Somewhere in the icy wilderness high up in the north, the peaceful silence was subverted by a hum at the edges of hearing.

Seconds later, jagged lines split apart the grey evening sky with a screech, a gaping hole in reality now hanging in the air above frozen hills.

That black maw in the skin of everything spat out a bundled mess of tangled hair and broken limbs, mangled and bloody.

With a soundless snap, reality reasserted control, forcing the tear shut in the blink of an eye.

Lightless radiance emanated from the dumped body, joined by streams of visible blue and red, dissipating into the sky.

The body forcefully flopped around on the floor listlessly, before, with a sudden jerk, the person sat upright.

As the streams of power dried up, Alira let out an almost inhuman scream, voice raw with unbearable pain.

Pops and cracks echoed through her surroundings, as her body continued to fix itself, broken bones setting, all wounds closing.

After the decidedly unpleasant process, probably one of the worst things any living thing would ever have to endure, Alira huffed and puffed, trying to get herself back in control.

The first thing she did after regaining control of her faculties, was to bite her finger and draw a crude but complicated rune on her forearm with haste.

Countless failures had taught her to be prepared. A dozen or so early deaths had made clear to her, that being powerless right at the beginning of a new life was not a good idea.

The spire liked to spit her out in unfortunate places, after all.

And the power of blood was the only thing she had access to, at the moment. Her mana pool had once more become meagre, her soul become void of any etchings, pristine as the day this shit-show had started, so long ago.

Again, she was but a simple mortal, in body and soul. Not in mind though, for better or worse.

So, blood magic it was for now, fuelled by her own life. No mana needed. No symbols carved onto her soul needed. A soul she couldn't perceive any more at the moment, anyway.

She could restore the years using this wretched power would shave from her life at a later point, anyway. Unpleasant, but workable. One just needed to know how. And one needed power, of course. A lot of power.

Something for a later time. With an afterthought, the small incision on her finger closed and faded.

Slowly, she rose, panting hard. Forcefully being stripped of, well, everything, hurt like a motherfucker, every goddamn time.

Alira took a quick glance around.

"Frozen tundra, huh?" She mused to herself, as her body started shivering. Around her stretched vast hillocks filled with nothing but low growing pines and piles of snow. And more snow.

She pulled her mantle tight. A pitiful warden against the biting frost. That brown rag of cloth was the only thing granted to her in every new life, aside from her memories, of course.

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She sighed. Better than nothing, but not by much. Reluctantly, she mumbled a few words, sharp pain tracing the still steaming lines of blood on her forearm.

Instantly, the cold around her seemed infinitely more bearable, icy numbness receding from her bare feet and up her body quite quickly, replaced by the slight wrongness brought about by using the power of blood as a baseline mortal. A phantom of deep exhaustion, that would nab at her body until she had a way to fix the issue.

Not a problem yet, as the spell she wrought was quite minor, a simple thermodynamic cantrip to ward off the cold. But it would add up, over time, with every spell she cast. Until that small hint of tiredness grew into a crushing weight of lethargy, filling her body with lead.

Shaking her head to stop these idle musings, he squinted at the sky.

Almost night, a deep grey, dark and homogenous, painted with the slightest streaks of orange. An effect of this planet's sun setting, she presumed.

She sighed. As always, shelter came first.

Then, water. which shouldn't be a problem, snow and all.

After that, something to subsist on.

After that, probably civilisation, if there was any, with all its (in-)conveniences.

Then, finally, when she could afford a little leisure, plan her next steps. Maybe deepen her mana pool. Do surgery on her own soul. Become immortal.. she huffed.. again.

The usual stuff.

Maybe some company, as well. For sanity and such.

After that, another climb. Because, duh, no one could escape the spire's grasp. Not until you reached the top. That was another thing she had learned, long ago.

It was either reach the apex, or live life after life after life after life after FUCKING life, forever, marching right along the eons, straight into the heat-death of the universe.

Not something she necessarily abhorred, but not a happy thought either. Everyone grew weary, at some point, after all. Even if she wasn't quite there yet, she could feel it looming on the horizon. An endless weariness, that hollowed out every living mind, like water took to stone.

She had learned to enjoy these early days of a new life, because she didn't really have anything to lose, yet. No power to speak of, no friends, no comrades, no achievements.

New beginnings, to her, were glorious in their simplicity. After all, what was starving compared to losing friends, family, worlds, when you would just live again, sated and whole?

Alira was no stranger to fear and loss and grief and guilt and anger, a given for someone her subjective age. But, she had long since accepted those feelings as facets of life. Same with love and joy and happiness and horniness.

In the end, and she was painfully aware of this, everything would come to an.. well.. end.

Except maybe the spire.. she grimaced to herself.. but that was not the point.

Anyway, at some point, everything she ever experienced would become a fleeting memory auld lang syne, eventually washed away completely by the sands of time.

Still, without all those experiences, good or bad, she would just.. exist.. in a monotone, unchanging world, devoid of any meaning.

In her early lives, she had 'just existed' for a long time.

After the particularly bad ones, where she had lost friends and comrades and family, where she had started out as a slave, where she had known nothing but war after war, endless as they were pointless, she had given in to despair.

Nearly lost herself for what felt like centuries, wandering through her lives pointlessly, without motivation. Just.. drifting along. Existing, dying, existing again.

Eventually, she had pulled out of it. Because, between all the mountains of fucked up shit, there had been sprinkles of wonder, always.

Big and small, little moments of quiet laughter, shared between comrades, feasts of epic proportions after equally epic feats, glances of affection between old lovers.

Simple, happy lives, filled with memories of children playing without a care in a tiny town's square.

Eternal squabbles with unwanted neighbours you somehow did love beneath it all.

And so, Alira had soldiered on, pulled herself together, her mind open to all experiences since, salvaging what pieces of happiness she could.

Now, hundreds upon hundreds of lives later, she had become a strange duality of ancient and child-like.

Atavistic pragmatism, co-existing in harmony with wide eyes full of wonder, ogling at inconsequential things with genuine joy.

Such as the group of grey shapes running towards her in the distance, howling a challenge.

Wolves. Okay. She grinned.

Musings dismissed, her joyful grin turned wince, as silent words stabbed burning needles into her forearm, another piece of livelihood offered away, a moderate chunk this time, so that this fresh life may not be cut unduly short by the hungry maws of the pack.

Her pack, soon, she thought, grin returning in force.