Whoa, the Lady of Pain

"The Black-Robed" was Azazel's conversational partner, confidant, and debate opponent. Shrouded entirely in a black robe, with a hood where a face might be but only thick black mist and two glimmering lights in place of eyes, his arms invariably folded across his chest. No one had seen what lay beneath the robe; not the color of his skin or if he even had skin at all. Some claimed the old soul was a ghost.

What was certain was the Black-Robed's longstanding presence in this territory and his significant influence. Many speculated he was a high-ranking member of the Dustmen.

Like the Chaos Faction managed the bustling district, the Dustmen governed the Mortuary.

To Azazel, both factions were strange, their beliefs and philosophies foreign. So, to him, there was little difference between them, save that the Dustmen seemed more amiable compared to the mad Chaos Faction, despite many among the Dustmen being mummies like Caitlin.

"Well then, I appreciate it."

"No, no, it's nothing. If you really feel indebted, come find me tonight, and don't keep me waiting too long," Caitlin said, even as a maggot crawled from the hollow of her eye.

Azazel turned and sprinted towards his dwelling.

From afar, Azazel could see his home, if one could call the ramshackle structure a home at all. It seemed fashioned from wooden planks or other peculiar materials and appeared so dilapidated a strong gust could whisk it away, though, fortunately, Sigil had no winds.

Azazel was quite fond of his makeshift abode, considering the lengths one had to go for housing back on Earth in China—decades of saving and then, should you outlive the seventy-year lease, another purchase. Here, the shack was his from day one of employment. He remembered the words of the person who showed him this place.

"From now on, this is where you live."

"It's rather rundown."

"What did you expect on your first day of work?"

"I understand. I mean, it's fine. How long does it belong to me?"

That person had cast a peculiar look at Azazel before responding, "Even after death, this place is yours. As long as you're here, the house is yours forever."

No cursed seventy-year leases, no rent, no utilities, no maintenance fees, no down payment, no loan—such bliss. Despite some inconveniences—no water, no electricity, no cleaning, no greenery—these were minor issues, weren't they? Most importantly, Azazel had effortlessly acquired his own space.

"Hey, did you run back here? Your speed could surpass a snail," remarked the person seated inside. His voice was dry, monotone, unsettling like an ancient cellar. Azazel, now accustomed to far worse such as flirting mummies, was unperturbed by such oddities.

"Sorry, I was delayed by some issues on the way. Have you been waiting long?"

The Black-Robed shrugged, "I'm not sure how long. Honestly, time means nothing to me. Tell me, what held you up?"

Azazel recounted what he had witnessed in the market to the Black-Robed. After finishing, he inquired, "Who exactly is the Lady of Pain? That last move of hers was amazing. Do you know..."

"Shh!" The Black-Robed quickly interrupted. "Quiet, no, better stop talking."

The Black-Robed hastily exited the shack, checking the surroundings to ensure no one was nearby before returning inside and casting several spells. Then, he warned, "Don't discuss the Lady here in Sigil. Do you want to die? Or do you seek trouble?"

Azazel looked bewildered, skeptical of the Black-Robed's caution, "Come on, can she really hear us talking here? Are her ears that sharp?"

"A bit safer now, but I'm not sure. The Lady might have eyes and ears throughout Sigil. She could know everything that happens here. Some even say Sigil is just a dream of hers, and we all live within that dream. Nothing is certain. The one thing that is known is nobody knows who the Lady is, whether a person, a god, or something else entirely."

"So, how do you deal with her?"

"Fool, no one deals with her. She's never spoken a word to anyone. If you want to try greeting the Lady, I won't stop you; others have been foolish enough to attempt it, with outcomes similar to those who attacked her." The Black-Robed let out a chilling, cryptic laugh, "Heh, heh, heh. They either get dismembered or thrown into her Maze. Either way, such artistry, such beauty—it is just like the unique Lady herself."

Azazel interpreted the eerie laughter as a mysterious madman's admiration or fascination with another enigmatic figure but was not foolish enough to voice this thought.

Ignoring the unsettling laughter, Azazel continued his inquiry, "This Maze, what is it?"

"I'm not entirely sure, as most who are thrown into the Lady's Maze die. Though rumors persist of some who've escaped, bringing back information and treasures. They say the Maze is a plane of the Lady's own making, a vast cubic world that is entirely a labyrinth full of traps and monsters, with exits, of course. No one knows why she made it—maybe just for boredom, to toss in those she dislikes and watch them wander, like children watching mice in a maze."

"But I didn't see her cast a spell or make any movements, not even a gathering of magic."

"The Lady's mouth has never moved; sometimes I wonder if her face is just a mask. Alas, such speculation is meaningless. She doesn't need to chant spells. Haven't you heard the saying 'The Lady is Sigil; the Lady is the city'? She can open any door, anywhere, just by thinking about it."

Azazel whistled, "That's some power. No wonder she never carries a purse. Wait, you said she can open any door, anywhere. Does she know where all the doors in Sigil lead?"

"Of course, she knows and understands all the 'doors' in Sigil, and where they'll take you. You're not seriously thinking about asking the Lady for directions, are you?"

"Why not give it a try?"

"Your foolishness astonishes me. Instead of bothering the Lady, let me recommend someone else to you."

"Oh? Who?"

"Give it at least another three months of work here. You need to keep working in this place. After three months, I'll tell you. You should know, the Dustmen are always short-handed, especially for a young fellow like yourself."

Three months wasn't so long. Without hesitation, Azazel nodded, "Alright, it's a deal. Can you tell me more about the Lady?"

"Ah, you're smitten, aren't you? Shocked by her sheer display of raw power? You don't even know what she's capable of," the Black-Robed's tone was unchanging, but Azazel could detect a note of pride. Was this idol worship?

"What has she done to earn such regard? Or, uh, admiration?"

"Not something she's done before, but what she continually does. The Lady's most incredible feat is her ability to block deific powers. No one knows how she does it, but no god can extend their influence into Sigil. Light or dark, strong or weak, all are subject to her rule here. One god tried to challenge her once—his corpse still orbits the Astral Plane as cosmic debris."

"What? The Lady has killed a god?" Azazel was genuinely taken aback, his usual wit temporarily lost.