(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

When sensation and warmth began to flow through me again, I stirred from
my spot on the floor. The nightmarish visions were fluttering away already,
like the brush of a moth's wing. Much of the sights and sounds were
half-remembered, already slipping through the cracks of my mind and into
oblivion.
I sat up, contented. There was a crick in my back from lying on the cold floor,
but it was a good little knot, the kind that you twist and it pops from your
joints and leaving you all the more satisfied.
"Well? How was it?" Annah asked as Dak'kon helped me up.
"I think... I just met Ravel."
Chapter 63
When you strip everything away, Sigil isn't a place, per se.
On its own it isn't a place any more than a road is a realm, or a bridge or an
arch is a domain. No, Sigil is the junction between destinations, and calling it
a place is like saying there's a meaning to the pause between words. It's like
how four walls by themselves don't make a home. No matter how ornate a
building is, how many rooms it has, it isn't a home until there's one simple
requirement met.
An idea.
It's belief that turns a tent into a living space, a house into a home. The idea
that you own this little square of land, that this is a place to return to after a
weary day of work. Ideas are what shape reality by giving a label to naked
space, bedecking it in robes and regalia as a domain complete with king or
queen. It's rampant belief that makes Sigil more than a waypoint or a road.
And so it was Factions, with their piety and philosophies, that populated Sigil
and made it into a city. They crafted laws, carved out domains of power, saw
604