My enthusiasm was dampened slightly by my current dilemma: I was still ‘dead’ on the warehouse floor. Though I could leave any time I wanted, I’d prefer for my would-be murderers to not realize that their conclusions had been invalid.

Fortunately, dawn was soon to arrive and they had no desire to leave a body to fester within their hideout, temporary though it may have been. It seemed that Alex drew the short straw on dealing with my disposal; rather convenient, given that I wanted to tag along with him as my orthopt-self anyway.

I soon found myself abandoned in an alleyway, covered by litter and refuse. Alex had grumbled all the while, cursing his companions under his breath. In fact, he was cursing quite a number of people; he really had quite a lot of pent up aggression on his hands. I didn’t appreciate the frustrated kick to my limp form at our destination, though.

I would remember that kick.

As soon as he turned the corner, I used [Swap] to appear at the Pits once more, materializing next to the pallet that Roy had laid out for himself. The newly minted mercenary opened his eyes, startled from sleep by the sudden clamor of my arrival. His nose wrinkled.

“You stink.”

While I solved that rather odorous problem, Alex was making haste across the city, a hood draped over his head to hide his distinctive features. By the time dawn had arrived, announcing the presence of a new day, the Duster had entered the northern edges of the High District. There was a clear delineation between the qualities of the separate districts; it was almost as if someone had drawn a line through the city, cutting off wealth and health from poverty and sickness.

The streets had become more organized; no longer were they dirty, twisting messes that reached their fingers here and there across the city. Instead, they were clean and clear, both literally and conceptually. There was no getting lost here, not with the distinctly-marked streets and overabundance of landmarks.

The landmarks stood out the most to me. Here, there was a much greater degree of individuality and expression in the buildings’ designs. Whereas the poorer district was designed with a focus on purpose and utility, simply providing shelter, the High District pulled away from that mentality. Whereas the homes of the Low District ran together in their commonalities, the High District homes announced their distinctive qualities, nearly shouting them from their high rooftops.

It was that very same distinctiveness that allowed me to easily track our travels. Had we been in the Low District, I had my doubts that it would have been so easy - especially with my poor vantage point. I did not have a bird’s eye view to guide me like I had in the Low District. Though I might have been able to track the Duster in my crow-form, I was hesitant to do so. The man was jumpy and overly paranoid, constantly staring at shadows and surveilling the sky.

Instead, I was confined to my othorpt-self for the duration of the mission. It was not exactly ideal. Small though I was, I was still visible should one know to look for me - about the length of a fingertip to the second joint. Fortunately, Alex’s wary eyes could only look in so many directions; I was fairly safe from my position on his clothes in the middle of his back, though it meant that I was only able to see where we were going after the fact.

Alex continued to mutter under his breath as we walked, working himself up for something. I could hear snippets of his words here and there, mentions of the Gray Woman and dust, along with a rather aggressive series of curses. At the same time, there was a level of near-pleading in his tone - even in the crazed mutterings that he spoke to himself. There was a great deal of fear under his constant aggression.

He was in a bad way.

The mutterings only increased as we walked, as if it were required to strengthen his resolve as we grew closer to our final destination. Finally, we stopped beside a building deep within the northern High District. It was a giant of construction, reminding me more of the fancy apartment complexes of old than anything else - though reduced in scale, to a degree. It was surrounded by buildings of the same ilk, each reaching a comparable ten stories or so in height.

Though they had nothing on the skyscrapers of my time, they did have a certain grandeur to their construction. The walls were gleaming white bone, kept pristine in a manner that defied the yellow-tinged walls of the poorer Low District. Balconies fitted with ornamental balustrades lined the front-facing walls, featuring intricately carved pieces of bone that would have fit well within a museum. Though I was sure that [Bone Transmutation] made such things far less impressive than they seemed to me, I was still appreciative of the beauty of the designs.

We entered the building. A harder ordeal than it might seem, as the doorman had been less than accepting towards the idea of letting Alex inside. I was almost impressed by the Duster’s restraint in the matter, knowing his temperament. Even facing away from the doorman from my vantage on Alex’s back, I could hear the doorman’s voice positively dripping with condescension and disgust. I could feel the muscles of Alex’s back tense in anger, as if replaced by unbending steel. Still, he managed to keep his calm. Whatever calm he was even capable of, at least.

In the end, I felt the rustle of fabric as Alex removed his hood to more clearly show his face. The doorman hissed lightly with a sudden intake of breath and nattered apologies, and then we were through.

He made his way to an elevator, stepping onto the platform. It was a rather strange device, all told, though simple in nature. Without electricity to power it, it appeared that the people of Dihaim had chosen to use what they had in abundance: Risen. A series of pulleys hung down beside a large ape-like beast. Its master waited in a chair nearby, a set of bells beside him to indicate where the platform was needed at any given time so that he could give the proper commands. Given the tireless stamina and unthinking nature of Risen, it was a rather effective idea.

I heard the bell chime. The platform lifted, passing floor after floor until, quicker than I had expected, we had reached the top.

As the Duster stepped off of the lift, I hopped down to the floor of the roof. Given that there was nowhere to go from here, I was sure that this was his destination and preferred to have a better viewing angle. I scurried to a nearby corner, attempting to hide myself within the shadow it cast.

Just as I got myself settled, I froze as I noted a raven perched upon the opposite edge of the roof. Fortunately, it didn’t react to my presence - I knew that birds were one of the natural enemies of my current body and I likely appeared to be a tasty morsel. A few moments later, the reason for its stillness became apparent.

“I have important information for the Gray Woman. I request an audience,” Alex asserted.

The raven - a Risen, I was sure - squawked in response. This, if anything, only increased the tension that I had noted in the addict’s shoulders.

It was a torturous wait, though I was sure that it wasn’t actually that long. Regardless, both Alex and I were becoming increasingly tense and impatient.

The air ripped, split in twain by some unseen force, sending the raven flapping away with a startled squawk. A starry black filled the gap; gazing into it was uncomfortable somehow, as if staring into an ever-hungry void. I rubbed my legs and wing casings together nervously, eliciting a tiny chirp of distress. It felt like it was staring back.

Two figures, one touching the other, stepped out from the hungry void. It closed in their wake. I felt my muscles, small as they were, relax slightly.

Alex, on the other hand, did much the opposite.

The man was rather plain. He had an ordinary, forgettable face coupled with ordinary, forgettable clothes - if one ignored the bared Mark upon his right shoulder, openly displayed as if it were a work of art. Its base design was similar to Neladrie’s Mark, containing the same diamond at its center. From there, though, it changed. Where Neladrie’s Mark was a mess of swirls and flourishes, the Mark that connected the man to his Savior was much more simple, consisting of only a few lines.

When brought together, they looked like a door.

Though I did not know from whom his Mark originated, I realized that the unknown man was likely responsible for the starry portal that I had just witnessed - and possibly responsible for the troubling ability of the Dusters to avoid capture, as well.

Despite that, the masked woman who walked beside him was far more captivating to both Alex and I.

Alex bowed his head towards the masked woman. From the moment I saw her, I knew that she must have been the Gray Woman. Her skin was fully tinted in the gray of smooth stone, distinct from the mottled gray patches that I had seen thus far. Whereas the Dusters’ skin had brought to mind images of plague and ruin, her flesh was its opposite. It was free of blemishes, perfect in an almost alien manner that was mesmerizing to the eye. It almost didn’t feel real. Then again, if she was Corrupted like I had heard, it didn’t have to be.

She wore a sleeveless dress that did nothing to hide her arms, as if announcing her nature to the world. There was no Mark upon her shoulder; dressed as she was, there was no chance that she could go unnoticed.

She was, however, wearing a mask. It was almost refreshing to see, really. A little slice of home in a world that oftentimes felt all too alien to me. It covered her full face, though its design still left room for her hair to spill out in a cascade of ebony waves that stood out nicely amongst the gray and white of her skin and mask. The mask itself was made of polished bone, just as so much in this area seemed to be. It presented a woman’s stony visage, mouth permanently set in a severe frown. Its craftsmanship was immaculate, a rival to the mask that I had received as a gift from Gil a short while ago.

A rival in many ways, in fact.

Whereas the mask I had received from Gil was formed of smooth contours and soothing flourishes, the Gray Woman’s mask was all sharp lines and brutal edges.

I found that fitting, in some manner - like we were destined enemies, each made to oppose the other. The bold, callous villain and the hero who stood opposite her.

In a way, I was impressed by her brazen attitude. It was a sense of indestructibility that had been held by many a villain, but that made it no less fascinating. It said something, I thought, that the most confident among us so often turned to villainy. Perhaps I had it backwards. Perhaps confidence did not engender villainy. Instead, it was more likely that heroism was crushing by its very nature; every innocent lost was another heavy blow. Villains needed only think for themselves, and only fight for themselves. Someone else’s loss had no bearing on their self-perception. It was much easier to feel powerful, with such an attitude - arrogant though it might have been. Deluded, even.

Without a hero to face, a villain would never have to be truly powerful.

They would never have to face their own weaknesses. I would have to correct that, someday soon.