Beneath the stately halls of the Dorell Manor, the ghostly visage of Verandis guides me towards a possible fissure in the veil of Lady Montclair’s enchantment that has ensnared the nobles of the city above. Perhaps the Lady was remembering the Lorkrata Ruins when she set her bloodfiends to guard her grand illusion’s only visible weakness.
The two bloodfiends look almost identical, in life I suspect they may well have been sisters. But then I recall the endless rows of the destitute Soul-Shriven chained up in the Castle of the Worm, each one so indistinguishable from the next that I could tell not Man from Mer.
Perhaps it is that when we lose our soul to unnatural cause, we also lose those things that give our faces the characteristics that mark our individuality; our personality, our memories, and our emotions.
And I begin to wonder… how long before I am no longer able to recognize my own reflection.