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[Nerjin]

"Give me a moment to ponder.” was Sacha’s only reply as she gazed deep into the… canvas.

’Hm… That’s a city I haven’t seen in a long time. This is quite the parlor trick. Home… Hmph…’

Sacha spent several moments pondering exactly how she wanted to be portrayed in the painting. An imposing figure. Inviting. She thought of the painting of nobility that she had sometimes seen during her travels.

She pictured herself as regal as them. Placed far above the undeserving masses... and yet… Something about the canvas made her think of another memory. Back in her home city of Clyddesdale.

She recalled the times when her father and mother would spend the nights yelling at eachother. Blaming their misery on the other as well as the brat that neither of them wanted. She thought of how they had been distant, at best, and absent more often than not.

She remembered sniveling in the darkness of night as she asked, pleaded, the gods to take her away. To make mother and father stop yelling every night. She remembered slowly learning that people saw what they wanted to see. Of how she began mimicking the entertainers, the priests, and the common man.

She recalled the first taste of adoration. A small group of children gathered around the teenager as she wove stories about the sunlight warrior defeating the fallen god with the help of the chosen. As they clamored for more she was swept up in the taste of adoration. She needed more. She did whatever it took for more. Of how it became more about attaching the stories to herself than it was about the crowd.

How, deep inside, it was never about being placed on a pedestal. It was about being loved and if the only way to do that was to manipulate people… She couldn’t be blamed. They would do the same to her. Her mother and father were proof of that.

Thoughts and feelings that had been hidden away for… an unknown amount of time rushed to the surface all parroting the same train of thought. Unbidden; Sacha found herself speaking.

"I am ready.”

[Dwarmin]

The Artist nodded.

Iris was pleasantly surprised to find Sacha still had a fairly strong imagination and sense of self. Iris had, at times, had to sacrifice small parts of herself to finish the working. She wouldn't have to do so here...as the connection between them improved, helped in no small part by the meditative effect the canvas induced, Iris began to see a rough outline of Sacha appear on her side...without context, color, or dimension, this figure was (to most observers) uniquely horrifying. A skeleton wrapped in shadows. It was a fragment of a spirit without thought or will, only instinct and desire. Little different than a hollow was, in fact. Her job was to take this fragment and make it in something beautiful...something she had mastered long ago...the final work would be no mere facsimile or mimicry, it would be a true piece of Sacha, through and through-it was much like a cache of rubies could be chipped from the depths of the Earth, brought up to the light, cleaned, polished, cut, and fashioned into a beautiful necklace.

Her delicate hands went into a blur of motion upon the canvas as she added color and life-the light on her hands trailing away in embers and sparks. Her movements were graceful and measured, an artwork in themselves, if you thought her a dancer.

In but ten minutes, Iris had finished. Exactly ten minutes by the second, a mark of her expertise that had neither slowed nor diminished, even in these times.

...

With a snap, the front of the easel quite literally burst into flames-though flames without heat. When the heat and light faded away, what was left was a simple sheet of parchment. Iris fashioned the shape of the magical easel around the finished work as a scroll-case, now resembling the item she had pulled from her belt earlier. With a final touch of her hand, she sealed it, whereby it turned back into a tube of hardened material resembling wood, though it was not. Interestingly, the seal itself seems to still be made of the same light/dark magic that formed the easel-the icon adorning the seal would have meant something to Sacha...just like the picture would be her true self, in every small detail.

"A brilliant working..." Iris said, promptly handing the tube to Sacha.

Her next words had an air of old and much loved formality.

"I now verify this Working is done. I have done the best a humble artist can, and so I now present it to you. It is your own true self, and all those who gaze upon it will know you for who you really are. This I vow, before the one pantheon of True Gods. Be careful who you show it to.

I hope my Working brings you peace and happiness, and a greater understanding of yourself."

The part about being careful who you showed it to was often ignored, but it had been an important part of Irises order that absolute privacy had to be offered. No one but the subject could be the first to look upon the finished work, for there was nothing more private or sacred than a living soul. What they did with it afterwards, of course, was up to them...and of course, the last part was not always guaranteed. Looking into your own self could be shocking, to put it lightly. There was no guarantee of happiness, peace, or understanding. Often the best workings could only begin to put you on that road.

[SeriousConcentrate]

"I've found that to be the case with military men. Discipline keeps you alive, but it makes for poor conversation..." She said, nodding to herself.

"That's a better answer than I can come up with, so I suppose you must be right, miss Baker."

"I just have a hard time seeing you as the type to send young men to their deaths while trying to have innocent women like me burned alive at the stake. To me you seem more a fighter than a military man."

"Hard to picture or not, that is exactly what I did. I was right there beside them, fighting my best as well, but I couldn't save them all. The seventeenth unit was... bolstered once or twice before Karthmere."

"Mir as a country preferred branding a mark of shame on an offender's neck for certain crimes over burning at the stake, but I certainly didn't harm any young women. I was raised to be a little better than that, taught to be a little better than that."

Sacha briefly leaned in to whisper the next part.

"As for the luck with women... You just lack the rugged charm our dear Captain brings to the table, eh Pretty Boy?"

"I suppose as a woman you would have a better idea about it than me..."

-Iris prepares to paint-

For some, the canvas may have been alluring, but based on what Iris said, it was not a thing Ariston wanted any part of. The idea that this woman had magic that allowed her to see in one's soul and see who they really were... that frightened him. His armor was more than just the metal that protected his flesh from harm; it was his shell that kept the world... outside. It kept him safe. He could even hide his face, his emotions and thoughts, simply by putting on his helmet... and no one would question why he was wearing it. The armor of a Mir general had put a comfortable amount of distance between himself and his men, had created a small divide of jealousy between himself and Damon. Space he hadn't wanted, but had needed.

There were thoughts and emotions and memories that were all his own. He couldn't bear the idea of a stranger rummaging around his head like a thief in someone's basement, wandering to and fro as they pleased and taking or looking at whatever they pleased. More to the point, he didn't want to see what he knew the canvas would show him if Iris took his portrait. It was bad enough he saw their faces; if other people saw the desperation, the hope they had held that their leader would get them out replaced with resentment over their fate...

No. He hadn't been able to face it himself. He hadn't starved to death as he had told Damon, when his friend first awoke as an undead and asked what had gotten him. The truth was he had died first among them, plunging his own dagger into his heart. Supposedly it was the honorable thing to do, to apologize with one's life, but he couldn't handle the guilt and the responsibility. It had been the easy way out, and his punishment had been life eternal in the dark confines of Karthmere.

It was what he deserved. He had never questioned it when he found himself in that cell again; it was his hell and he accepted that responsibility. But he wasn't sure why Damon had become undead as well. Was that part of his punishment? Were the gods really so intent on making him suffer that they would condemn his best friend too, just so he had to watch him also slowly descend into a mindless lunacy? Perhaps. Maybe they had found Damon complicit as well. Hard to say. But this had to be their second chance. Their last shot at redemption. Why else had they been allowed out of Karthmere, but to journey to Truskhang? That was why he had to believe the gods were here; why, in fact, his spirits had been so lifted recently. Lady Sarinna had all but confirmed their journey was not in vain.

Perhaps all undead sought redemption. He couldn't think of what could have happened to the rest of the team that they might need it, but it wasn't his place to ask. It was enough they were all here with the same objective.

[Dwarmin]

~

[Nerjin]

"I now verify this Working is done. I have done the best a humble artist can, and so I now present it to you. It is your own true self, and all those who gaze upon it will know you for who you really are. This I vow, before the one pantheon of True Gods. Be careful who you show it to.

I hope my Working brings you peace and happiness, and a greater understanding of yourself."

"I'll keep that in mind." Sacha replied as she took the working from Iris. She had to say she was a bit skeptical about this 'inner self' concept but still... She wished to see how the arcane would view her. Opening it up she gazed upon the Working.

Spoiler: The Working (click to show/hide)

The figure in the portrait is a small, red haired child with a direct gaze, sitting in a feral crouch. She's reclusive and underfed, and by the look of her, she's hiding under a table-away from the light. Something in that light scares her-she often looks back, nervously, or tries to stop her ears, or hugs herself. Gathered all around her feet are icons-small statuettes depicting the glorious forms of the Gods. Cracked, misshapen, insubstantial, and discarded. They lay strewn about as if she has smashed them in a fit of rage. Most of them are covered in thick dust. One last broken figure lies further away than even the godly totems. A small soldier with a slim sword in hand.

Several icons, of more recent make, lay arranged before her like a protective army: Two knights, one of shining silver with a lance and the other of some obscure metal which appears, for all its human features, as a sturdy wall.

Three of these figures are women. One, a sharp and dangerous toy, carries naught but a book though a sheathe for a dagger rests prominently upon its belt. One appears to be an archer of sort though it is more obscure than any of the others. Lastly,  a small nun appearing for all the world a stern companion to the others.

Most of these figures rest at arms length though the silver knight appears to be just within reach.

At the moment, the young girl is holding a single hand out, a string of beads covering some mark upon her wrist, for you to take it-her need, her want, is obvious. The desperate need of any abandoned child.

"I... This is..." Sacha's eyes flickered from point to point within the scene. Seemingly unable to focus on any one portion of the Working.

"I was... I was never hungry as a child. This..." but even as she said it she got the feeling that a physical hunger wasn't what she was looking at. She remembered, so deeply hidden away, her childhood in which she desperately clung to any scrap of affection. Of any sliver of... something. She had no word for what the child... for what she sought. But the child within needed it desperately. She nearly wanted to reach within and comfort the child.

The figurines confused her greatly. She knew who they were. But why, of all of them, was Damon's so close? Of such a fine metal? She wondered if this was truly a reflection of her soul... She feared this item more than any monster they had seen thus far. It had to be destroyed and yet... she couldn't bring herself to do anything more than, carefully, replace it into its tube. As tenderly as if she held a baby Sacha held it gently.

Just what was this woman capable of?

Yet... She was curious. Would she be a well perceived within Damon's? What of the others. A twinge of hunger, long suppressed, coursed through her. Starvation of some key nutrient that she had long forgotten she needed.

"This is... You are astounding in both beauty and talent. I... Thank you." The words rang hollow even to Sacha's ears. Her shock, her confusion, and her unrelenting hunger... all the things she could find no words for were obvious in her tone.

[Dwarmin]

Iris nodded, pleased. Very pleased. It had been awhile since anyone had appreciated her art...

"That's generally the sort of reaction I'm aiming for. I am happy to have served you...and my offer extends, if you ever have need of my services again. Your soul is a mansion with many rooms, after all. This is only the first one." She said, stepping away. It was important to allow the subject time to absorb what they had learned without interruption.

...

She thought.

In Iris's day, few had dared to go much further than depicting themselves riding a horse and swinging a sword at foes-often such astounding lies towards their true characters, that she had spent a week sick-recovering from the strain of forcing the Working to completion. She had a rare few, however, who had contracted her services other an extended period of time-learning who they really were, healing their pain, finding a measure of peace-each Working allowing them to see a different facet of themselves, though it was a given that the first working was the strongest and most true of their own personalities. Some were successful...others not. Fire could seal a wound from infection, or it could consume the body whole.

She wondered if Sacha would be one of them.

[GiglameshDespair]

He nods and marches off in the direction Ariston had indicated without another word.

Much as Ariston said, a hammock is slung in one of the ruined houses, next to a thick pile of sacks and wooden boxes. As he reaches for it, however... a voice speaks out.
"Dere's a charge fer sleepin' in dat, yer know."
A woman in ragged clothes, a skull of some beast on her head, is leaning against the wall. You didn't hear or see her when you came in - it's as if she appeared out of the air.
"Yer mate was sniffin' 'bout 'ere earlier. Course a customer would come when I was out der shop..."
"But dat's neither 'ere nor dere! Welcome ter Shilleka's Shop! Was' yer name, tinpot?"



----

Yilda followed close behind Ariston. "Are you certain? That the secret to undoing our curse lies in these lands?"

The firekeeper finally nodded serenely, glancing at Yilda.
"It is certain. Thy shalt find thy salvation in these lands, shouldst thou have the will and strength to strive for it."
She folded her hands in front of her, speaking to the remaining group at large.
"When you are ready, I shall speak to you of your purpose in these lands; I will answer any questions you hold to the best of mine ability, shouldst thee ask now."

[SOLDIER First]

"You can't be serious. It's a hammock. What, is this some sort of inn?"

"...my name is Damon, miss. Damon Sourdeval."

Of course he wouldn't admit it to anyone, but the sheer amount of women they seemed to be encountering in Trushkang was beginning to worry Damon, in more ways than one.

[GiglameshDespair]

"Supply an' deman', my frien'! But..." she smoothly changes gears. "Iffn yer wanna spen' yer 'ard-earned souls on summin' else dan a kip, I got me inventory. Magic an' metal, repairs an' sometime other t'ings."
"Feel free ter spen', since 'oo knows when yer gonna meet a gristly en'?"

[SOLDIER First]

"...pleasant. Sure, I'll have a look."

[Blade Master Model 42]

"What do we have to do? I'm prepared to do anything within my power."

[Dwarmin]

"...Indeed, let's go shopping. I believe our fates...our spirits...are linked now, so I trust there is no objections.

I used to love shopping with my friends." She said evenly, appearing silently by Damons side. She had followed him as the shopkeeper appeared...

Indeed, the momentary void in the spiritual link shared by the group (such as it was) left by the weak ember that was Typhos, had already been replaced with Iris, a far stronger flame, one that cast a complex weave of both darkness and light. She would share what she had.

...

Iris felt an odd, momentary urge to take Damon's hand in her own, but shook it off. It was something she would have done in her old life, maybe with someone she liked or trusted...it made no sense.

Perhaps it was merely an echo of something she would do?

...

Still, Iris found herself lightening up as she felt the connection between her and the group grow steadily stronger. Each flame a different sort of warmth....each scent with it's own rich complexity...it was a good feeling...being alive.

"I do hope she has shoes for sale..." Iris commented happily. The Artist didn't lack for shoes, but she made a habit of collecting good pairs. One must always stay fashionable, especially if you were the last fashionable person left on Earth.

[SOLDIER First]

Damon jumps a good foot and a half into the air, whirling around and brandishing his lance in the same motion. He relaxes only slightly when he sees who it is.

"Unless you wish for me to impale you quite brutally with this lance, do not do that again."

[Dwarmin]

"As if you could really hit me. Has anyone ever told you that you're very jumpy for a Captain? I thought all soldiers had nerves of steel. Calm and composed in all situations." She said, her amusement obvious.

"Good reflexes, anyway. Though, poor choice of weapon. Wouldn't a spear be much more logical? A spear is designed for repeated thrusting blows, while a lance is designed to use the momentum provided by a mounted rider for a single powerful stab. You seem to lack anything to ride." She said, as if reciting lines from a book she had read. As if anything made sense in this world.

[SOLDIER First]

"Awake and alert beat out calm and collected. I'd have died several times over in war if not for that. And no, I think you'll find my weapon quite effective on foot. Not every lance is for cavalry, miss."