A lady, cloaked in a voluminous brown robe, glided silently just above the cobblestones of the street, her serene face encircled by gleaming blades. Her countenance betrayed no emotion save for a distant detachment. Azazel had never seen her before, but he knew at once who she was.
She was the symbol of Sigil, its ruler, or rather, she was Sigil itself.
She was the Lady of Pain.
A group, undoubtedly members of the Chaos Faction known for such antics, had the audacity to attack her, to charge at her with fervor! A crazed individual reached her, bellowing a manifesto of chaotic beliefs—an ideal chance, he thought, for after this incident, he'd be a legend in street corner tales. If this action succeeded—and he believed the odds were good in a universe as chaotic as this—his words would become his legacy.
"Did you imagine, Lady, that anyone would dare to strike at you? Today, we will..." His long-rehearsed speech began, but the poor fool was sliced into pieces before he could finish. No one saw from where the blades came or when they shredded him. It seemed that with one thought from the Lady, the man was diced.
The others, apparently expecting such an outcome, halted their charge, bellowing the same manifesto: "Today, we prove that order does not exist in the universe, that all perceived order is a sham. No order is unbreakable because chaos, chaos is the essence of reality! And you, Lady, you enforce your rules, forbidding this, forbidding that! It is wrong, and wrongs must be righted, and we..."
Their speech, too, was cut short as they were segmented by the Lady's blades. (In fact, a third was meant to pick up where the first left off, and a fourth after him—a contingency for the likely event of interruption. But Chaos Faction members never truly understand the concept of order. It appears the third orator did not stick to the plan, thinking, "I'm with the Chaos Faction, I do as I please," and thus the grand speech was permanently truncated.)
Jhadar was among those who rushed forward, brandishing swords, their hearts filled with conviction. They believed the cosmos emerged from chaos and that the multiverse itself was chaotic by nature, so why not them? Why not topple the Lady of Pain? If they succeeded, it would be the best proof of the universe's true nature—though failure would still spread their beliefs.
No matter how it turned out, Jhadar was convinced his name would echo through the multiverse. There's a saying: to judge a person's worth, look at their enemies. And his enemy was the Lady of Pain herself.
Trembling with excitement, voice quivering, he roared, "I am Jhadar, the one and only! Today, I will topple you, Lady. You must fall, for this world needs no rules. Whatever we want..."
The Lady simply lifted a finger, and the world fell silent.
A hole appeared under Jhadar's feet with no buildup of magic, no incantation, not even a gesture—just a sudden gap in space, and the singular Jhadar plummeted into the void.
The other assailants vanished as well, some doors appearing right in front of their charging path, swallowing the warriors whole, while others functioned like vacuum cleaners, sucking the hapless attackers in.
Azazel could only watch in shock, pondering where they had gone. What realms had the Lady's doors led to? What would become of Jhadar? He could only speculate about the fates awaiting those madmen as he pushed his cart, trying to distance himself without straying too far.
The sharp blades returned to orbit the Lady of Pain as she floated on, unaffected, her pace unchanged. The attackers, mere insects crushed under her indifferent gaze, left behind cleanly severed chunks of flesh. Once the Lady had passed, Azazel quickly gathered the remains into his cart, the fallen's armor and weaponry now his to claim.
What treasures might they possess? The anticipation thrilled him—later, he would take a good, long look.
The Mortuary of Sigil was not a mere building nor like any other structure. Even amidst the city's unique and unthinkable, the Mortuary stood out as extraordinarily peculiar.
To most, the Mortuary was not a house but an area centered around a massive structure composed of black steel rock and other nameless materials—or perhaps the remains of some beings. The edifice lacked windows and grand domes; from the outside, it resembled a giant mausoleum. The somber, austere exterior, with funeral patterns etched into its walls, made its purpose clear to any onlooker—this was a place of the dead.
The creaking of mortuary carts was an unnerving constant, as workers of all sorts bustled about, among them some rather peculiar figures. Across from Azazel, one stood out—a mummified corpse, withered in appearance, hollow-eyed, and torpid in motion.
"Hi, Azazel," the mummy greeted with a wave.
"Hello! Long time no see, friend," Azazel replied stiffly, unable to recall who this mummy was, likely a colleague.
"Wait, you called me 'friend'?" the mummy stopped Azazel.
"Is that not right?"
"Indeed, it isn't. I was a woman in life," the mummy corrected solemnly: "I think you've forgotten my name. You slippery fellow, I'll tell you again, but if you forget next time, oh, it would be utterly rude. I am Caitlin."
Azazel had indeed forgotten her name, but who remembers the name of a corpse? The dead always strive to be remembered, etching names on stones, hoping never to be forgotten. But most people fade into obscurity the moment they die, even if they rose from their graves to greet passersby who'd merely say, "Look! A moving corpse!" not "Look, there's so-and-so!"
No matter their efforts, oblivion was hard to escape.
But Azazel wouldn't say that, not to a mummy's face: Yes, I have forgotten you. Some lies benefit both parties. "Oh, of course, Caitlin! How could I forget such a beautiful name? You must have been quite the beauty."
"Absolutely, stunning. Back then, I had full, pert breasts, and I never had to tell anyone, 'Hey, I'm a woman, so don't call me brother.' But now..."
Their eyes fell to Caitlin's shriveled chest, as desiccated as the rest of her body.
"It's hard to distinguish my gender now, isn't it?" Caitlin looked a bit crestfallen.
"Oh, no, no. Looking at it, I can imagine what your breasts must have looked like back then. They must have been beautiful, soft, and heaving. Any man lucky enough to kiss Caitlin's breasts would be fortunate indeed. And your lips..." Caitlin grinned at that, her toothless mouth revealing a gaping hole where lips could barely be discerned. "Ah, they must have been beautiful lips, the color of roses," Azazel mused, stretching his imagination to its limits.
"You have such a sweet mouth; I'm starting to like you. You little rascal."
Caitlin traced circles on Azazel's chest with her withered finger, and he stood rigid, swallowing hard.
"Would you like to be that fortunate man?" she asked.
"What?" Azazel exclaimed in alarm.
Caitlin licked her lips, a gesture that sent chills down Azazel's spine.
"I mean, if you wanted to kiss me, I wouldn't mind," she whispered, moving closer. "Anywhere on my body you desire, I would open up for you."
Azazel nearly fainted; he blurted out, "Um, do you need anything else? I think I have something to do. Unfortunately, I must be going..."
Caitlin suddenly became serious. "Yes, you do have something to do, right away. Such a scatterbrain I've become in death, perhaps worms have gotten into my brain. What misfortune. But indeed, you have urgent matters at hand. 'He' is looking for you, right in your dwelling. Leave the cart with me, you must go home. Don't keep the 'Black-Robed' waiting."