Komamisa — Roleplayer Guild

Composited image credit to Lowlight Kirilenko and 369minmin

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Given Name

Oblivion. Alternately, one might call her Songstress

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Appearance

Image credit to Hiro

Long, Raven Black hair frames a face with primarily sharp features: a pointed nose, sharp eyebrows, and an often contemplative frown or curious purse upon her lips. Her skin is smooth and pale but overall healthy beneath the grime of the darkness, and her physical features hint at a trained athleticism rather than one of experienced hardship, though examination would show that her palms and fingers are rough like one who has worked before, and a few looks upon her body would betray that she has died perhaps twice in her travels already.

Despite her morose epithet, the Oblivion Songstress’ eyes are round in contrast to her otherwise sharp features, carrying a hopeful, perseverant glow from her hazel pupils. In stature, she stands at about the height of the average male, with even proportions and a balanced poise. It appears to most observers that the wastelands have yet to break Oblivion’s spirit, as there is still a slight spring to her step, a straightness to her back and a tightness to her grip that shows she is not yet ready to resign anything further than her name to oblivion. 

Or perhaps… Perhaps she has resigned herself to oblivion and thinks this is her own personal hell of atonement.

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Equipment

Her Dress is a tattered, grimy set of layered cloth in faded blue, black, and white with golden trim. It appears that it was once quite pleasant to look at and the material that is left is of durable weave and material. There are steel fasteners at the waist and shoulders that appear to have once held plates. Perhaps armored dresses were something of a necessity where she lived? 

A single flower festooned in her hair, a white lily with gold speckles. It appears to have some significance to her as it is the cleanest item on her person. Touching it reveals that the flower is, in fact, real. How it has not withered is anyone’s guess, but is definitely the work of some kind of life preserving magic unrelated to the timelessness of this oblivion.

A leather messenger bag of fine craft, with solid stitching but little ornamentation. Within is several pieces of beef jerky that have yet to be eaten due to their absolute rarity, a folded burlap sack with blood stains just big enough to fit a beef leg… or perhaps a human head, a large flask filled with dirty water of the wastes, a flint and steel set, twine and a spool of particularly strong string and perhaps most importantly:

A leather bound tome filled with songs, hymns and chants in a foreign language. It appears to be waterproof and is singularly clean despite everything else, but Oblivion herself does not know or dare to consider if it is fireproof. 

Sheathed at her waist and fastened with a pair of chains, is a sheathed dagger. Inspection of the blade reveals it to be of magical origin as the blade is not of mortal manufacture and is made of clear crystal. It seems to hum slightly in tune with sound. 

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Memories

♦ Distance. She was alone and training was everything. Her t̶̴̤̦̭͎̰̟͈͓̗͓̮̘̬͎̖͘͟ẹ̡͓̲͙̱͎̙̹̳̹̟̰̫̕͠a̻͎͢ͅc̛̼̥̜̗̝͕͈̪̣͝͞h̶̭̥̞͖̮̝̹̫͞͞e̡̘̪̘̻̜͉̳̮͈̭̝̠̘͉͓̝̝̕͝͠ͅͅŕ̤̫̟̲͔̳̯̖̠͟s̖͈̼̠͚̙͎͕͘͞ ̵̶̷̪̯͎͎͉̘͔̠̣ͅá̡͖͇͎͉̻̼͎̤̘͇̤̯̮̫͘͘n̵̡̢̧̘͕̟̗̝̲͝d̴̘̻͓͙̮̹͎͖̘̭̱̹͔̺̫͟ͅͅ tut͢҉̨҉̬͙͇̜͚̗̘͔̻̞̟̥̱͓͕̩͙͓o͡҉̭͍̙̲̩̞̟̞̗͇̘̮̜̞̞̟r̤̯͉̘͙͡͞s̶̶̜̮̭̤ͅ ͢҉҉̡̻̞͚̥̩͘ẁ̴̗̬̯̙̭̩̣̦͚͙͚͇̩͇̲̩̕͜͞e̶̡̳̞̱͉̝̖͡r̵̶̢̛̯̤̗͔̱̺̼̳̜̭̝̝͖̟̖̟̱͜e͏ wh̴̵͇̣͓̖͢a̡̹̻̞͎̯̜̺̲̝̲͖͇͡͡ͅͅt̵̡͈̣̠͓̻̝͚͍̺̀ͅ ͏̸̶͍͔̦͇̳̱͕̜̝͘͘s̸̡̙̹͚̠̘̮̦̠̼͢͡͡h̷̥̖̙͖̫́͢͡͞é̵̡̯̟͙̱̻̮͎͠͠ ̴̯̳̰̯̹̲̰̥̤̱̥͇̥̫̳͍͢ͅc̸͈̯̮̝̹̳̬̫̟̪̫͕͞ǫ̬̪͙̙̯̬͔͙̝̺̳͉̞͉̟͜n̤̭̼̦͈̺̞̟̭̝̱͎̞͘͠ş̷̛̬͇̦͍͈̳͖̩̭̪̫̝̫͟͞ì̡͏҉̼̦͉͞d̷̛̕͞҉̠͉͖̱͖̰̘̹̱̩̤̹̙̥̙̻̠ͅe̢͇̙̞̞̭͇̣͔͎̳̯̞̩͕̠̦̲͔͟ŕ̷̨̳̟̬̘̣̳̯̬̻͝ȩ̴̦͉̤̞̺͖̩͎̲̼͍d͏̘̪̰̤̘̖̭̜̝ͅ ̨͕͇̗̩̼͉̗͇̜̝̗͎͕͍̼̀h̸̛҉͙͍͓͍̣̦͚͕͖̙̱̩̞͖͠é͓̖̠͍͜͜͡ŗ̶̻͕̙̹͖͚͚̦̩̙͔̺͍̀  parents. There were no other students, no other contacts. It was a cold place, hidden away. But all the training had a purpose. What was that purpose again…? Oblivion remembered politics and history, basic sword fighting and the use of a bow. But most importantly, there was training in the song magic of h̡̨͕͍̫̭̬̪̫͕̘̙͜͞e̵̸̵̡̛̪̻͓̙̭͖̟̱ŗ̫̜͓̯͘ ̛́͞҉͈̼͎̻̟̫͓̤̥̱̙ͅͅn̵̴̯̜̯̯̬͈a̸̸̡͇̜̣̺̲̘̤̯ṱ̸̢͓͚͕͕͚͙͈̰̻͉͇̹̼́͠i̧̡̨̲̝̺̝̪͓͍͢ơ̩̗̫̘̳͕̗̭̬̬̲̗̹̟͢͟͡n̶̨̼̟̯̰̮͖̪̳͉̱̱͉̣͈. ♦

♦ A nation of great white spires that rose up high into the sky. To the people, justice and equality were everything. They could not forgive the neighboring nation for the injustices that they placed upon everyone around them and to themselves. It was a battle of ideologies, and also one of science versus magic. She remembered being told that hatred is the surest of weapons. For this,  s҉̭̲͍̞̹͘͟͟h̸̢̯̜̝̮̱͖̯̩̫̙͖̯e҉̫̺̣͈̗̜̣̹̜͉͉͟ ̧͎̩̯̠͓̖̠̰̀́͟ț̨͉͎̖͙͚̪͕̲̣̭̦̲̦͕̤̥́̕͢͞r̬̰̙̙̰̯͕̖̲̱͖͍͓̘̀͟a̴̴̖̭̪͇̞͈̳̬̘̹͈̤̤̝i̩͓̪̙̝̪͘͠n̶̟̳̠̫͖̜̬̝͖̪̭͚̗̲͢͠ͅę̵̨̠̥͔͔̦̜̹̲̰̜̟͢ͅd҉̺̝̟̫͎͖̙̥̤͔́ ha҉͎̪͉̺̯̘̼̜̼̻̫͎̬̥̼̰̬̕͟͟r̷҉̗̤̜͕̬͕̙̠̞̜̦̳͉͙͖̙̗͓̗d̴̨̢̞͉̙̪͎̻͡,̵̸̷͚̤̯̫̫̠̘̺̣̥͖̣̭̖͓̻̀͘ͅ ̛͠͏̷̪͚͖͉̳̹̮̙f͏̢̭̺̯̮̼͎͈͍͓͘͢o̸̶̳̱̦͔̯̦̠̖̜̼̱̤̪̟̯͔͠͡r҉̴̰̟̭̗͎̘̮̥̕͠ ͏̴̬͓̬̬̗̻̤͓͍̯̭̻̳͓̺͔̮͜͟͠į̛̹̻̩̗̻͕̣̮̜̯̻̦͙͙̪̞̩͢͝ṭ̸̷̛̖̹̟͓͓̟̱͝ ͟͟͏̷̰͇̭̲̤͖͖̫̣̙͎͎̟͡w҉͏̢͚̘͙͙͎̠͍̙̭̣͚̝̠̜̺̕a͔̯̖͙͕̠̜͚̩͓̰̼͚͚̠̯̦̕͡͞ͅs̛̳̦̞̺̟͉̝͇̣̤͕̱̝͚̰̗̠͈̝͢͞ ҉͝͏̯̱̝̝̰̣̖̗͎͠ḩ̡̢͏̼͕̳͓̠ͅe̢̢̖̜̠̰̺̲͇̙̖̦̳̬̘͍͟ͅŗ̢̮̲͈̦̩̥͙̺͙̻͔̭̲̻̀ ̨̟̼̜̹̙͓̖̠̟̲͕̜̩̣̗͉͎͘͞o҉̶̢̳̗̬̫̮̝̮̲̜͈̰̯̗̝͞n̵̘͚̯̮̭͎̗̱̤̩̝̬̲͈͉͢l̶̠̘͕̺̟̣̘̬̀ỳ̶̬͔̞̗̪̘̩͔̞̥̰̀ pù͓̩͇̜̯̳̫̹̼͇̣̰͔̼̮̰͙̕͜r̺̘̭͇͙̪̼̳̠͕̟̣̰͍̜̺̙͘͢͠͞p̨͏̳̳̻̞̺͉̩̘̻̭̮́͢͡ͅo͏̴̛̦̖͓̝̦̘̳̜̫͚̣̳͚̠̥͎̠̣̜ş̧̡̟͚͎̙̮͈̗̻ͅe͙͙̭̞͘̕ͅ ̨̨̝̘̖̫̥͉͔̲d̡̳͖̟̭̞̱͝é̞͙͙̯̜͉̪̮͈̥̠̳̦͘͠ͅs̡͕͎͕̩͓̯͈̥͕̫̙̪̻͟͝͡͝p̴̴̢̙̞̘͖̝̖̲͓̺̙̙̳̞ͅi̡̧̮̲̭̼̳̠̲̟̣͍͓̳̠̳̗̭͚͔̘͢t̢̢̻̝͖̲͎͘ȩ̩̺͔͍̭͎̫͔̩̟̫͍̟̲̥̱̕͢͝ ̢̟̣̤̲͕̠̲̠͓̜͉̱͇͚͚̻̜̀͜h͏̛̘͓̳̪̬̝͎̩̯̜͎̺̞̬͙̹͜͠e̴̞̭̠̲ŕ̸̸̡̬͙̖̳̬̙̟̘ ̶̷̤͙̣̣̩̪͍͞ļ̸̸͎͙̟̩ͅͅi̸̡̙̞̣̭̠̯̘͎͖̹͙̤̯̝͘ͅn͔̘͔͉̠̮̯̪̻̗̹͖̖͟͢͠͝ͅè̴̤͉̖̰͇̳̼̕͢͜a̷̢͢҉̮͔͉̣͈̹̳̻͎̟̹̘͔̰̙͚g҉̡̖͍̠̱̪̯͈̱̭͘e͇̫̣̯̹̖͔̙͈͓̟̩̪͠.̼̹͈͇̘̥̗̺̪͎̤͍͚̼̤̕͢͢ͅ ♦

♦ A chance meeting, at the time it couldn’t have been anything but a false start. At least that’s what she convinced herself. Why had the ò̴̵͓̥̮̞͜t̴̴͖̰̩̗̞̘͈͙̟͎̪͈̩̝͕͖̫̖̮͘͟͞h҉̨̛͍͙̟͓̫̗̙̤͓͙̤̖̟̣͍͓̀͜ę̀͏͇̭̣̰̳̠͢r̵̠̤̫͖͚̦̳͕̬̦̦̩̬̘͖͜ ̼̫̩̲̯̫̼́́͡ṕ̧̨͍̘͈͕̳͎̻̜̮̫͇̱̪̟̘̘͡ͅr̷̴̛͔͇̤͓̘̦̩̹̟̯̱̥̜͓͇̥͕͢i͚̞̻͚̻͡n̶̶̢͇͖̼̜̥̝̹͈̭͓̖̬̙̰̫̠̕͜c̢͏̦̥̼̥̩̼̰è̸̴̹̠̪͖͈̬͇̗̺̬̞̳̘̝̦̺̤͝ͅs̷̡̝̣͔̹̤̫̱̬͈̦͢͞͡s͏͕͈̝͕̘͕̫̥͓̟̘̻̝̤͓̩̕͡ spared her life? ♦

♦ Perhaps it was love? S̴͡҉̧̬̜̗̺͕̙̥͙̮i҉̼̲̝̞̰̩̙̲͎̣͙̹̼̠͢͝͠ĺ͙̤͙̦͞ͅk̸̨̺͍̞͚̦̜̟͉̮̩̕͝ͅe̸͞͏͙̪̦̺̹̱̬͎̞ņ̴̶͇̖̭͙̻̮̩͔̞̕ ̢͜҉̸̞̩̩̟͕̙͔̥̠̺̱b̨̳̠̗̲̠̼̺͘l̛͓̱̯̞̜̙͎̺̩̙̪͉̥͞ò̷̺̣͍̙̳̹̼̣̥͚͍͙̬͙̪͇̖͡n͏̥̞̩̤̕͜͢͠d҉͎̝̼͙͔̞̩̯͍̣͚̲͍̞͘͜ͅe̙̫̙̜̞͇̼̤͘͜͞ ̷͚̩̩̱̮̜̯̩̭̦̳̤̭̯͔̥͇̱̰͢h̛̕͏̲̲̙̼̗̱̖̱̬̥̟̰a̶͓̩̗̰̥͉̟͇͈͉̝͈͔̺͞i̵̢̺̣̠̞̺̰̗͍̰͢͜r̴̢̛͔͙͙̬̟̲͔̞̦̠̦͇͉̹̱,̼̞̗̼̩̰̩͍̘̕͘ ̵̤̰͍͎̫̪̖̬̺͇̬͖̬̩͔͢͝͡g̷̴̛̞̫̬̲̣̝̮̠̲̻̤͔̟̤̹̟͜͝ͅr̶̨҉͘͏̩̹̬͉͉̰ͅę̸͕̳̭͔̪͕̖̩̲͕̱͇̀͝e̵̖̘̼̫͘͟n̩̭̭̬͙̦̹̣̳̦̞͖̰̦̭̠͡ͅͅ ̢̥͔̱͎͎̘̘̹͖͙̮̞͉̕e͏͠͏̮͙̭̬͎͉̮̭͘y̸̶̢̝͉͎͚͔̙͖̫̘̫̥̣̱̺̝͢͟e͏̗̦̥̞̫͔̳̗̭̠̼͕̖̞́s͕͈̬͇̪̹̗̲̰̥͍̭̰̦͝͡ͅ ̸̸̭̦͖̮͇̗̝͙͎̬̹͈͜͠ͅà̡̞̥̰͔̪͕̘̜̯͢͞n̵͜҉̝̗͚̰̀d̵̛̪̣̩̞̙ ̧͕̭̜̼̱͙͉͠͠a̷̜͔̜͇̙̮̜̺̣̙͍͎͞ ̴̬̗̝͚̞̦͓͉͖͚͉̤́̕͘͢ͅv̧҉̧̨̘͔͖̜̙̺̹͚̠̤̻̫̀o҉̵̼̹̬̲͟í͕͎̩̹͓̦͙͖̹̘̘̲͚͎̕c̷̶̱͚͖͍̱e҉̘̝̝̠̪͞ͅ ̷̛̖̪̹͎̤̩̰͚̹͖͇̭̼͕̟̺̼̘̠͜͟͠l̴̶̢̖̺͈͓̣͓͔̜͔̼̣͠i̛̜̝̘̺͔̳̺̲̠̠̭̥̳̗̗̼͎̩̕ḱ̀̀̕҉̙̖͙̻̥̣̹̗̣̥ę̸̴̷͙̞̺̲̜̯̣̭̜̥̙͝ ̨̞͈͈͚͓̙̜̦̞͓͔͙͓̗͘͢͜à̵̧̞̲̝̲̣͖̙̣̮̜̞̻̩̜̣̭̺̥̕ņ͎͇̗͙̼̼̮͙̹́͟͝ͅg̶̡̮͚̟̼̤̪̩̫̖e̡̨̳͚̜͕͍͉̖̥l̛̘̼̦͕̞̙̻͚̼̱̯̯͍̲͢s̵̛̬̮̺̰̻͚̯̯͈̞̭̺͚̹̘͞ͅ.̴̷̶̶̟̰̗̱̺̖̱̦̖͟  Wa̵̷͇͓̥͕̰̳̙͉̼̩̜s̶̬̲͍͇̺͔͇̕͠͞ ̪̣̳͇̘̟̲̤̬̣͢͞h̵͡͏̼̱̬̦̰͕͕͎͖͓̳͙̪͔͍͓͔̬̕͟ͅe̕̕҉͚͚̼̤̳̳̠̫̲̦r̷̕͢҉̜̼̩̲̺̺̞͓̠͓̣̬̻̻͍̳̗ ̛̛͎̱̫̠̫̰̠̱̳̖͝n̨҉̬̞̮͖̬͉͉̰̦̞̪̻̠͈̤̘̙͚á̡̼͚̜̭̻̟̗͎̜̗̲͈̳̬͔̕ͅͅţ̵͓̦̱͎̘͝í̸̵̵̮̩̦͚͕̼͍̬̫̙̣̦̲͔̜͘ͅo̴̵̜̫̥̥̻̖̫͍̪̯̲͖̼̤͖̣̩̠̮͝n̵͏͚̙̹̣̠̦̹̦̲̪̠̤͘͡ ̹̖̝̹͉̪͓̫͎̠̘̝͉͡͡w̙̠̳̞̮̬̝̟̻͕͟͟͠r̷̢̢̩͉̖̰͙̻̝͠ͅo̶̢̳̳̕͝ͅͅn͏̴͕̬͉̖̺̰͖̼̼̰͉̭̻̙͘ͅg̛͉͍̣̗̯͘?̸̨̛̠̟͕́ͅ ̗̹̖̼̻͇͚̲̥̜̟͚̦̯̕ͅW̸͜͢͜͏͈̰̫̮̠̬̘̯̰̼̝͔̞̯̖̺ͅe̛͖̲̟̮͉͔͓͉͉̬̹̣̖̕͡ͅr͢͏̛̭̩͔̲̜̻̦͇̦̬̳̹̯̬͙̮͟͝ͅe̷͘҉͟҉̯̗̹̝̭̥ ̴͢͠҉̠̼̻̟̻͍͈̪̞̳̞̺͕̼̤͚t̻̫͍̪̫̺͕̖͘̕ͅḩ̺̞̦̟͈̱͓̰͍̙e̶͢͠͏̮̝̳̰̝̠͎y̥͔̞̞̠̰̻̲̝̼̫͍̯͠ ̶̷̫͇̺̦̫͎̠̣̀͘ͅǹ̛̲̞͓̪͙̱̫̝̼̦̪͘o̴̫͔̺̜̗̫̹̱̙͙̮̕͟͠͡ͅt̯͓̳͇̻̞̤̼͘͟ ̡̢̢͕̘̯̯̠͍̮͓̖͙̹͕͉̰̩̥̗̦ͅa̷̢̛̠̹̘̠̮̟͎̮̠͍͍̘̥̲̫͖̮̺͜͝l҉͔̘̫͚̥̼͓̺̞̝͍͉͖̥̭̩̳̕͡l͝͏̤͈̹͔̬̱̲̘͎̳̹monsters? She turned her head to her servant and asked a question. The servant could not fathom an answer, but instead gave a glowering glare at her master. Was it truly such a malign idea? ♦

♦ A happy scene. In that i̖̠n͉͉̘͍̦̗̮̙͜͡n̠̥͝ ̵̩͎b̡̪͔ȩ̛͍͎͍̲̟t͔̝͕̥̻͚̟͎́w̨͕͙̩͇͚̝͇̮͟e͔̰̖͉̦̮͕͞e҉̙̘̹̜n̳̪̞̤̫͖̫̰͢ ͜҉̰̞͎̖͚͜t͏̫̣̣̳̝͓h̗͓̤̜͇̺̜̕e̵̜̼̞͖̘̪ ͉̖̪̟̻̙͍n̨̝̤̻̻͇̹̝a̸̸̪̣̙̙̦̦̺t͓̗͓̞̱͉̘͟͜i͓̬̰̙͚̱̻ͅó̟n̶̙̝̘̭̞̺͇͜͠s̸͇̟̲̳̞̬̜̞ there was no nationality, no war. That was the unbreakable rule enforced by both science and magic. There was a dance. Oblivion could smile here, and sing along with the innocent hymns. ♦

♦ L͚̮̗̖̹̠͕o͘r̗i̸̫͚a̪c҉̮͉̬e̲̦̺͎̪ was smothered by the suffocating fog. Originally, they had been winning the war, that nation of white spires and equality. Where had it all gone wrong? How could they not see this coming? Was their side not just, or their hatred not sufficient? The time of troubles was quickly approaching for them. But which of the nations did she belong to...? ♦

♦ A victory parade. At its head was t͏̩h͓̟̪e̞̬̗̰͖̹͇ ò̸̷̦͚̣̱̖̝̳̳̭͙͡t̷̩̩̠͎̼̰̺̣̥͉̭̼͎͇̞̲͈̪͇͠͝h̡̺͉̯͙̜̹̮͙͓͎͕̺̬̹̹͔͜͟͠ͅę͔̥̗̞̱̹̦̰͢͠͞͡r̴̛̫̮̻̘̮̺̟̜̘͔̼͎̞̙̲͎͖̣͝ ̬̜͕̬̪̀̕͝͡p̷̖̳̩̬͕͓̮͉r̷̪̖̹͎̻̙̫͕̰͓͚͎̝͇̣̼̳̩̤ì̥̟̳̫̙̭̱̝̬̭̜͜͠ń̪͓̜̗͇̫̬̹̱͎͟͡c̷̨̨̩͓̬̥̘͝ȩ̶̨̛̠͙͕͙̣̭͍̬̙̻͍̙̬͙̰̻̬̻̪͟s̷̥͎͚̠͖̻̱̳͈̀͟ș̛̲̺͎̝͔̯͎̭̞͍̪͇̰͈̬͜͜,̨̭̝͈̖͉̖ ҉͉n҉̟̦͓͚̜̟̦o̼w̗̤̙͡ t͎͙h̩̟̫̗̙̳e̗̫ ͕͇̺Q̧͙̬̮̮ue͇͈̪͜e̜̳̟̠͈̦n̜̲̳̥̪̩ ͈͉͟o̭͉̱̬ͅf̗̱ ̪͚h͇̭̪̗̯͠e̺̱̪̮̣̫ŗ̫̺̭ ̣͕̬ǹ͖̼̜̪̞̼a̴̞͚t̵̥i̥̩̪͚̰ò͇̮͍̟̼n̘.̵̥̭̙̣̱. But the losing nation had not yet capitulated, it was not over. Among the weeping crowd, attackers unveiled themselves and besieged the parading victors, forcing them into the very castle they used to protect. ♦

♦ They arrived. It mattered not what nation, the slaughter began. ♦

♦ Finally… The last memory… ♦

- - – – – — — — ——— ♦ ——— — — — – – – - -
Awakening

In retrospect, it was probably all a dream. But at the same time, what other proof of self is there other than these fragments? 

♦♦♦

The Knights of the Guard assembled, their great tower shields bared forward, spears held steadfastly. They poised themselves, prepared in all forms to protect the princess. They were the last line of defense, their assurance of victory stood behind them...

And so she began to sing...

To any bystander, her voice was clear through all the commotion, destruction and other sound. Accompanying her was an invisible chorus of varied voices that chanted along. It was simply something that could not be ignored. Verse by verse, a litany of words incomprehensible to the average mortal ear. To those who could comprehend, each verse alternated between the languages of the realm above, and that below. To those that understood, it was an impossible tale of foretelling. A dark future where chaos reigned and the world stood at the brink of certain destruction. An end time where judgement was passed upon living and dead alike. Rather than an end to an era, it was the end of all things.

Importantly, the battlefield ritual required that a certain degree of 'chaos' be met. It was a time of war, and the condition was complete.

Importantly, the ritual's purpose was to summon forth just a fraction of that time. It was something that important, that part of the world's end needed to be summoned.

Its name translated to 'The End', its outcome was to purge. The range was infinite, and when both chant and conditions were complete, there was no escape. Instead of calling it a move for certain victory, it would be best called 'greatest desperation', as the caster too would not be spared. Her soul would be torn asunder, destroyed and cast into oblivion for upsetting the balance. Her body would be ripped apart, obliterated in a way that no trace could be found. The End struck both ways, for both parties.

But, it was not to be. In a flash, in a violent booming of sound, the world seemed to shake and the seemingly invulnerable Guardsmen in front of the princess crumbled into dust.

In her final moments, the princess did not flinch, but only stood still, continuing her chanting as if she could finish the impossibly lengthy ritual. It was impossible.

As the Knights before her, she too was reduced to dust, with one exception: before her destruction, an arrow pierced her throat, a glaring, red crystal at its tip. As it happened, she was unable to speak and unable to move, and when she crumbled, so too did the arrow. Except for the Crystal. The once red Crystal turned completely clear, and sat atop her ashen dust.

♦♦♦

She woke up, mind dazzled and the numbness of a long stupor still gripping her body.

Victim or Perpetrator? She could no longer remember. Perhaps it was all a dream, those memories were all of dreams of another time.

Time? Time no longer had any meaning. Time was to be dashed from the dictionary, not to be spoken of again.

To and fro. Up, down, left, right. No matter where she looked was darkness. Timeless, formless, meaningless. In the darkness she had awoken to, there are no mirrors, no buildings, nothing but what she can see with her eyes and grope at with her hands. It was a vast expanse of mud, dead trees, and vague shadows in pale light. In this place with little form, she had but one word emblazoned upon her memories:

Oblivion.

Oblivion is where she was. Oblivious is what she was. Oblivion was all that remained.

She could not recall which of the caricatures she was in that final memory—if she was even one of them. Touching her grime covered hands to her face would not ensconce even the vaguest of clues. She knew she was female, she could see her dark hair and feel the weariness within her tiny limbs, she could only manage a whisper of a voice for fear of alerting that which lurked just beyond her vision.

Her clothes were tatters of what was likely once a functional yet beautiful dress. Fasteners in strategic places hinted that there may once have been steel to supplement the cloth. Beyond that was a single book filled with songs in a language and script she could hardly remember the methods of reading.

But that was all.

Truly, beyond that she only knew Oblivion, and so that was to be her name in this world where the shadows themselves sought to snatch sanity from her already beleaguered psyche.  

Sanity is the Surety of the Soul. For reasons she couldn't understand, she was convinced that she absolutely must stay sane, and to do so would keep her soul from fading away. Her memories were her final sense of self, and the only source of sanity. So she moved forward into the abyss of oblivion.

- - – – – — — ———— Ω ———— — — – – – - -

@NewSun
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Retired Magical Girl

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