Light. Darkness. A swirling maelstrom of confusion, whirling about in a wretched mixture of compassion and hate was all that an angel could sense. Nothing was solid, and everything seemed to be in upheaval and chaos. At last everything became clear, and all that was around him was white.

“IADNAH MADRID, FOR YOUR CRIMES YOU ARE THENCEFORTH FALLEN, BARRED FROM THE CELESTIAL LAND.”

Black chains came from all directions, binding him firmly. His wings were forcibly outstretched, and it felt as though thorns were wrapping around the wings. His limbs were stretched and far as could be, and pain filled every nerve of the angel’s being. With a great wrench, the thorns tightened, and ripped the wings from the angel’s back. The angel’s cry of pain echoed across this strange place, and his tears became as blood, his agony nigh unbearable. Two long, open wounds now lay upon the angel’s back. His long, black hair was matted to his back, as the blood from his wounds ran down, dripping from his toes.

All at once, the chains vanished, and the angel had the sensation of plummeting. The fall seemed to last for an eternity, and he began to wonder if it would ever end. At last the light turned to darkness, and he felt something solid beneath his feet, just before losing consciousness.

---

.

When he awoke, he was in a dark and dingy alleyway, lying in the dirt, with naught but a simple sleeveless shirt and skirt-like tunic. His long black hair fell down to his lower back, and his soft, baby blue eyes almost seemed to glow, such was their hue. A simple Longsword lay a short distance away, and the angel slowly stood, and took the sword. He walked slowly, for his back was in pain. His white shirt was rapidly being stained red from the blood, in two long wounds down his back. He stumbled into the nearest building, which happened to be a pub. All manner of unsavory characters filled the establishment, and the angel, half in a daze, stumbled a seat at the bar. The bartender asked him what he wanted, but the angel said nothing. He merely stared at the counter, his mind lost in thought.

Lomedor was growing tedious. The activity of this town was dull and rather predictable, which in and of itself was not entirely tiresome, but mixed with the large crowds of bartering fools and rowdy "gentlemen" who kept to their cups in the taverns, it was a wonder anyone remained here for long. Time seemed to drag on as day finally gave way to dusk, the shadows falling across the street as the moon, with a more gentle light, delicately blanketed the lands with a slight glow for those who wandered in the darkness of night.

One who could be found on the emptying streets was a slight monk, draped in a large linen tunic the color of burnt sienna. The folds of the cloth masked her figure as they draped until they brushed the ground. Sleeves fell long and shapeless as the concealed the slender hands of the woman. Around her waist, a rope tied which did little more than reveal how small the monk actually was; still, little could be surmised about this figure, for when she wandered the streets, she had taken to keeping her hood up over her cranium. The brim hung down, keeping her face masked in shadows, while the excess fabric created a pocket behind her head which hung limply this night. The excess fabric from the large hood fell about her neck before tightening slightly then tapering down past her shoulders to rest on her chest and back. There was very little which would claim the attention of others, for it merely appeared a small monk wandering the streets in a monochromatic garb.

The air would take a defined chill from the absence of the sun as Conrade moved quietly through the streets, seeking out a welcoming bed to rest herself for the night. Beginning very faintly at first, the sound of a merry and an almost drunken enjoyment caught her ears. Surely where there is drink and life, there is a bed for rent. With great force, she kept herself from uttering a silent prayer; those days were over. The fathers no longer held her through their teachings, nor did the gods need or deserve her reverence. Bitterness filled her at the thought, her lips tightening into a firm line as she moved through the labyrinth of streets to find the tavern.

The noise was quite an aid in finding the building she now stood before, for even outside the sounds were almost overwhelming. There would be no danger of attracting too much attention in this place, would there? Indecision rose high within her as she stood staring at the door, almost appearing as an omen to those that stumbled upon the image she presented. The building itself was quite shabby in appearance, and clearly the owners had no desire to waste their treasure on general upkeep. A helpless sign hung down, groaning and squeaking as the wind toyed and bullied it. Surely the monk could think of some metaphor between this particular sign and life, but what was the purpose? There would be no one to share her thoughts with, for the people she had come across to this point were ridiculous and dull.

Taking a deep breath, the woman would proceed to the door. Slender fingers pushed themselves from the chasm of the linen to firmly grasp the round handle. The cool metal chilled the warm fingertips as they connected, the force from the woman enough to open the door, though as she did so, the joints moaned in protest as if they wished to declare the arrival of another guest.

Standing in the doorway a moment, Conrade would allow her gaze to flicker over the crowd, finding a place to move towards, not desiring an aimless trek around the room in futile pursuit. To her slight pleasure, only a few faces which were closest to the door turned to acknowledge her presence. Her hand would pull the door closed with a firm jerk before disappearing once again into the folds of the cloak. Candlelight danced across the faces of the patrons, giving eerie shadows a chance to morph and distort the face as they sat huddled in corners to discuss what could only be unsavory business deals. Others had faces filled with laughter and deranged by shadows; the overall effect was rather eerie and cynical. Perhaps this had not been the best idea; would a monk draw far too much attention here? Her brows furrowed beneath the shadow of her hood as she moved over to the bar which contained the closest available seat.

As she moved swiftly, to keep the attention she had captured to a minimum, she would brush against the man who would be seated next to her once she occupied the stool. My luck, I'll sit next to the only other person who would attract attention. The wounds down his back were of little concern, for though she knew the emotion of pity and that it was appropriate in this situation, apathy reigned in her entire being. Perhaps he was not the type to attract attention, for he was remaining uncharacteristically silent in this establishment.

Her attention was drawn away from the man, though she kept an image of him within her mind as she glanced at the barkeep. He was waiting impatiently for her attention. His greasy hair was uncombed and his breath was filled with rancor. Just when the monk thought there was nothing else to disgust her, having grown almost accustomed to the ever present scents of alcohol, body odor, and sweat, here was something to prove her wrong. Her voice was of unusual timbre, not deep, neither was it high. Simply, and peculiarly, her tones could be considered feminine and nothing more. "Stew. And wine." She knew the taste of the cheapest wine would be horrid, but water in a place such as this was most likely an unwise choice; who knew what unsanitary filth filled the liquid? Her mind would quickly turn back to the present as the barkeep named an outrageous price; annoyance filled the monk. "That is ridiculous," her tones were low and precise as she spoke. "You'll pay it or not receive service. And I'll have you escorted out of doors. We don't like serving you types here." His voice was heavily accented, effectively slaughtering the vernacular. Her brows would furrow as she attempted to decipher what was being said; she had never studied the slang, and it had been over fifteen years since she had wandered the streets. Giving a snort of disgust, she would agree to the fine, her fingers dipping into a particular fold at her belt which secretly held coins. Fingers brushing over what little she had left, she would release a sigh. She would have to find work soon; and lift this stupid curse.

Tossing the coins on the counter, she would mutter to herself after he had turned away "Better be a meal worthy of the gods."