Prologue

"When you look into the hearts of those who carved the way for that which we paint as righteous and just, and those who gripped empire's tightly in their iron fists of tyranny, there is only one difference. One is unfettered and the other is fettered, but both are psychopaths."

So very much can happen in a single moment. Children break the final threshold and are officially considered to have been born in a single moment. Somebody expels their final breath in that same moment. A man shakes the hand of a powerful benefactor sealing a deal that will ultimately spell his doom, and that too, takes place in a single moment. And it is in that moment that Alarid Ravan signed his name into the Dead-Book.

Perhaps he had not literally taken a quill and been so blunt as to pen his signature, but he had done something which would ensure it would be done in a short time. How short depended upon a variety of things. If he was smart enough to evade the Harmonium and the Mercykillers being high on that list. Something which he normally considered to be something even a Clueless could do, but apparently he was not as smart as he thought.

That became abundantly evident when he stared down at the man. The man who was struggling to get just one more breath. But they both knew that it wasn't going to happen. The blood draining from his carotid and jugular was gushing as a river after a flood; his lungs were beginning to fill with liquid. A liquid of near-black and brilliant red coalescing as it slid into the open wound. There was something-beautiful-about it. Something strangely sublime..

It wasn't simply beautiful though. It was more than that. It was a primal painting using the truest of all paints, blood. His body was little more than a canvas which when cut allowed the painting to emerge from within. Something majestic. No, not majestic; this was divine.

Alarid was lost in what he could only describe as a mural in the making. He took pleasure when he did that. It was an instinctual, knee-jerk reaction and what had come of it? Something amazing. Something grand. Something not belonging of this world, but trapped within it. Oh the feeling of sweet exaltation when he saw it.

The silver hair in front of his eyes was brushed aside so that he could truly see the face of the dying man. He wanted to visualize this face; he wanted to never forget it. The cause of such sublime exaltation. "This isn't what you are, Alarid," his mind jolted in response to the surge of emotion. "You are too much like him; this is what he would do."

His eyes focused on the man who was struggling to push himself up. Alarid just shook his head and let out a sad sigh. This man truly believed he had a fighting chance. That he would survive this. At least, that was how he was acting. Such tenacity, such perseverance, and it would not matter. The Berk would die. His name unremembered and his only legacy would be the fact that his death would bring the Tiefling's. Such a disappointing life this man had lived, at least, that was how Alarid saw it.

Ravan stomped on the man's back, pressing him into the ground. He knelt closer and grabbed the man's thick mane of black hair and pressed his face into the pool of blood growing on the alley ground. In a single moment, that man's life was ended. In that moment, the Tiefling's dagger that had cut this man's throat found the base of the skull and plunged inward directly into the brain stem. The Basher was dead.

The Tiefling slowly withdrew the stiletto and stared at the hole. Blood seeped out and ran down the curvature of his skull in tiny streams. Tiny, red streams. Painting yet another picture, but this one not quite the same.

This mural told of a Deader. A man who would never breathe another mouthful of the Foundry's smog, nor would he ever feel the tickle of a sword glancing his side. He would never feel the embrace of a loved one again, nor would he enjoy another glass of Arborean Wine. No, this would never know any of those things again. That was what being dead was. The end of existence mattering.

Alarid rose to his feet and stared for a long time. He watched as the blood dried and encrusted on the armor. There was no sense of victory, no sense of triumph; there was only a somber feeling on his mind. A feeling that it could have been him if the Berk had drawn his blade instead of slammed him against that wall. It could have been. It should have been. But it was not. And in the end, that was all that mattered. That it was not. For even if the greatest empires of Primes should've conquered the Planes in all their entirety, they did not. And that is all that matters. It would always be all that matters too.

He brushed the stiletto's blade against his pants. The linen trousers were covered in a plethora of stains. So many so that the original color was a mystery even to him. He slid the blade back into the small leather sheath at his belt and walked away. His foot steps slow as to not give the appearance of going anywhere. Yes, that was the idea. He wasn't going anywhere. Just another lie to add to the web he had spun already.

In reality, he knew exactly where he was going. The Tavern of the Last Hope. It would be there where he could find him-Galter. Galter knew Sigil like the back of his hand and knew where all the important portals were. And that is exactly what Alarid needed. A portal that would lead him to the Prime, or anywhere not of the Lower Planes really. That is exactly what he needed.

His stomach seemed to knot as he heard it. The gentle screech of metal plates screeching against one another. "Hardheads," Ravan thought as the color drained from his face. "And where there's one, there will always be more."

The cadence to which he stepped seemed to speed up. Every stride farther and the frequency between the strides grew faster. Sigil was a city of doors and he was vehemently working on finding the one he cared about most at this moment. The one which Galter was behind. That was all that mattered at this moment. And it was upon reaching this door that all else rested upon. Everything. At least everything which the Tiefling cared about. He had to get to the Tavern of the Last Hope. He simply had to.