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

my body had increased its regenerative capacity, and if I should die that
would be the least of our problems.
Every inch had been won with blood and sweat and the sizzle of mana
coursing through my veins. Missiles of rage burst open wispy black shadows,
and storms of lightning arced down halls thick with foliage. We left behind a
swath of sublimating shadowstuff and smoldering plant matter as we went,
until Nordom chirped:
"Portal detected!"
I completed a gesture and the hall was seared in a storm of fire and ice, and
then circled my hands around my body like branches, as Ravel had told me.
Space rippled out before us, and with hot desert wind blowing against our
skin, we were gone.
~~~~~
To say that Ravel was a twisted creature was to speak truth layered over
truth.
It was as much a paradox as her name. To ravel is to ensnare: She is the one
who enwraps her victims in vines and nightmares, riding dreams like steeds
and breaking those captured in her black-barbed garden beyond breaking.
To ravel is also to unbind: she is the one who unstrings truth from its bonds
and opens up puzzles better left unsolved.
Ravel is a twisted creature in more ways than one. While it was true that
Ravel had always been perverse, she of all night hags had been a master of
bendings. Ravel bent reality to her will and cultivated the brambles of the
Art. Root and seed, fruit and vine had all been mastered by her while mortal
lives fell like autumn leaves. Yet she had only learned that no thorns could
go as deep as a rose's when she met him.
Her shrieks rattle the cobblestones of her home. Brambles shiver and gray
dust shrinks back at her cries, boiling away at her inhuman screeching.
"WHY?" she howls, and none could answer.
The tears, thick and greasy, carve fat runnels down her face. They drip from
her long nose and down her chin, despair splashing to the earth drop by
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