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

in a city, where no longer am I a border, but a man who has infinite borders
at my fingertips! Endless possibilities and places to travel, no longer a place,
but an individual! No longer am I imprisoned by duty: here I shall wait and
bide my time. No Gods can enter Sigil... and so I am safe from their blades of
starfire and opalescent fury. And when the final Wanderer dies, when the
Gods breathe their last and are interred in the Astral, I shall be free. Free to
cavort across the Planes! Free to sing and revel and explore, crossing
borders, walking roads, passing through gate and door and threshhold! I
shall dance forever, and never die."
He digs around in his coat. "Pockets!" he grins, "Truly a wonderful thing of
mortals. If you kept your hopes in pockets rather than temples, you'd never
lose them. Ah!" Ileron pulls free a small sphere, the size of a peach and
banded with silver. It pulses weakly with a gray light, like a mournful fog.
With that in one hand he pulls his shirt open with the other, and where
there should be a wedge of bare chest there is instead a flash of light, and a
series of silver-gray arches flanked by lush green leaves. Down through his
heart is a gilded path, as if inviting you to in. The smell of fresh, clean air
washes away the rankness of the bar, and down the road you see a circular
glass. Behind that window, in contrast to the greenery surrounding it, a
desert land of cracked clay terrain and wind-borne sand sprawls across your
vision.
"Come now," Ileron murmurs, "and walk with me through my gardens,
which were once paradise..."
Chapter 92
I coughed.
Dry clay cracked beneath my boots, the land mummified and brittle like an
old scab. The air carried a coppery scent, like tarnished metal. Now and
again my scars tugged at me: the arid clime was drying out my skin,
shrinking it so that the crisscrossed mesh of puckered flesh shrank back,
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