<strong>Celeste Devonshire</strong><br/><br/>The dhampir sits quietly in front of one of the bookcases, staring unseeingly at the rows of books, wincing inwardly at Lilial's words.  That was the question in the end, wasn't it?  Did she actually have a soul to carry on?  Was she ever truly 'alive' to have such a thing?  Or was she merely some animated piece of meat devoid of spiritual essence?  Father had always insisted that she did, albeit not in so many words, just his quiet encouragement.  But in the end, she still wasn't certain...how could she be?  She was neither living nor dead, really, trapped in some eternal half-life.  Had it not been for the professor...well, at the very least, she would have been certain of the answer, wouldn't she?<br/><br/>She slowly becomes more and more still, until even her breathing is a bare hint of movement, her eyes glazed over and unfocused as her mind turns inward, one hand reaching up without thinking to brush a faint mark at the base of her neck slowly.  She wasn't nearly powerful enough, as of yet, to ask such questions of beings higher than herself, and likely as not, never would.  She bore the curse of her fathers blood, yet none of the blessings, really.  Were she to be found by the townsfolk, they would not differentiate her from her father, and given she wasn't remotely his equal, the conclusion would be...gruesome.  Depending on just how bad these folk were, it was entirely likely they would simply burn the house with Lilial and Kendra within, fearing they might be contaminated by her 'evil'.  Her probable lack of a soul just lurking in the shadow of her being, taunting her with its uncertainty.<br/><br/>Her hand slid down from her neck to land limply on the bookshelf then falling to her side bonelessly.  Given the way that some spoke, she gave better than even odds that this tomes held more 'soul' than she did, in the end.  More substance than she, more contribution.  What was she, but a pale shadow of her father or the deathly image of her mother?  There were so few moments...so few in the whole of her so-called life that she could likely count them on the fingers of one hand, that she felt truly alive.  When the heat of the moment took her across some invisible, intangible barrier into...something more.  And even most of those left her so very near to death after, like the weight on the end of some pendulum between being and unbeing, never able to exist more than halfway without some opposite effect.  And yet...and yet indeed.<br/><br/>She did not long for destruction.  She feared it in a pure, almost animalistic way, being wholly unable to know what would happen to her when she crossed that final threshold.  She could preach and praise and lead others towards the glories of Calistria, but...she had to take it on faith for herself.  Beyond that certainty that so many of her brother and sister clerics seemed to have, she had to base her whole existence on faith to one degree or another.  She knew, beyond doubt, Calistria existed, that she granted her favor and blessed or scorned the world by Celeste's own hands and fingers.  But that certainty they had, of what was going to happen when they died?  That they, indeed, stood a chance of facing their lady in her own realms?  The sense of inner peace that seemed to grant them on some level?  That had always escaped her.<br/><br/>No manner of meditation or prayer had led her to such peace.  She grasped for such, but one may as well attempt to catch water with their fingers, feeling that there is something there, but being unable to hold it the way others did, and only becoming frustrated with the whole thing, seeing others with their cups and buckets and pitchers of water, yet not having one of your own.  Harmed by the very spells that healed the living, and healed by the spells that would slay them, having some sort of opposite of life, and yet not undead.  And not yet undead, either.<br/><br/>Her eyes finally close, sealing out the light within the house, feeling the weight of her icon, her holy symbol of Calistria resting on her breast.  Resting just over her heart, nearly.  Her always too softly beating heart, so light and thready she could only feel or hear it with focus.  If it had been stronger...oh, if it were stronger, perhaps, just perhaps, she would not always be so quick to notice the beating of the hearts of others.