apocalypse coming together to try and rebuild some small semblance of the lives that they once had.

Dark Streets - Urban Fantasy Noir

Hi everyone - hope I’m not too late to apply for this. I’ve added a character concept below for consideration :).

Name: Kayla-Elle
Character Concept: Blind Oracle with the limited ability of foresight
Trouble: There are certain less savoury individuals hunting me. They would use my abilities for their own nefarious needs.

Appearance

Scene

She heard the voices of those around her. Not for the first time, Kayla-Elle wished that she could still see..... To be able to put faces to the sweet voices that she could hear, such a thing meant the world to her, and she would have given up the world for it....the world of darkness and dancing shadows that she permanently lived in.

An explosion of sound.....shouting, screaming. The world had deteriorated into images of blurred chaos. There were sirens.....sirens flashing with the blue and red neon lights.....lights that she could not see except for the images in her minds eye.

“Step back Miss,” a voice pierced the chaotic maelstrom.

”There has been a murder,” the male voice, belonging to someone she could not see advised.

Kayla-Elle smiled, the expression appearing across her lightly tanned skin.

She knew — she knew what had happened. It was why she was here. They had shown her. The angels in her dreams. They showed her a creature...a creature of violence, of blood and of death. It had torn out the throat of the poor man who even now lay crumpled on the concrete path, his blood staining the floor a vivid colour of red painted against black and white images - irrevocably etched against the terrible memories she would harbour for the rest of her life.

Such was her “gift”. The gift to see things that no one else could. The sight that had replaced her own.

Often, Kayla-Elle felt herself float, up in the air. She often had dreams.....dreams of flying high up in the sky and looking down on the world below her. Her dreams were a blessed balm to her, a relief that waking life could not give her. It was only in the depths of her imagination now that she could truly see, people, places, colours. She often dreamed of the people she spoke to, the only relief to the prison of darkness that sightlessness provided.

It was when she floated through the air that she “saw” the visions that the angels provided her — images of the victims death. First and foremost was the acrid smell of smoke, and of fire. Death hung in the air, death and blood. She could hear the screams of the dying man.

Here....here she was needed. Here, she felt whole.

”I must pass. I am sorry. It is the only way,” she said, passing by the man as if he was nothing but a ghost.

Which to her, he was nothing more than another faceless shadow.

Feet touched the blood-soaked floor, and Kayla-Elle stood, an angel herself amidst the dark touch of death.

”I’m sorry,” she said softly as she knelt.

She touched the wound, feeling the blood with her fingertips, and she whispered to the angels.

”Show me who.....where,” she whispered softly.

And they came. A cacophony of images.....images of terrible violence, of blood and of death. She saw a ruined apartment, of a man lying in his bed, holding his head in his hands. He moaned softly even as he writhed and twisted, jerking his body violently to one side as he convulsed.

It was not the end. It was only the beginning.

Shuddering, Kayla-Elle let out a small sob at the violent images. A hand on her shoulder interrupted her.

”Miss, you need to go.”

The voice was firmer, more insistent. Kayla-Elle stood, nodding her head slowly as she turned to leave.

She had what she needed to know.

The Heart of the Rebellion - a Cinematic Space Opera (Marrakt / Penny)

The flash of neon light was dazzling. However, for Arran, the rapid, yet brief explosions of bright turquoise light were nothing more than an inconsequence. As was the heady smell of smoke and crushed opium that permeated the atmosphere in this place.

Turquoise was not the only colour that punctuated the dark, smoky ambience that the club sought to achieve. Its low-budget, fluorescent tubes passed for the most basic of lighting within the buildings cavernous interior. Periodically, explosions of yellow, orange, red and purple emanated from the dance floor to leave painful, garish silhouettes tattooed across Arran’s vision.

Synthesised, metallic beats that passed for music assaulted his ears. Techno Rock they called it. The club itself was known as “The Schooner”, and it was situated right in the heart of the Station Eternity.

Grunting in displeasure, Arran shook his head, his silvery brown locks jostling from the movement. Nursing a glass of something liquids in his right hand, he lifted it up to take a small swig as he slammed the glass back down on the back trestle table on which he sat.

Wiping his mouth with his hand, Arran glanced over to the side. Not too far away, in the corner of the level he sat on, there was what appeared to be a slip of a girl, notable with the shock of lavender hair on her head tied back in a ponytail. She appeared to be working on one of the speakers situated at the side, one that wasn’t pumping out more of the horrible music.

On the level below them, occasionally punctuated by flashes of neon light, shadowy forms could be seen silhouetted against the dance floor, waving their arms in typically uncoordinated movements, looking for all the words like the proverbial tin full of sardines.

Arran noticed a burly fellow with a mohawk glaring at him from across the other side of the table at him.

He sighed. He wasn’t sure if it was the garish attire he wore. The long, red trenchcoat he typically wore on nights out tended to net him all sorts of unwanted attention. But then, there was a darker part of him that revelled in the attention and the violence. Arran was many things....a random, unpredictable source of chaos.

He snorted at the intrusive fellow, "Look, if you don’t put your eyes back in where they belong, I’ll ram my size ten right up your backside so hard it’ll be coming out of your nose."

There was a wide variety of people’s teeming inside the Schooner tonight, and the atmosphere was ripe for violence. Apart from the rough looking individuals sitting in a group just opposite the two (of which Mohawk Man was only one), there were representatives from all sorts of races around. There was an illithari dancing on the floor, its tentacles flopping up and down from the side of its face and chin. On the podiums, dancing within two cages elevated from the central, sparkling dance floor were two miniature, green-skinned ladies.

Goblynne’s.

Sitting just further up from him, sniffing as he drank a particularly vile-looking steaming green brew was a fellow with a horse’s head.

A G’nool.

Violence was in the air, he could smell it. And whether it be the rough looking group that continued to glare at him or not, it was only a matter of time before the alcohol took its toll and the place erupted in a brawl.

The Heart of the Rebellion - a Cinematic Space Opera (Marrakt / Penny)

Name: Arran Valornor
Age: 21
Occupation: Con Artist

What was that? You think I’m stealing from you? Don’t be daft - hey what’s that behind you? Duck!

Appearance

Fairly unremarkable in size, Arran tends to melt into the shadows, and that is just the way that he likes it. Standing at a shade over 5’8”, Arran is average in height and slim in frame.

Silver-brown hair and brown eyes frame a face that wears an easy smile on it — all the better to lull his victims into a false sense of security.

His hair is parted at the center and goes down to the nape of his neck.

Indeed, Arran’s appearance is all part of the package and appearance that he wishes people to see. Everything has its place, and everything has its purpose, and for him, he would not have it any other way.

His dark eyes are full of light and promise. When one looks into them, they see the promise of adventure and a life they could not possibly imagine. They see a doorway leading into another world, a world that while, perhaps wild and dangerous, is one of excitement and infinite possibilities

Personality

Arran looks like he lives life on the edge, and his actions fully back that image. He is a wild thrillseeker who looks to live life to its fullest. In doing so, Arran doesn’t give a damn who he annoys. All those stuffy, fuddy-duddy boring muppets, they stand in his way.

Arran lives life solely for the moment. He tends to not get bogged down in inconsequential matters like possible long-term consequences of his actions. Life is for living and damned if he isn’t going to enjoy every goddam moment that he possibly can. And if he goes down, fine, but damned if he isn’t going to take everyone else down with him and still come out of the other side unscathed.

Arran is a person of many admirable traits, but he is also a person of many vices. An unfortunate gambling addiction being one of them. Carrying around a set of loaded dice with him, Arran simply cannot help but challenge any random passers-by to games of chance. Being a thrillseeker, Arran is not beyond letting the dice decide his next actions for him, introducing a level of randomness and chaos that is his calling card.

Background

Arran Valornor has lived most of his life on a spaceport. Born to a wealthy family on the melting pot of Eternity Station, his family was a well-known and wealthy one. "Was" being the operative word. The Valornor family, with the exception of Arran, is no more.

They had been marked by a dark and powerful family. One dark day, assassins struck, murdering all of the Valornor family with the exception of Arran who alone survived the attack.

Arran never knew who ordered the attack, he only knew that the assassins were not as thorough in their task as they believed. The last remaining scion of the Valornor family, Arran escaped, fleeing into the shadows that consumed his family beneath a tidal wave of destruction.

There, hiding in the depths of Eternity Station with nary more than the clothes on his back he held within him a burning desire for vengeance. Fortunately, he also possessed a tongue of pure silver, a tongue that single-handedly ensured his continued survival when he otherwise would have died. Arran used that tongue to good effect, begging enough to eke out a living in the bowels of a spaceport.

Arran met his current running partner in a bar fight, where the two of them used their own particular talents to avoid a beating at the hands of several angry patrons.

For a number of years, Arran and his partner worked together complementing each other quite well as a pair of con artists. Capable of deep and elaborate scams, they left behind many victims in their wake. The two of them were not only earning enough from their shady lifestyle, they were living comfortable lives, being able to afford good clothes and possessing enough money to rent a (fairly shabby) apartment.

As things are wont to do though — they would soon change.

The Heart of the Rebellion - a Cinematic Space Opera (Marrakt / Penny)

Station Eternity.

Home to millions, the starport was a melting pot of different cultures and species. The year was 2478. Two hundred years ago technological advancement made it possible for humanity to reached out and begin to colonise the solar system. They advanced both further and faster than they had ever thought possible.

Reaching out beyond the solar system and the galaxy that contained Earth, it was not long before humankind started to discover that there were, in fact, other species inhabiting the universe. Contact was made, treaties were signed, and soon humanity was a member of the newly formed Galactic Coalition alongside the other founder members of that organisation.

The Daxalorn. Hailing from the home planet of Chenta, the Daxalorn are a race of venomous amphibians governed by a military dictatorship. Their home-world experiences extremes of temperature due to a highly elliptical orbit. They grow thick coats of fur in the winter months but shed them in the spring.

The Qeefassians, from Agrals 3. A race of scientists with large resonating chambers on the front of their heads, through which they speak and blue skin. TThe Qeefassians are very philosophical as a species.

The Piradians, hailing from Cardalia. A race of feathered humanoid aliens who have bony heads and three horns on the top of them. Their home-world is said to be a lush jungle paradise of sweltering heat.

The Isragarn. From the planet Bespeon, this race of pessimistic hermaphrodites speak a complex gestural language. Their ability to construct biological machines and use living spaceships are rivalled by none. Their claws are strong enough to open a can of peaches, which are, coincidentally, their favourite fruit.

Finally, the last of the council members, the Dochassons. Hailing from Agrabvinia 4, this race of proto-mammals use song to communicate. Their ships are enormous, with crews of several thousand individuals.

These six species, although forming the basis of the coalition, were by no means the only species aboard the Eternity. Home to countless species and countless millions, it was the place where the Galactic Coalition convened to discuss matters relating to the universe and make decisions on said matters. It was the central hub of trade between the species of the universe and was generally seen to be a forward thinking cosmopolitan space and trade hub.

Trade and crafts within Station Eternity was controlled by a collection of Guilds who oversaw the trade and commerce side of the station. Typically, any would-be entrepreneur had to purchase a license to be able to conduct their trade within the Station from the appropriate Guild. The original thinking behind it was that it would prevent any old riff-raff from setting up shop on the Station and that the craftsmen who did ply their trade would be competent at their profession. In practice, however, what it generated was a level of elitism on the station. To survive and prosper and make your trade, you had to have money, and you had to continue to make money in order to renew your license.

This, in turn, led to a division on Station Eternity. A division between the haves and the have-nots. And if you fell on the wrong side of the divide, all you have to look forward to was poverty and an uncertain existence with a fight for survival. Those unfortunates were often gathered in the slums, situated in the bowels of the station. Here petty crime, beatings and murders were rife. The executives and the security force of the station did not have the time or manpower to spare for beings they deemed as inconsequential.

Deeper still, Station Eternity had its seedy side. Stories of the brawls and murders in its innumerable bars were legendary, spreading all across the multiverse along with tales of the corruption that was said to lay at the stations heart. Rumours of organised gangs and triads based from within Station Eternity were rife, despite the Coalitions attempt to root out malcontents from within its depths. Some of the more vicious rumours in fact stated that the coalition members encouraged the more illicit activities occurring within the station, using the various gangs and factions as chess pieces on a board against the other species.

Whatever the truth of the tales, Station Eternity was certainly as dangerous as it was liberating.

And it was here, within Station Eternity that a tale of its own was beginning to unfold. A tale involving two friends who were soon to find themselves caught up in circumstances that would quickly spiral out of their control and ability to control......

The Heart of Decay

Added a few more details and tidied up the original post. Please post interest only below.

Marrakts Repository

Name: Kayla-Elle
Character Concept: Blind Oracle with the limited ability of foresight
Trouble: There are certain less savoury individuals hunting me. They would use my abilities for their own nefarious needs.

Scene

She heard the voices of those around her. Not for the first time, Kayla-Elle wished that she could still see..... To be able to put faces to the sweet voices that she could hear, such a thing meant the world to her, and she would have given up the world for it....the world of darkness and dancing shadows that she permanently lived in.

An explosion of sound.....shouting, screaming. The world had deteriorated into images of blurred chaos. There were sirens.....sirens flashing with the blue and red neon lights.....lights that she could not see except for the images in her minds eye.

“Step back Miss,” a voice pierced the chaotic maelstrom.

”There has been a murder,” the male voice, belonging to someone she could not see advised.

Kayla-Elle smiled, the expression appearing across her lightly tanned skin.

She knew — she knew what had happened. It was why she was here. They had shown her. The angels in her dreams. They showed her a creature...a creature of violence, of blood and of death. It had torn out the throat of the poor man who even now lay crumpled on the concrete path, his blood staining the floor a vivid colour of red painted against black and white images - irrevocably etched against the terrible memories she would harbour for the rest of her life.

Such was her “gift”. The gift to see things that no one else could. The sight that had replaced her own.

Often, Kayla-Elle felt herself float, up in the air. She often had dreams.....dreams of flying high up in the sky and looking down on the world below her. Her dreams were a blessed balm to her, a relief that waking life could not give her. It was only in the depths of her imagination now that she could truly see, people, places, colours. She often dreamed of the people she spoke to, the only relief to the prison of darkness that sightlessness provided.

It was when she floated through the air that she “saw” the visions that the angels provided her — images of the victims death. First and foremost was the acrid smell of smoke, and of fire. Death hung in the air, death and blood. She could hear the screams of the dying man.

Here....here she was needed. Here, she felt whole.

”I must pass. I am sorry. It is the only way,” she said, passing by the man as if he was nothing but a ghost.

Which to her, he was nothing more than another faceless shadow.

Feet touched the blood-soaked floor, and Kayla-Elle stood, an angel herself amidst the dark touch of death.

”I’m sorry,” she said softly as she knelt.

She touched the wound, feeling the blood with her fingertips, and she whispered to the angels.

”Show me who.....where,” she whispered softly.

And they came. A cacophony of images.....images of terrible violence, of blood and of death. She saw a ruined apartment, of a man lying in his bed, holding his head in his hands. He moaned softly even as he writhed and twisted, jerking his body violently to one side as he convulsed.

It was not the end. It was only the beginning.

Shuddering, Kayla-Elle let out a small sob at the violent images. A hand on her shoulder interrupted her.

”Miss, you need to go.”

The voice was firmer, more insistent. Kayla-Elle stood, nodding her head slowly as she turned to leave.

She had what she needed to know.