[NoR] - Epilogue

Sweet cinnamon wafts in through the open window, a blessing from the local Basilica censers. Humming an absentminded melody, Myra takes a large whiff, the brief images of the Inquisitor bringing a rosy glow to her face. She pulls her hair back and winds it into a loose bun, clipping an ornate headpiece over top. Deftly she prepares her pigments, accentuating the already sumptuous curves of her lips and eyes. She paints a shadow of frosty blue, fading into a crisp white at the edges. After a moment of losing herself within her reflection she replaces the minerals, taking up a small pot of gloss instead. A small brush is placed next to the pot. She picks it up and dips it gently within the gloss, painting the product smoothly over her succulent lips. She presses together to even the coverage, smirking once more at her reflection.

Taken from the Journal of Razel Korr, Planeswalker;

I did something necessary today. I did several necessary things. It seems everything I do now is necessary for something. I’m doubting the falsity of my previous joke about an omnipotent prick leading me through woe.

Myra runs a hand along her neck, tracing the chain suspending a small golden key just before tucking it into her pronounced bosom. The corset is a slightly darker shade than the eye shadow, while the trim is an alabaster lace. Her skirt splits at the hip, intensifying from the royal blue of the corset to indigo to a solid black while it cascades to her ankles. She smiles as the glacial tones of her ensemble catch her eye. Traditional Azorius colors, after all. Cobalt and Diamond.

Everything was set for me to enjoy. Prepared. Waiting. Except for the inevitable failure and destruction. I’m amazed anyone even considers associating with me, mortality immaterial.

Myra blushes at her attire, not used to the finer side of fashion. She reaches for a dusty Perfume bottle, spritzing a subtle vanilla. Intentions beyond a single night of pleasure were evident in her mannerisms. The Justicar could not think of an occasion prior wherein she had cared enough to use half of the things that rested on her vanity. Idly she flexed her toes against the cool floor, picturing her new shoes waiting beside the door and dismissing care for the inevitable ache from the tall heels.

I should never have designed that process. All magic has its associated cost, and it seems this one the highest yet. I am such a fool. My very nature places me above the mediocrity of the day to day, and yet through some unnatural compulsion I am bound to insert myself into it wherever possible. Naturally, being unnatural, the system rejects me. Always. Is misfortune simply the multiverse’s way of trying to clear an infection? Are Planeswalkers nothing more than an uncontrolled aberration that reality itself has to conspire against?

A stiff breeze whips into the room, chilling the air. She stands and walks to her window, closing it. The blue shimmer in the glass catches her eye and she spins, hand raised with an aura of retaliatory magic. The energy fades as she places the hand to her chest in recognition and relief.

I did something I try to avoid doing.

“Inquisitor, you scared me half to death!”

I tried to think of another way.

Razel looms just on the inner side of the door, the lock somehow still engaged. His hair goes every which way, and seems to have crystalline gravel embedded in it. Dark circles well at his eyes. Expressions are missing from his face, which instead is an unnaturally cold and apathetic canvas. Gashes and frayed holes litter his robe, as well as oily stains of uncertain origin. His screaming eyes bore into her from afar. Myra takes a step toward him cautiously, reaching out to her unannounced guest. Curious violet icicles grow from the frost that spreads from her fingertips as they approach. Razel tenses noticeably. She pulls her hand back in alarm, drawing a breath from him and loosening his posture.

I can’t allow it to spread…so she had to be killed.

“Inquisitor...? What has happened to you...?”

Why, then, did I hesitate? The logic was clear. The action required was clear. The gloss on her lips was... There was only one way to make sure she didn’t become a liability.

Myra’s face droops in sadness at the state of him. Her concern overwhelms any fear she may have felt initially. The pain radiating from him is literally tangible as the pit of her stomach falls into an abyss. Partially, this is due to his foot being lodged into her, and the force of the unexpected blow knocks her over. She tumbles into the wall, the inertia and her instincts bringing her into a ball. Her gut burns from the impact, while her lungs convulse and leak a trail of blood from her lips. Crimson blots the otherwise clear gloss. The click of his boots strikes at her ears. Her mind races faster than she can process. Confused despair is all she has to offer him as she looks up.

I was sloppy. Brutish. I tried to stay as neutral as possible, but the effort to maintain only made it worse. I could have made it quick. I could have saved her the pain. I failed her.

“W-what? Wh-”

The worst was her eyes. There was no fear, not initially. Only a haunting sadness and confusion. I had to keep beating her to get her away from me so I could think, try to think of any way I could stop. In the end, my abuse only horrified me more and caused me to botch this whole excursion.

Cut short, the Justicar careens through her door, launched by the back of Razel’s unnaturally fast hand. A streak of reddened gloss sticks to it after the fact. Mechanically he turns, facing the cloud of residential debris. A brilliant blue sphere envelops him, reinforced by Myra’s years trained as an agent of detention. She stands shakily, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Their garments now match, her dress decimated by the structure of the wall. Bruises are starting to build over her body. Her eyes widen as Razel simply steps through the containment, unaffected entirely. Panic seizes control as her hands project a hasty lance of sunlight, carving a crescent shaped portion from his shoulder. Crystals of ice bloom from the wound to seal it in a rejuvenative rime.

She tried to stop me. She’s far from helpless. Pity that her spells are designed to work on those who are not of my ken. She may have been able to stop me otherwise. Possibly save the multiverse from an evil greater than herself.

“Korr...stop...”

By the time I actually tried to bring it to an end, I could barely focus.

Fingers splayed, his hand reaches out to her. Unnatural force pulls her into the air, raising her up and pulling her taut. Limbs pop as they are wrenched from their sockets. Every corner of her wails in agony. Her own cries are subdued by the spell as her throat is pulled tight. With a quick response and a spark of blue, Razel’s forced stoicism sheared down the middle to crack his face like a brittle glass. She falls while he stumbles backwards and shakes his head. A rough landing reminds her of every wound she has obtained thus far. Now free from the spell, Myra finds herself incapable of anything except clumsily flopping onto her back. More eruptions of fire from within her body.

I tried to dismember her. She countered me. I broke.

Both feet find purchase on either side of her hips, the planeswalker simply appearing above her. Inexplicably his face is repaired, while the void of emotion is accented by a two frozen tears riming their way down his cheek. Hours of preparation have been undone in a matter of moments. Myra no longer looks the vision she was, nearly unrecognizable with the contortion of her legs. Razel looks down to her despondently, his eyes emptier than before.

She fell to the ground in a miserable little pile of flesh. I think I cried when I teleported above her. I could see the effort she had put into everything. The details done specifically…for me. Frozen colors dirtied by mortar and blood. I did things that I did not need to do because I am objectively weak. I should have done it from the start.

“I’m sorry.”

I apologized and meant it. I’m not sure she heard me.

“I lo-”

She almost said…something. Something impossible.

It cuts short as his foot breaks her face. Her body shatters headfirst. The shards smash into the ground, shattering and shattering until nothing is left of the Justicar but a tattered dress and a scent of meat and vanilla. Gold glimmers in the abandoned fabric and draws Razel’s eye. For long moments he stares at it. For just as long, it doesn’t register. He reaches down shakily to extract the chain and its prize before holding the curiosity in front of his eyes.

How long had she been wearing my key? How long had she spent sitting there, fawning over it, hiding it away? Why would she? Why did she even speak to me? Why does anyone speak to me?

As the lights in his mind come on and his forced apathy fades, he drops the key. Space collapses momentarily as he leaves through a fresh planar scar. A now empty room hosts the faintest echo of a cry from another world with no audience to share the lament.

I...I need a drink.