She was supposed to be leaving after finishing up some business in the city, flying out from the docks westward, towards Railoch. After returning from Kujishoku she still had a lot of work still cut out for her to finish securing the boundary between the spirit realm and Menomori. Iria was the closest place to find magical supplies. Karith was farther and she didn't really feel comfortable going there when she learned about how the place was run. Unfortunately, Nisshoki and Kujishoku weren't the only places in Parvpora that would suffer the effects of the deities' game. And though she had been fortunate to have arrived in the spirit realm during a time of induced peace, this time it would be much different.

Walking down the streets, suddenly the cobblestone roads and buildings morphed into something similar to Feeorin. Trees sprouted out from the ground in vividly saturated colors of blues and purples, while glowing lights twinkled in the newly-emerging flowers. Moss and grass overtook the stone paths, and the air was hazy. All signs of the former mages' city were gone. There was always a nervousness and unease whenever she found herself in a place strong with magic. With time she had learned to manage her anxiety towards humanoid mages, and even eased out of her tendencies of misanthropy. But as the darkness took hold, it dredged up things that were best buried and forgotten. 

She was feeling the same initial distrust and wariness as when she fell into Kujishoku's wavering boundaries. But for some reason, this time she had a sickening sensation in the pit of her stomach. Immediately something within her was screaming for her to get out and she didn't know why. The shape of the surrounding areas weren't anything like what she had seen in Revaliir, but it was eerily familiar. It wasn't just her imagination–she had been here before. She just knew.

Taking out her axe, she crouched and crept along the wildwood path. This place was very quiet, like the sounds were being muffled by some unseen force. Several times she would look over her shoulder thinking she heard footsteps or a twig snapping. At one point, Shiloh noticed her own footfalls were echoing. Whatever doubts and mental justifications she had were shoved aside when she heard a faint and otherworldly sound of singing. It was a sprightly and airy tune, like the whistle of lighthearted folk at play. But for Shiloh, it was a sound that sent shivers through her body to where she was visibly shaking. When she was very young she had heard this song only once, and there was a terrible reason for it.


It happened in the second year after she lived with Unna and her sons. They took her in as one of their own, and though she was much smaller than the mountain trolls, they did their best to raise her well. She learned fishing, foraging, and other survival skills from the three, having as much freedom as the wild animals. What they didn't teach her was how to avoid being caught into the fairy realm, and they never would have expected the girl to find her way there. Shiloh didn't even remember how she had fallen in–just that when she came to her senses everything had become very different.

The world of the fae was twisted and ever-changing, capricious and cruel. It was from here that she had gained her distinctive paranoia that stayed with her for the rest of her life. Beautiful things that turned out to be deadly, innocent things that became horrific with a second glance, and a plethora of hidden dangers disguised with deceitful faces. The first time she entered in, she was lucky to have made it out alive. But if Shiloh's memory was correct, that very fact alone was all thanks to a fluke. She could never place her trust in chance ever again. Not when it was so fickle. Navigating her way through the deathly man-eating plants and bloodthirsty creatures, her old instincts were resurfacing. She was hiding to not be seen, holding her breath so she would not be heard, and closing her eyes so she wouldn't see what horrors were passing by–lest she give away her location.

Through a painstaking process of hide-and-keep-still, she had survived several stretches of this mad forest. There was some sort of structure of stone, some sort of gateway she recalled from the old stories and legends. Old naturally-formed arches like these were portals in and out of the fae world, and anyone would be able to pass through.

A lunatic cackle echoed from behind, making the rogue's body lock up in fear. "I see you–you tiny, tiny mouse." Fear made her heart pound frantically in her chest, the sound ringing in her ears. No! NO! Not him! Anyone but him! Shiloh could hear that manic laughter growing louder with each step as a sinister, smiling figure formed out of the lurid fog. With long arms and long legs, garbed in a glittering coat with ratty coattails, the face of a fae leered from above. She couldn't see his eyes, as his garish disheveled hair draped long over the upper half of his face. If you saw him, you'd think he was the Mad Hatter. And quite frankly, he easily could have played the part. 

"Thought you could get away from ME, did you? HahahaHAHA!!! You dimwit–thinking a mere human could ever trick a fae! You are the fools, and we are the tricksters, that's how it's ALWAYS been!" Materializing a crystalline cane, the madman stabbed at the ground causing Shiloh to flinch. Her eyes darting to the side, the sharpened point of the rosy-colored shaft was only an inch away from her hand. This couldn't be happening. This was impossible! She had beat him! He shouldn't be here! He wasn't supposed to be here! He shouldn't even exist in this world! This was Revaliir, this wasn't…

In a rare trip to the southern portion of Parvpora, Sylvain was waiting back on the Clephsydra. After they landed he passed the time reading a book, something he himself hadn't done in a long time. Wondering what was taking so long, he glanced up to see a rolling darkness envelop the city through the airship window. Though darkness of any kind worked in his favor, this felt sinister and unnatural. Stepping out, he ventured into the streets to see what was going on. There was a strong sense of disorientation, forcing him to steady himself while clutching his head. His head was pounding, and the side of his neck began to sting as if needles had been pushed through his skin. His hand reached to brush the feeling away, when he saw on his fingers a crimson smear of fresh blood. His fingers then searched that same area, and found puncture holes. Then he remembered.

The centuries had washed out old memories to near nothingness. He'd never thought of it since it happened to be about the same location where the deity's brand was marked. Now that it was all coming back to him, Sylvain remembered: this was the very place he had been bitten before being turned. 

The streets of Iria had changed into the overcast paths of an old cemetery. It was falling apart and decrepit, with a large abandoned house in the distance. Dead trees and withered heath gave way to damp soil, and he found himself wearing an old tabard he hadn't seen in ages. He felt something slowly seep into him, reliving the process he had endured in becoming a vampire at an accelerated pace. The slippage of his mind, a growing lust for blood. Grasping at his throat, he was expecting to feel the burning pains of his mark break him free from it, to no avail. It was like he had been thrown back in time, forced to walk through his descent into darkness as a creature of the night. 

That condescending chuckle came from behind, from the lips of a woman with marble-white skin and raven-black hair. Dressed in a ruddy-red evening gown lined with feathers, she had a gloved hand at her lips. Beautiful save for her heartless eyes, she bared her fangs for him to see. 

"Here to kill me again?" The voice of his sire sneered. "Even after you drove a stake through my heart and cut off my head, I've still won!" Throwing back her head she let out a loud peal of laughter before pointing straight at him. "So you think you're better than me? You're a just as much as a monster as I am!" She jeered. "At least I only killed to sate my hunger–unlike you! What will your family think when they find out? Does your wife know? What about your son?" Sauntering over a broken headstone, she whispered with a self-satisfied look on her face. "How do you think little Lysandre will feel when he hears his dear father was a bloodthirsty murderer?"

His eyes flashing with anger, Sylvain drew his claymore and was ready to cleave her in two–then he sensed someone else nearby. Clarimonde noticed his change in focus, and turned in the direction of his gaze. A cruel smile parted her lips. She darted that way, and the vampire lord realized what she was planning. "Get back here you snake!" He shouted, giving chase. "You won't escape me again!" He wasn't going to lose another person like Friar Rodri again. This time he wouldn't arrive a moment too late.

His sire was faster than he remembered, or was it due to him reliving his past? Even as a vampire, he could only see her for a few moments before she would disappear around another bend. He could feel that presence he had felt grow closer and closer. Nearly stumbling on a grossly overgrown root, he looked up in confusion as the heath had turned into some sort of enchanted forest. Continuing his pursuit, he trailed after the tittering laugh of the vampire woman. Cutting through the briers, he came upon his employer–backing away from a strange man in gaudy clothing. "Shiloh? What are you doing here?" When she gave no response, he looked to see her staring wide-eyed past him, fingers digging into the mossy ground. "Shiloh!" Grabbing her by the shoulders the lord shook her, but her gaze was still transfixed on the garish fiend looming above. Then she started to hyperventilate while shaking intensely.

The floating man cackled maniacally, as he grinned in delight. "What's this? Another little rat to go with the worm? You even brought yourself a friend! Oh you shouldn't have…" The man's initially normal visage morphed into a demented one with razor-sharp teeth, eyes with a sickly gold glow from beneath the brim of his hat. With Clarimonde nowhere in sight, Sylvain now had a full grasp of the situation. If the appearance of his sire was naught but a specter, then the same would be for Shiloh at this very moment.