<div class="floatleft">(https://db4sgowjqfwig.cloudfront.net/campaigns/14025/assets/670069/dark-horror-face-eyes-cg-digital-art-gothic-wallpaper-1.jpg?1480561693)</div><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;"><strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">Lamora Drach</span></strong></span>(http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1021844)<br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;">Human Gravewalker Witch</span></span><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;">AC: 12 HP: 36/36 Init: +6</span></span><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;">Fort: +3 Ref: +3 Will: +4</span></span><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;">Spells: <em>1st</em> 5/5 <em>2nd</em> 3/3</span></span><br/><hr/><br/>Lamora's hands clung tightly to the edges of her dull, gray cloak, tugging at the fabric until it strained against her shoulders. Her head was bowed, only a sliver of daylight making it through the small opening in her cloak that she desperately fought to keep as narrow as possible. She was hiding. Not that her odd behavior did her any favors in that regard but at least they couldn't see her face; that's all she wanted right now. Let those that gawked at the strange woman who hurried through the streets all bundled up like it was winter think what they wanted of her. It was better than having them stare at her because she was the witch that lived on the edge of the town, that pitiful creature deserving of all the suspicious glances they could muster. Lamora couldn't bear to be that person right now. All she wanted was this month's groceries.<br/><br/>It went well enough; the jingling of pilfered slaver money slowly faded throughout the day to be replaced by filled bags that hung from her arms. Just one last store and she could return home, putting the anxiety of being in public behind her for at least another month. But as her hand reached out to push the door aside, something stopped her. A poster. It would seem that the slavers had made themselves another enemy, this time one with pockets much deeper than her own if the number written across the bottom was anything to go by. Lamora shrugged to herself and moved to return to the business that had brought her into town. It wasn't her problem anymore.<br/><br/><strong>"We are not done."</strong>Lamora's entire body froze mid step, her blue eyes wide with panic. Her head instinctively jerked to the left, searching for the source of the voice that couldn't have possibly been more than a few feet away. But where she expected to see some stranger peering over her shoulder, she saw only barren street. Again she turned, spinning to the right in a manner that was almost frantic, hoping beyond hope that someone awaited her there. Nothing. But how? She could have sworn...Lamora's mind blanked as realization dawned on her face. It was a realization that brought only the soul crushing look of absolute despondency to her face, a forlorn look usually saved for those condemned to walk the gallows or some other equally gruesome fate.<br/><br/>"No, no, no, no," Lamora muttered to herself, each repetition of the word flying from her lips faster and with increasing alarm. She fell to her knees and let the bags draped over her shoulder slide to the ground. Like a madwoman she clawed through each of them, tossing food and various sundries about the street with little care given to where they ended up. All the while she whispered aloud, letting the beginning of her thoughts float through the air but never finishing a single one. "It can't..." "But I..." "I know it's..."<br/><br/>The whirlwind of action she had become came to a screeching halt as she reached the bottom of her third sack. Her breath came out in a trembling sob, her lungs suddenly stricken incapable of breathing with any kind of regularity. There it was - staring back at her with its lifeless button eyes. Never before had she thought something as inane as a button could hold so much malice and invoke so much fear. She was certain she hadn't packed it. Why would she? This was the one time she got away from it - felt its strangling grasp loosen from her throat. But there it was: the doll she had crafted in a haze of madness, the burlap monstrosity packed with her husband's ashes. Her hands were shaking now and her bottom lip quivered as she choked out a single word of disbelief. "How...?"<br/><br/>Her cloak had fallen away from her face during her crazed digging and now dozens of eyes watched her, whispering just loud enough for their words to reach her ears. "It's the witch. Best to stay a good distance away. No telling what she'll do." That didn't matter anymore, though. Her eyes were transfixed on the doll sitting up limply inside her pack, unable to turn away no matter how much she wanted to.<strong>"We. Are. Not. Done."</strong>Lamora reflexively jerked backward at its thunderous and demanding voice, too lost in fear to consider what other sinister meanings those words carried. She was too far gone now for there to be any other conclusion to this event other than the most obvious one; she never could resist him. Her hand balling up in the dirt was the only act of defiance she could muster as her head sank between her shoulders in defeat and tears began streaming down her cheeks. Like a mindless drone, she echoed the words of her master there in street for all to hear. "We are not done."<br/><br/>***<br/><br/>That is how Lamora came to be where she was today, standing in a chapel of Pelor, nestled in the corner with arms crossed and that same featureless gray cloak from the market hanging heavily across her shoulders. She liked it here. There was something comforting about it, like the dark force that followed her couldn't find her in here. It was still around though, she could feel it peering in through the windows at her, breathing heavy against the glass. Occasionally the young woman jumped as if startled and turned her attention to the nearest window, eyeing it intently as if judging its sturdiness. It wanted in but all it could do was thrash about to let its displeasure be known. Seeking to take have her mind focused elsewhere, Lamora stepped away from the wall and approached Father Stirrech with a question. "So when do we get started?"