Fer wild, pale wings drawn around herself tightly, guarding against the
elements, an aged Trill woman stood gazing out across the Basin from her
vantage point high atop Avechna's peak. Mighty winds blew about her, the icy
gusts slicing like blades through her ragged feathers. Leaning against the
imposing walls of the ancient temple that enclosed the enormous figure of
Avechna itself, she let out an involuntary sigh, her breath immediately clouding
in a burst of mist, and she grimaced at her own weakness.

This was not an occasion to be concerned with trepidation or regret, she
thought, though that is what she always told herself to think whenever the end
was near. The time for such thoughts as nostalgia or self-pity was quite
certainly past, but still, it was exactly those things that weighed on her mind
the most. They always did. Every single time.

How many times has it been now, she asked herself, before having to concede
that she had lost count a long time ago. She had been an elven alcoholic before
this, she was certain, but that was were her certainty ended. It would have been
nice to think that it was simply all that ale that clouded her memory, but it
would also have been quite naive indeed. No, forgetting was inevitable in the
quest she had undertaken for herself. In fact, it was important to forget: to
let go of the lives that went before.

Drawing her wings even tighter about her, she drank in the glittering sights of
the Basin far below her. After all, this would be the last chance for those
particular eyes to look upon them. She let herself grin grimly at that
particular choice of words. Indeed, it was one of the last views her eyes would
ever see. As last views go, it was really quite spectacular: the pale,
glistening waters of the Inner Sea looked particularly beautiful, this time, as
it reflected the countless multitude of stars in the crystal clear sky.

Pulling a journal, though it was little more than a thick pile of loose scraps
of paper bound in a strip of thin leather, from the worn satchel at her feet,
she flicked through it's delicate pages, pausing at times to read a short
passage scrawled in her spidery handwriting, or to glance over one of her many
sketches. She had enjoyed this life, this time around. These peaceful decades
had been some of the best she had ever had, or at least the best she could
remember.

It hadn't been glamorous, but then so few lives can be said to hold any
particular glamor, and few new it more that her. Working hard in the gardens
high above Clarramore had been satisfying, and even fewer lives can be said to
be that. True, it was a simple life, and it had it's frustrations, tiny and
many, but it she had cherished her time there. If she had not undertaken this
mission of hers, she could have quite happily lived there to the end of her
days.

Indeed, she had been putting off this night for longer than she should have.
Any longer and she really would never have left, and she couldn't forgive
herself for that. This task was her obsession, and she was committed to it, even
if she couldn't now remember entirely why she had started.

"Enough," she said aloud, but it was barely a mutter. "Enough of this emotional
nonsense." It was time to get down to the business at hand. Pulling out a page,
torn wildly at its edges, she wiped off the soil that had encrusted it. On it
was a list of tasks that she had carefully composed centuries before.

The first few times she had attempted a Reincarnation into an entirely new
identity she had made too many mistakes, leaving too many ties to the lives that
went before, and it had turned into a messy business indeed. At times it had
even got so confused that she thought the task simply impossible, that each of
us can only have one life, and that the Fates would not permit it any other way;
but, still, she persisted, and had developed a system to make the break as clean
as possible.

And a clean break was the only way to do it. The lives had to be kept
completely separate, completely unique. Her search was meaningless if she could
not, at least, ensure that.

Glancing over the page in her hands, she ran through the list in her mind,
checking off each item as she came to it. Yes. She had made the sufficient
changes to the Hall of Records. Aye. No-one was ever expecting her back at the
Cloud Gardens, not the way she left. Moving on. Yes, she had made sure the
groundwork was in place for her to step into place in her new life in Celest, or
rather his new life. This time around it would be a man's life. She had to
explore all possibilities after all, if she was going to find the best of all
that is possible.

That was the idea, at least. A silly idea, perhaps. Naive too, maybe. And
impossible, almost certainly. Still, it was what she had set herself to do in
this world, and there are a lot worse quests to undertake, or so she would tell
herself.

Still, she was getting tired of it all. She wearied of the search for
perfection, and, indeed, of life itself. One time this night would come, and she
would choose to not Reincarnate. She would not return to the Basin in any form.
She would allow herself to die, and face whatever

She shook her head, as if to clear it, and returned her focus to the list in
front of her. "One more time," she whispered as she continued to check off each
item in turn, "at least." She came to the last few items on the list. They were
all that remained before the story of this life would end, and the next one
would begin.

The journal was how she kept track; how she gage her success. Throughout each
life it held every thought she felt deserved recording, every secret she never
wanted to forget, every single thing that could be written, or sketched, that
defined the experience. Her touchstone, it was the single object that would
remain after the Reincarnation; the one thing that would tie every life
together.

'Bury the evidence' was all the next point in the list read, and so she set to
work, pulling a small, wooden shovel from the satchel, and began to dig into the
tough, ashy earth of the Peak.

As she dug, she imagined what the identity that would soon be her own would
hold. It was only earlier that day that she had used her lists; and her books;
and her hoard of dice; to generate as random a creation as she could, but she
knew the system she employed was woefully inadequate. At the very least it
managed to remove most of her own influence over the choice, which was really
the only important thing it needed to achieve.

She would be a furrikin, of all things. A performing street urchin in the pale
city of New Celest. Or at least that is how she would be starting; she had a
whole life to become something else entirely, but it was out of her hands now.
She, or rather 'he', she reminded herself, would be quiet, and shy, yet
obstinate and easily frustrated. All these things, and many more, had been
decided by her dice, limited though the system was. And so she had spent the
afternoon memorizing all the details, ingraining them as fully as she could.
When the time came, when she came to the Portal, those details would be all she
would remember.

Well, those details, and the journal. Everything else would be a dream; an
illusion; not even a memory.

Stroking the leather bound pages, and laying them gently in the ground, she
peered at the final point on the list: "If you're ready, it is time." She
wondered, for a moment, what kind of person she was when she wrote that, but the
thought quickly passed, as she dropped the checklist on top of the journal. With
a deep breath, she pushed the loose soil she had dug back into the hole and
patted it down. She laid a few stones in by that place, so she could find it
again.

She was ready, and so, it was time.

Holding her wings tight against her body, they would only get in the way, she
peered over the edge of the mountain, sheer cliffs running down to meet the
rough path that encircled the peak, and, as if by accident, stumbled over the
edge.

At times it was over so quick she barely noticed what was happening. Those
times were easiest, but this time was not like that. This time around it was so
slow as to be tortuous She felt like she was falling through swamp water, the
harsh winds of the Peak slipping past her like mud. She could see the ground
falling toward her, and simply wished it would get on with it.

Closing her eyes, she braced herself for the impact, but it never came. As she
opened her eyes again, she stood upon the road, and, only a few feet away, she
could see a shape lying by her: a crushed form; and bloodstained feathers. A
body; her's no longer.

And so, it was done, and there was only one thing left thing to do.

She approached the Portal. She would have drawn a sharp breath, if she had any
breath left to draw, but instead she simply stared at it. Hesitating for a
moment she turned to look out at the road she had tread, before turning back to
the Portal, and reaching out.