My empty halls echo with grand self-mythology

Ollphéist. Dúnmharfóir. Rialóir. Immortality is a dirty little existence. The promise of forever looms before you; bright minded, clear headed and eager to prove oneself. For decades, it’s a joyful exploit. Awakened to the full potential of life stretching before oneself; one would be forgiven for taking a languid approach. Such was the approach Nathaly took; yet the Dead City was an unwelcome place for one such as she. It was a cesspit of the dreams of those who came before. A failed blasphemy. There was ne’er a place so primal, so run down, so disenchanting for her kind. Yet, it was one of the few places she could rest with little judgement. So, this wasteland was poisoned with her dwindling presence. She stayed to the fringes of society; with the brutal, the freaks, the despondent. She resided close to the ruins of former glory. Widows, ghosts and lovers sat and sung in the dark arched marrow of her. Her days were spent as a wilting flower, the dark grey hue of the sky reflecting a melancholy, stormy mood. It was a time of reflection: on murders turned revenge, love turned to bitter feeling… And a growing despondency on her life as it was. She did not ask for this. This hideous creature of cracked skin and snarling voice. But, this prison of flesh was a gift. The skin would stretch and fill every crevice; to be worn until its maker regretted it. She was made to be a creature of fear; and so she would be feared.