Left to his own devices following his release from Tarishitar's prison, Story did not take long to become fixated on a purpose. While traveling with Cessair, his former cell mate, and Bryony, the Oracle that freed them, he had come across a strange crystal in the sands of Arri.

It was a tear…

Not only for its droplet shape - the stone itself was a tear. Anyone with even rudimentary preternatural senses could confirm this. Story's eyes saw something else in the odd thing: a thread of light, a fleeting thing…only a hair, guiding anyone sensitive enough to see it to the source of the anguish that produced it. Curiosity brought him to the docks in the late evening. Still wearing only the simplest of garb, and the white cloak gifted to him by the Sularian bath house, Story boldly stepped onto the unmanned boat. He had brought a lantern, which he held out to try and see through the thick fog. This proved futile, and he soon placed it in the port of the boat next to him as he sat.

The calm drifting of the little boat out into the quiet waters was almost enough to lull one to sleep. Story's vigilance did wane, but quickly waxed when the boat came to a sudden stop. The flame in he lantern went out. There was no wind.

Just then, the boat traveled straight downward. It seemed impossible, especially at this intense velocity, but Story reacted quickly enough to grab the sides of the boat, so as to keep himself in. The downward race became a spiral, and Story found himself flung over the edge just as the pull stopped. The little boat splashed into a river, and the turbulent typhoon seemed to fade, giving way to a bright brimstone sun, and endless fields alongside either bank of the river. The boat did not wait for its occupant, and this was fine. Gliding softly down by the aid of phantom wings, Story landed safely in the boat, and the shadowy aspect coming from his back dissipated.

Despite the horror of the descent, and the grim atmosphere that now surrounded him, Story laughed, and took the tear drop from his pocket to look at it once more. "Of course it is. Why hadn't I seen it before?" he mused to himself aloud.

While it was tempting to try and reach the gates by his own means, he was aware he now resided in a deity's realm, and he would abide by their rules. Should he try to leave the confines of the boat, it might not end well for him, even if he never touched the water below. Thus, he sat patiently, experiencing the throes of emotion that overtook him with each passing flora. Through the indescribably, inescapable denial, anger, regret, want, and serene sadness, he had to constantly remind himself that he yet lived. This was little comfort, for there was plenty of matters, near forgotten now, for him to feel this intensely for. When the symphony of feeling came to its crescendo of utter hopelessness, Story focused the feeling on the Goddess that resided here. His heart hurt for any creature that would express themselves in such a way.

When the sphere of this Goddess changed…she did not just experience these horrible things. She became them.

Story had little time to contemplate the being with which he wished to speak. Nor did he have any time to rue over his own demons…for he was soon confronted with them.

As the burning gates opened to him, the familiar sensation of descent overtook him once more. This time, there was no threat of being plunged into some river of the damned. What he was plunged into was a sea of voices…all speaking at once, so making out anything in the garbled mess was impossible. Story opened his eyes, though he did not remember closing them. His soft crimson-brown gaze beheld an almost alien landscape. There was sparse plant life that sprang from the blood-red soil. What was existent seemed to be wreathed in some sort of ever-burning but un-consuming flames. The field in which he stood seemed to narrow out as he went on, leading to a desecrated village. Stones from ruined structures lined the soil in every direction. People were here, but seemed to ignore his presence here on the whole. Many assumed positions of quiet agony, clawing at their ears, or dashing their heads upon stones.

Silence from the souls Story saw soon was no mystery; for he realized that none of them could speak. Was it their disembodied voices that flooded this forsaken place?

There was one that stood out from them all, standing near a crumbled well in the center of the square. It was a man, dressed in regal garb, with tones of red and gold. He had eyes similar to Story's own, but the crimson tone in them was far more pronounced. Also in contrast, he had no beard, and was young and fresh-faced. He was armed with two scimitars, in sheathes at his sides.

"Malchiah," Story spoke, cautiously taking a step back. "C'est impossible…Frere, your soul cannot be here, for it was bound."

"Yes, frere Thorn. Bound. By your hand," the apparition accused.

"I know not what game this is, but I shall not play it. You are not real," Story spat, shaking his head.

Reaching to his side, Malchiah, or the thing that pretended to be the man by that name withdrew a third sheathed weapon, and threw it at Story's feet in the dust. It was a katana, but had a cross guard rather than a disc guard, and had many features more in line with a saber. It was housed in a rather ornate golden sheath, marked with runes and tied with a red sash.

"Real enough to try you for your heresy," Malchiah said with conviction. "Pick up your sword."

Story sighed heavily with indignation. "You know very well I never stood with any of you in contacting mortals, or turning them."

"…and yet you stood with them in their courts, going along with the charade and acting as their guide. You were the ruin of us all. PICK UP YOUR SWORD."

The Goddess' realm did not cease to astound Story. He picked up the weapon as he was commanded. The feel of the hilt and pommel, the weight, every intricate detail…it was exactly as his sword had been. He knew it wasn't real, but it was real enough for this moment, and in this realm. He wondered how true to its design it truly was…if he could use its power one last time? He donned the blade around his waist and lowered his stance as he paced around Malchiah, who drew his twin scimitars.

"You could never best me in life. What makes you think you can in death?" Story taunted.

Before the chains of Lacrimarium had confined Dalanesca to Porta Inferi and Inferos, she held little desire to leave her realm other than to establish another line of sight on Angela Rose and her realm.  Now that she could not leave, no matter how hard she struggled and no matter how much Hellfire she cast into the skies of Revaliir, she wanted nothing more than to get out.  She found herself going stir crazy, and while she held control over the souls trapped in Inferos, the Lacrimarium was strong enough that it stopped her from sending her ‘minions’ to the surface.  She had tried, but each time she had failed and the aura surrounding the magical chains, as they were, seemed to sap her power more each time.  

With her confinement, she had to find means to pass the time when she was not attempting another onslaught on the surface.  Occasionally, she found herself visiting one of the Nine Circles of Inferos.  Sometimes, she would join in on the torture of those poor souls who found themselves there; other times she would simply sit by and watch what was happening.  This particular day, she chose to watch, and the sixth circle happened to be her choice.  No sooner had she arrived, not visible to any souls living or perished in the circle, did she see someone - a living someone - facing the ghosts of the Circle.  She eyed the individual, but she could not discern what he was.  Male, of course, and most certainly not human though he did appear as such.  She found him curious, and as such stood by, watching to see what was to unfold.

She could see the astonishment on his face as he realized just how real things were down there, and it was at this point that she had nearly decided to let this battle go until the end - until he spoke, of course.  At this point, with a wave of her hand, darkness consumed the Circle.  The ghosts of his sins were gone, and Dalanesca stepped forward, a soft red glow emitting from her form.  “Death always wins,” she said, though her statement was not matched a smirk.  It was a truth of life - in the end, unless one was truly an immortal, Death always won.  She eyed the newcomer up and down for a moment, her icy blue eyes nearly glowing in the almost-darkness.  “You’ve come here seeking an audience with me, have you not?” she asked, having been able to discern as much without speaking.  Anything beyond that would take either his cooperation or her torture to get out of him.  “If that is the case, this is not the place in which we will converse.  Come,” she said, and stepped forward, placing a hand on his forearm.  Blackness engulfed them, and they now found themselves in Paradiso Venenum, her prized garden of poisonous plants.  

Normally, she would put him to some sort of task - perhaps ingesting poison, or bathing in the nectar of one of the deadly flowers.  However, she found this individual both interesting and aesthetically pleasing.  More than anything, she wanted to know just what he was.  Walking away from him slowly and turning to look at him over her shoulder, and spoke.  “I am Dalanesca.  I am the Reaper of Souls, Harbinger of Darkness… et cetera, et cetera.  But you know that, don’t you?” She reached her destination - an onyx bench, and sat, motioning for him to join in the spot next to her.  “The real question is who are you?  Why have you come to Inferos?  Porta Inferi is a dangerous place for those who are still living… even more dangerous than it is for those who have already met Death.”  She narrowed her eyes a bit.  “I’m guessing you did not come to this place just for my entertainment,” she said.  With a slow motion, her tongue slid out to wet her lips, and she spoke in a rather playful tone.  “Not to say I wouldn’t complain,” she said, her eyes looking at him in a rather crude manner.  The playfulness left as suddenly as it had arrived, and she spoke in a solid tone, her eyes deepening to near-black.  “What is it that you want?”

Malchiah had always been hot-tempered in life. The entity that dwelt here was accurate in its portrayal of him, even in this regard. Story felt a little anxious about the concept of having his memories and life probed so deeply. There was not much he could do about it now, though. He had chosen to come here, to this broken Goddess' realm.
Story paced carefully around his brother and ancient enemy, evading Malchiah's swinging scimitars with relative ease. His swordplay was erratic, in his anger; it always had been. It was as if he had never taken fully to retaining a mortal frame. The beasts that they all were was the strongest in him.

Story's hand remained on the hilt of his sword, though he never drew it. He finally did, once, upon a misstep, to parry the scimitars as they both swung downward. The draw was quick, and he quickly re-sheathed the blade after deflecting the blow. Concentrating for a moment after staggering Malchiah with the parry, he drew quickly once more, performing a wide slash. The blade sang loudly, and flames darted out from the slash, as the blade then dripped with its user's own blood. Malchiah narrowly avoided the attack, but was still singed by the flames. Whatever the demon was, it broke character somewhat following the strange hemomantic technique, hesitating. His real brother would not be phased by such a thing.

"What's the matter?" Story chuckled condescendingly, panting softly form the exertion. He had forgotten just how painful that technique was. Despite the sword only existing in this realm, it felt very real. "You dictate the rules that apply here, and you made the mistake of allowing me to fight on my own terms, with things from my own history. Seems a touch short-sighted, no?"

He would not get an answer. In an instant, Malchiah, the suffering souls around them, and the ruined village was gone. There was only an all-consuming blackness.

He felt her before he saw her.

Dalanesca's presence was overpowering. He could discern her, as he turned towards her voice, for the void she created was not entirely bereft of light. He did not speak or react until she had transported them to some sort of garden, filled with colorful and deadly delights.

Story turned on his heel, putting his left foot forward, and his his left arm across his chest. He lowered into a bow, extending his right hand out to the side, palm up, fingers splayed into some sort of sign. It was a very antiquated gesture, common in courts of bygone centuries. "You may call me Story, mademoiselle," he began. He rose to his feet, and kept a respectful distance as she sat, until he was motioned over. "I happened across a fragment of your sorrow," Story answered simply, taking the tear from his pocket and showing it to the Goddess. He chuckled softly. "So…yes. I suppose in a sense, I am here entirely for your benefit, having followed the thread here. Curiosity is a deadly thing."

Aforementioned curiosity was what had Story rise from the bench, pacing about the garden to admire the various flora, and the basin filled with deadly venom. He turned calmly to Dalanesca as she skeptically inquired of his desires. While her tonality and mood seemed tempestuous and ever-changing, Story was almost unnervingly even-handed. His crimson-brown gaze remained neutral as he considered her. If he were a gambling man, he would most certainly be able to bluff with ease. He was not afraid of her. This much was clear. The nature of his interest in her was only voiced with his next words:
"What is it that you want?" he repeated the question back to her. It did not show either way if he was aware of the absurdity of asking a goddess such a thing.

"I will not inquire of the metrics, the why…however…with the changing of the spheres, I would essentially be your servant now, all things considered."

Dalanesca cocked an eyebrow at him as he bowed, and she noted just how old-fashioned of an action it was.  She said nothing to this, waiting until he introduced himself.  “Story,” she said, repeating his name in a low voice, barely above a whisper.  “The bowing.  It’s rather unusual, these days,” she said, a hint of curiosity to her words.  There was something she found inherently interesting about him, but she had no way of knowing what that thing was.  When he came to sit next to her at her invitation and showed her the tear, her eyes widened.  “My sorrow?” she said, reaching a hand out as if to touch the thing that he held, but pulling it back quickly.  “How in the nine circles would you know what created this…” Her question trailed off at the end, and it was not peppered with anger as one might think.  She brought her gaze, its normal icy blue, back to look at Story, where she studied him for a few moments rather silently before he rose from his seat and walked about the garden.

She watched him, the question about who, or rather what he was quite obvious in her eyes.  Normally, when she brought a traveller to Inferos into Paradiso Venenum, they looked terrified.  There were innumerable things in that garden that could kill someone within seconds of even touching them - but Story did not even look mildly concerned.  When he spoke, questioning her in turn, her eyes cast a light of surprise towards him.  It was rather clear that he was not scared of her in the slightest, but that was not something she was used to.  Those who came to Domus Tenebris, to the palace in which she made her home deep within the tenth circle of Inferos, generally reeked of fear  This one, this Story…. He did not.  

Staring at him, Dalanesca found herself unsure of how to answer, before he spoke once more.  His words did little to relieve the surprise that she felt, but now managed to couple it with confusion.  After another minute or so, she finally spoke, choosing her words rather carefully.  She did not want to give way that she was befuddle by him, but she could sense that he was intelligent enough that he would figure it out on his own.  If he wanted to know why the change had come to her spheres, she would simply tell him why.

“What do I want… well, let’s start with what you want to know.  I was madly in love.  Married, in fact.  Loved that man more than anything… and then, I was carrying his child.  Angela Rose,” she said, pausing as a flash of crimson crossed her eyes, the rage audible in her voice as she spoke her fellow Triune’s name.  “She promised me that she would help me, if anything were to go wrong.  Of course, being divine in nature, the likelihood of that was rather low - that, she assured me of,” she said, her eyes still holding a deep red color, though it was now beginning to fade back to her regular blue.  “My husband went out on a patrol - and he never came back… this was mere weeks before it was thought my child would be born.”  

She stood from the bench and walked towards Story, until she was standing fairly close to him.  “Five days after he went missing, I went into labor… and the child was lost.  Angela Rose did not come, even though I called to her… By the time she felt she could spare a moment, it was too late.  My child died before I could even hold her.”  Her eyes remained fairly void of emotion as she reached to her right and plucked a Nightshade flower, rolling its petals back and forth between her fingers.  “Does that answer your question?” she asked, giving him a cold look.

She walked a bit away from him, looking back at him over her shoulder much in the manner she had beforehand.  When she was a few feet away, she turned, facing him once more.  “What would qualify you to serve Death?” she asked, and the question was peppered with more than one feeling - curiosity, incredulity, rage, even lust.  She eyed him up and down - he seemed young, though his mannerisms and language gave way to another explanation.  “I could think of a few ways for you to… serve me,” she said, her lips pulling back into a devilish smirk, the connotations behind her words not without mild seriousness.  “Please, show me what it is that makes you worthy.”  There were a few ways in which she thought this Story could serve her, and not all of them were strictly in terms of serving the realm.  However, she felt that there was a bit more than met the eye with this one.

Contrasting the pair in their interaction from afar, Story seemed reserved in the extreme compared to Dalanesca. While this very well could allude to a deficiency in emotions or ulterior motives, Story was an exception, and a contradiction. There was absolutely no evidence that the man was mincing his words, or amending his behaviors in any way. Indeed, he seemed capable of great depth of feeling, and was actually rather candid…if only somewhat alien, in his choices of action and reaction at times.

Story chuckled softly. "Some habits, they are as sticky as honey, and age without spoiling like it as well," was all he said to her comment about his bow. He met her cold and confused gaze with a rather ominous look in return. "I see with more than just my eyes, mon cher."

Wishing to exercise empathy in his waiving of Dalanesca's explanation as to her current state, Story nonetheless listened very intently as she elaborated upon her sorrow. His crimson-tinted gaze was soft as he considered her, watching as she spoke. His eyes held compassion, and probably more, but gleaning anything about his state of mind or intentions seemed near impossible without him voicing it, or the one so curious to invade his thoughts.

Story brought his hand to his heart and bowed his head to her. "I am deeply sorry to hear this about your family," he sympathized. "Forgive me if I offended you with my discretion. I…did not wish for you to revisit what made the tear that brought me here, for we only just met; though you honor me by sharing it. Merci."
He cocked his head to the side, and his tone suddenly changed in an indescribable way. "In the aftermath of it all…what did you hope to accomplish by attacking your sister Goddess? Was it punishment for her neglect, or something else?"

The choice of words was a dangerous prospect, but Story seemed far from condescending. He was genuinely curious.
"If unbound, would you reconcile with her, or continue the assault?"
He again displayed knowledge gleaned by his other sight, whatever that may be, with his implications.


Story did, at last, react to the Goddess' use of innuendo. It was only a rather demure chuckle in response, however, as if to wordlessly comment that she knew not what she asked of him. "I shall show you, of course. Allow me a moment. I have retained the form you see for a very, very long time."



The subtle details were the first to be altered.
As story closed his eyes, and lowered to his knees, taking several deep breaths, his presence seemed to expand through the entirety of the space - as though he were astral projecting. Deep rumbling shook the garden. It could be mistaken for a quake at first, but the tremors were in fact…growls. It could be expected that this might give way to some sort of grotesque physical display of metamorphosis before Dalanesca's eyes, but the transformation soon proved to be wrought entirely by magic. The man that knelt before her was gone, and something else took shape, coiling about the goddess, and the majority of the garden pavilion.


Scales. Thousands of dark, ebony scales, glittering as though speckled by star dust. Claws, gripping the railings of the pavilion, scraping across stone and earth. Something serpentine coiled around Dalanesca…a tail. The tail led up to the spined back of a massive, ancient umbral dragon. It spread its bat-like wings, and the membranes seemed to glow, even in the half-light of the goddess' realm, as though colorful nebulae were contained within their expanse. It lowered its head down to look her eye to eye. The crimson in Story's eyes was all that shown now, burning brilliantly within the reptilian skull, which was crowned by arcing, stag-like horns. Despite the creature's immense size, it had a surprising amount of poise and grace, careful not to tread upon the plants, break any decor, or to crush its host beneath its bulk. It gingerly coiled itself about the garden, centered upon Dalanesca.

"How may I serve thee?" the dragon's deep bass voice boomed. Gone now was the accent that Story possessed as a man; though the voice was unmistakably his.

“Apologies do nothing to change what has taken place, and you have not offended me in the slightest.”  Her voice was rather even, giving the intensely personal recollection she had just shared with him.  It hadn’t taken much of an emotional toll on the goddess, as she was already feeling rather empty.  She gave him a slight nod in acknowledgment of the mention of being honored by her sharing, but said no more on the matter.  When Story questioned her about her motives behind attacking Angela, she looked at him for a moment, her eyes hard, the flash of crimson returning.  She said nothing, only staring at him in response.  She could have answered him, of course, but she was still unsure how to put her thoughts into coherent phrases.

“If I’m unbound, she will perish,” she said, simply, the she, of course, referring to Angela Rose.  “There’s nothing to it besides that,” she added, the crimson fading from her eyes.  

A smirk formed on Dalanesca’s lips as at long last she drew some sort of reaction from her visitor, as was the end goal of her continued comments.  Truthfully, he was rather pleasing to the eye and she would not have been upset , but she took amusement in watching people become rather uncomfortable. 

Dalanesca’s eyebrow cocked once more at Story’s use of the word ‘form.’  She had gathered that he was not human, but when he spoke this it provoked her interest even further than it already had been.  “Now I’m curious,” she said, her voice quiet and breathy.  She took a step back from him and turned, making her way back to the bench she had been sitting on before.  She reclined a bit, her arms draped over the back of the bench on either side of her, waiting to see what happened.

The goddess’s lips parted slightly as Story transformed before her eyes, giving way to what he truly was.  Her eyes widened, matching the surprised expression that had begun to cross her visage.  She watched in particular awe as the ‘man’ before her transformed into his true form - that of a dragon.  She had most certainly not expected that.

When Story spoke to her in his draconic voice, she just stared at him, her eyes truly expressive of her surprise.  She glanced around herself, at the dragon’s tail coiled about her, and at his immense form taking up a majority of the empty space in her garden.  She found herself rather impressed that he had managed not to damage a single one of her plants, or any of the structures.  The creature before her was absolutely beautiful, and she rose to her feet, admiring the intricacies of his scales. 

No fear crossed her face as she moved closer still to the dragon, who still remained at eye level.  She had never found herself face to face with such a creature, and especially not in a capacity that was non threatening.  Story was marvelous to her, and she reached out her hand, bringing it to gently caress the scales of the dragon’s snout, coming to a soft rest at the end..  “Simply amazing,” she breathed, and for a few short moments all memories of the hatred and anger for Angela Rose that were burning inside of her dissipated, her focus now only on Story and his true form.

She seemed to snap herself out of her reverie, pulling her hand away and taking a few steps back.  After a few moments, she finally spoke.  “I’m… impressed, to say the least,” she said, and there was something different to her voice.  It was as though watching Story’s transformation had distracted her enough from her grief that she had returned to her demeanor from before she had taken on the changes of her spheres, if only momentarily.  Snapping back to her old self, she smirked again.  “And while I can think of many… enjoyable ways you could serve me in your human form… I think you could be very useful in this form.”  She paused, and it was clear that she was at a bit of a loss for words. 

Eventually, she managed to voice what she was thinking.  Why would a creature of such capability and strength want to serve someone?  She found herself asking that question over and over, but unable to think of a way to ask it.  “Why are you so keen to serve me?” she finally questioned him, deciding on bluntness rather than eloquence.

Dalanesca's continued flirtation made the dragon snort. Not with disgust, it seemed, but rather, amusement. He shied away from voicing whatever private joke occupied his thoughts. Story reared up, shifting his weight and folding his effervescent wings to a relaxed state. "It is the purpose which I have chosen for myself…to serve others," the dragon explained. "Call it repentance, or whatever you wish. I have lived for a very long time. My race were some of the first dragons to exist, spawned from the primordial darkness itself. In essence, this would align me with you and your sphere…"
Deep rumbling in the creature's throat and belly gave way to what could only be described as a draconic chuckle. "Not that I have ever concerned myself with trivial matters such as a banner to fall under."

"No…" the dragon muttered, swiftly turning on its haunches, and deftly maneuvering about the garden. Story retreated to the space cut off from the main overlook, so as to stretch his massive frame. It had been many ages since being in this state, and he had to re-acquaint himself with it. "It is your anguish that brought me here," he said with a growl of conviction. "It is your anguish that fashioned this place, and forced the changing of the spheres."

Story stretched out his wings, and with a single beat, the gusts carried him with a monumental crash to the edge of the railing, where he craned his head back towards the Goddess. "Pain is something that I understand, and something that interests me. Especially from one such as yourself. Make no mistake, though…"
The dragon reared back, as if to roar, or to unleash an elemental assault with its breath. Nothing came, though. Nothing save Story, the man, instantaneously transported in front of Dalanesca once more with his reversion of form. His face was inches away from hers. The menacing red glow had not yet left his eyes, and his grin sported prominent fangs. "Choosing to serve does not make one a servant," he emphasized to her, some of the depth of his draconic tone still lingering.

Taking a step back from Dalanesca, Story closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Upon exhaling and opening his eyes, they reverted to their original soft crimson-brown hue. "Mon cher…" he mused, biting at his lip thoughtfully. His pleasant, accented voice had returned now as well. "You know not what you ask when you flatter so readily, nor in what you may imply with any assumptions as to what you just witnessed. I can do a great many things for you…not without expecting in return, of course. Leave my heart strings out of things, and the symphony of a brief partnership can sound, uninhibited."

Dalanesca watched the dragon as he expanded his wings, moving about the garden a bit before.  She felt only a brief pang of worry that he was going to attack (though she would have been more than likely unscathed, being that it was her realm) before he reverted to his human form.  the remnants of his draconic state in his eyes as well as his mouth.  His comment was left unanswered for a brief moment, before she responded.  “I have plenty of tormented souls to be my servants.  I’ve no need to contract the living for such,” she said.  It was not a bragging tone, but simply a statement of fact.  “Any assistance I receive from you on any matters would be due to your willingness to assist, not to my command,” she said, the words clearly a reassurance that she understood what he was saying.  

She kept her astonishment at the quickness of his change and reversion to his human self fairly shielded behind a stoic face.  She eyed him with curiosity at his next statement, and it dawned on her that her words had been taken in full seriousness, when she had meant them mostly in jest.  “Flattery is not my intention,” she said simply.  “The words that I speak are out of playfulness, rather than desire,” she said.  “Understand that I am here alone, confined to my realm currently,” she said, and there was a hint sadness to her words as well as her gaze.  The icy tones of her blue eyes had dulled slightly, and it was clear that this revelation of loneliness was something she was trying to suppress.  

She remained silent for a short while, looking away from Story and casting her gaze about the garden.  Thoughts of Marth as well as her precious Katja shimmered in her memory, but she pushed them away.  Though she was in such an angered state, she was still quite capable of pain and emotion, and she was afraid if she spent too much time dwelling on the past she would show that emotion, regardless of her claim to being indifferent.  Her eyes still cried tears for the loss of her loved ones when no one could see.

“Walk with me,” she said, rather briskly, though it was clear that the it was an invitation rather than a command.  Story was free to leave her realm at any time, as far as she was concerned.  When he agreed, however, she was rather pleased, and insisted that he walk at her side rather than behind her.  She found him very interesting, and she was keen to learn a bit more about him.  She led him to the palace entrance, headed for one of the sitting rooms.  “I feel that a partnership could be mutually beneficial,” she finally said, after a few moments of silence between the two.  “I am sure there are many things that I can offer you, just as I am sure there are many things that you can offer me.  I would not expect anything from you without some sort of reciprocity, just as I am sure you know that you would not receive anything from me without something in return,” she added.  “And no, that time there was no innuendo attached,” she added with a bit of a smirk.  

The palace resembled most traditional gothic architectures, save that it was crafted entirely of black stones and sunstones.  When the pair reached the sitting room that Dalanesca had deemed their destination, it was peppered with a few pieces of furniture, all of crimson velvet.  She chose a chair, which circled a small onyx table along with another chair and a small sofa.  “Please, sit,” she said, gesturing towards the empty place.  “Perhaps we can discuss what it is that we can do for one another,” she said rather simply.  She felt that Story had been rather ambiguous at explaining why he had come to her realm, other than the teardrop that he had found, and she found herself growing more curious with each passing minute.

Story's disposition was bubbly and accepting - indeed, staunch stoicism seemed to have been replaced with overflowing mirth. This was possibly a product of his shifting, granted he had not taken what could be considered his true form in ages. Characteristic empathy dictated his tone however, which immediately settled into something more solemn. "Isolation is also something I understand well. Forgive my interpretation. My kind has always been very particular and measured when it comes to words."

Having nowhere else to be, as he came here with the purpose in mind of being here, Story walked alongside Dalanesca. He was comfortable walking in silence, and simply letting her speak when she was ready. He returned her smirk in good humor, though his amusement seemed to be towards some other subject entirely, for his mouth curled up long before they traded glances.

Sitting as per direction, across from the Goddess, Story lowered into the chair, crossing legs and leaning to one side. One hand mindlessly fiddled with his beard, with the other arm rested on its elbow. There was something implacable about the way he carried himself at all times that was decidedly regal, and the way he sat made this even more pronounced. This was most likely due to some sort of instilled mannerisms, and not an inflated ego.

"You do not feel I can do much for you…but you are shackled here in this place, are you not?" He quirked his eyebrows at her to emphasize what he was implying, anticipating any incredulous look she would give him. "I do not claim the power alone to break your bindings. I am old. Not divine. However…I know a great deal, I'm resourceful, and, most importantly, I walk freely and am here at your disposal. As for what I would require…"

Story uncrossed his legs and leaned forward into his clasping hands thoughtfully, unsure at first how to voice his request. "There is…a certain soul I wish to make contact with. I cannot say if she would have wound up in this realm, or elsewhere. I only wish for closure. Where I have failed in searching, I believe you would succeed."
He huffed, and smiled at her bitterly. "I suppose I should honor you with some sort of elaboration, as you have given me the same. I will preface it by saying there are times I wish I were entirely of this flesh," he said with a beat to his chest, and a sharp inhalation through his teeth. His eyes wandered upward along the black and celestial sunstone pallets of the palace as he found his composure.

"Mortal minds, as you well know, are blessed with a memory that mercifully fades and distorts with time. Dragons…not just my kind, but the race as a whole, are different in that everything remains remarkably fresh. It is how so many of us can hold grudges for an age, or fall prey to old passions, or…well. I think you might understand how difficult it must be to suppress anything negative."

Story cleared his throat.

"Suffice to say, being forced to watch as your lover is torn asunder in the most malicious of ways is a memory that would tend to linger and hold the stage over many others."

“No need for forgiveness,” Dalanesca said, rather briskly.  “I simply did not mean to give you the wrong impression,” she added, and there was a finality to her words, as though she would say no more on the matter.  His mention of understanding her isolation piqued her interest once more, but she insightfully determined that this was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion.  Perhaps, at a later juncture in time, she would be allowed to learn a bit more about Story’s past.

She regarded him with obvious interest as he situated himself into a comfortable position where she directed him.  Amazement still bounced about her mind periodically that this seemingly mostly-normal looking man in front of her had, just a short while ago, transformed into a magnificently terrifying creature, and then instantaneously back into his normal form. Of course, she was no stranger to magic, but shifting of any sort had always been rather interesting to her.  Until she had made Moliira’s acquaintance, she had never actually watched another being transform into any creature, magical or not.  She had worked rather closely with Blaine Wintercrest at that time, and had seen firsthand his capabilities at changing.  It was something she supposed one would get used to witnessing after time, but presently she still found it rather interesting.

Intently, Dalanesca listened to Story as he explained what it was that he hoped to gain from his partnership with the Goddess.  “Inferos has an innumerable amount of souls harbored within its circles,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly as she delved into thought, though she trailed off as Story began his further explanation as to why seeking out this particular soul would be important to him.  She fell silent, the more serious the words became, the more enthralled she was becoming in the story.  She knew how difficult what he spoke of was, how painful it was to be unable to forget anything - it was a side effect of her divinity.  Even memories that she had forgotten in her mortal life had been brought back strongly by her apotheosis.

The finale of his tale caused her eyes to burn, and she could feel the tears welling in her eyes, blinking them back furiously.  One escaped, trailing slowly down her porcelain skin.  Having just lost her child, essentially dying in her arms, and with the almost-certain death of Marth, the sadness in his tale was overwhelming.  The emotions that she had bottled up within herself were slowly working their way loose, and the tear that she shed was a testament to the fact that the Goddess could still, indeed, feel.  

A few moments of silence passed, while Dalanesca furitively contemplated what to say.  “If this soul is in Inferos, I will find it for you,” she said, simply, though her words offered a promise that would not be broken.  She fell silent once more, realizing that she had truly let her guard down in front of this stranger - a stranger who had just shown to be in possession of an immense amount of power; such a show was dangerous for the divine. 

With her composure mostly intact, Dalanesca spoke up again.  “However, if I assist you in this, you must know that I will, in turn, require something of you,” she said, her eyes looking towards the ceiling of the palace.  “I may be moved by the sadness of your tale, but this is still a tit for tat situation, if I may be so frank,” she added.  While the phrasing seemed more like her original demeanor when she had happened upon Story, there was a tone to her words that gave way to otherwise - whatever it was, she resolved that she would help him find this soul - but he would help her, in some way, to break free of the binds that held her in Inferos.