Honestly, before @Rayla Tibbets said anything, I'd never dwelled on how haphazard and strange immortality really is. All of us drift from one place to the next to avoid suspicion and boredom, and I've tried to convince myself that this is due to my desire to see the world and underlying commitment issues. But deep-down, all immortals know their wanderings stem from a never-ending pursuit of nectar.

Nectar, a shimmering liquid that is vaguely reminiscent of honey and tastes how flowers smell, is the literal lifeblood of an immortal. It sounds like an overpriced designer drug for hippies, and in an abstract way it kind of is. It only flows from one ever-shifting source for each of us, which by design keeps us on separate corners of the Earth. While it seems cruel to keep us away from each other, the only ones who can truly understand, it's for good reason. Or so we're told (if you can hear the X-Files theme playing in your head right now, you're on the right track.)

Each of us is imbued with a certain understanding of immortality, and a lucky few of us also had mentors in our early lives (I had the witch, but I'd consider myself luckier if I'd never met her.) These help acclimate us to our new lives, as everlasting life is policed by an unsurprising abundance of guidelines. Some are obvious, like don't immortalize (haha, get it?) yourself in an elaborate portrait and wait for people to notice it's you centuries later, but two rules stand above the rest: never try to regain mortality, and never stay near another immortal for an extended period of time.

A third, unspoken commandment exists too, urging us never to question anything. Despite my issues with authority figures (probably stemming from, you know, being executed by my "protectors" for witchcraft,) I've never felt the need to rebel against this rule. Until now. Rayla's revelations have me thinking: why are our nectar sources, which usually strive to keep us apart, now drawing us together? I can already feel the energies that are gathering around Rayla, @Amenamapet Ra, and me now that we've settled in the same place.

I might just be getting old, but I have a sneaking suspicion that things are starting to change for the first time in centuries, for better or for worse.

I remember the sound of the centipedes coming. We had turned off the Santa Fe Trail, trying to make a shortcut to the Old Spanish Trail. It was already dark but my pa was stubborn. He ignored the signs.

Maybe it was the sound of the wagon that roused them from their nest. Or the smell of the horses. At first I thought it was the wind blowing through reeds, but there were no reeds here, just desert. More like the bristles of a witch's broom swishing on sand.

My ma spotted them first and hollered at pa to run the horses. She used her serious voice so he didn't argue. I looked and could see their shiny black bodies in the moonlight. They were as long as wagons, and fast as snakes.

They were on us in no time.

I wouldn't have survived if it hadn't been for Sheriff Tomas Stone. He arrived too late to save the rest of my family, but I hadn't been ripped apart and eaten, just bit. He took me to his shaman. I was so far gone from the poison the only way I was going to make it was if he gave me the nectar.

It was 1858, and I was 16. The same age I am now.

Attention all members of the Psyhigh Rowing Team:

I'm having a little informal get together for all rowing team members up at my house on Tarot Heights tomorrow. Deep down under my family's mansion, through the cellars and the grotto, there's an underground river that I've been dying to explore. As rowing team captain, I think it would be a great team building experience. We can use my family's barge. It'll be a hoot! Come for lunch and we'll have a feast of roast ox, dates, and honey before we set off.

[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉

gav, have you ever imagined what it'd be like to be reborn? it is quite a beautiful idea. to die, but never truly disappear. how strange it must feel to have the same soul but to lose any previous qualities you once had.

you know, i'm fairly certain i was once a wild fox. i don't think it is a wild assumption to say you were probably once born a crow. how does it feel to become what you once were again, and then lose it? like you are missing a piece of yourself?

foxes in literature are normally conniving and evil. in your eyes, i must have kept those traits. to me, however, this is simply nature. i do what i must, or i will surely starve, if you get what i mean.

do not underestimate me again. you, mourning dove, and mocking bird are not my keepers. the only thing that will keep me at bay is death, and that is the one thing i cannot do.

in a sense, it is sad that i will never get to experience rebirth again. the fox i once was wasn't immortal, so why am i? the universe leaves questions unanswered. i've come to accept outliving everyone and everything until i'm simply left alone with the several other immortals around the world floating in space until we inevitably run out of nectar. until we "starve"

thanks for helping out @Rayla Tibbets, gavvy. you really are a friend. without you, i would have already starved. veronica is scared of me and ushers me out whenever i visit to get my fix, which i find hilariously ridiculous. rayla looks lovely too, as most immortals do. ((not to feed my own ego)) but don't get jealous. i ǫn̢l̡y̛ ̷h̴a͟v͞e eye̛s̡ fo̴r͝ ͢yo̷u.

that's all i have to say. tell mourning dove i send my condolences.

- ...Ellipsis... (ps. thanks for the nickname)

[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉[҉]҉

Following the horrrific centipede attack and the death of my family, Sheriff Stone took me in. As sheriff of the nearby town of Warlock (Territory of New Mexico), Sherriff Stone was the protector of the local region from all threats eldritch and arcane. Supernatural forces in the area were still wildly untamed at the time, and the Sheriff had his hands full. Demonic Werebat gangs, companies of undead Texas Rangers for hire, angry wind and fire elementals, not to mention the occasional infestation of giant centipedes, all kept the Sherriff busy for many years.

The Sherriff seemed to have a knack for surviving the most perilous battles, which the local residents chalked up to luck, a strong constitution, or the medical skills of his native acquaintances. His own immortality and mastery of mystic powers was largely kept secret, and the apoption of a young orphan into his bachelor household was seen merely as further example of his upstanding moral values.

Sherriff Stone was an excellent guardian, though at the time we went through the usual strains of any teen/parent relationship (even in the mid 19th century). Our spats largely sprang out of his disinclination to include me in his battles with the forces of evil, though he did provide a rich education on the occult arts.

Included in that education was my first primer on immortal practices, and how I could not stay in his company forever. Plus, after four years in Warlock, it became increasingly difficult to explain to the locals why his apdopted daughter wasn’t “growing up.”

So, with a mix of tears, anger, gratitude, love, and excitement, I hitched a ride to the San Domenico School in Monterey, California—the first in what would be a very long line of private school enrollments.

I never had a good memory. Even as a little girl, I'd get distracted by bugs and trees and shadows and wind on my way down to the well. But now, after hundreds of years of life, my memories fail me in different ways. Similar faces blend together and swap bodies; scenes warp and shift like a fleeting fever dream; mismatched accents and languages combine phrases spoken decades apart. Events that should be concrete are fluid within my mind, and I can't help but wonder if the past itself changes alongside my memories. After all, if no one else is alive to recall it, could have happened any other way? Does it even matter?

Over the years I've talked to many "experts" on memory loss, and most agree that the best way to reconstruct my timeline is to keep a journal organizing my brief moments of clarity. (Of course, I doubt many of them understood I was trying to remember 438 years of personal history, not what I did last Friday night after downing seven margaritas and a Xanax.) The problem is, it's easy to lose track of random sticky notes, restaurant napkins, and paper scraps when you travel the world for a century or four, even if they bear your most precious memories. Despite how bad I am at remembering, I'm exceptional at losing things.

Although, it might be for the best that my most vivid memories are trivial things I hyper-fixated on. (This really cool leaf I found my third time in Amsterdam? Crystal clear. My mother's face? Sort of blurry.) Because mixed in with all of the adventures and laughter I've shared over the years, there's an equal amount of trauma. Black magic, pain, war, mistakes: most shattered against the waves of my tumultuous mind, but each shard still cuts deep if I try to hold onto it for too long. Maybe the pain and gaps in my memories are to protect me from dwelling on the past. The more years you have to look back on, the harder it is to look away and focus on the present.

Our journey up the river Na has been more challenging than expected. The rowing team has become concerned that their extended absence from school at this time of year could adversely effect their grades, but I've let them know the extent of my family's power knows no bounds. Including changing a D+ to a C-. Or whatever.

My family's barge is built for river travel, and thankfully includes armored gunwales, which have been helpful shielding us from intermittent arrow attacks. It is clear that someone has plied this underground river before, and the twisty caverns have been full of all manner of traps and sabotage.

Naturally my parents warned me never to travel up the river Na, but seriously... when there's an underground river in your basement, what's a young person to do?

Being a sixteen year old girl alone in the world attracts attention. I know plenty of girls at school who don't like riding the bus alone at night. It wasn't any easier a hundred years ago, or fifty. If you can hire drivers and butlers and lawyers willing to let a sixteen year old girl be the boss, you can get around OK. But sometimes it's just easier to create some shell parents and enroll in a boarding school.

I've attended schools in New Orleans, Honolulu, San Francisco and Baton Rouge. Paris, Budapest, London, Rome. Calcutta, Jakarta, Singapore, Cleveland. Lots more. After graduating each one I'd say goodbye to my friends and use my investments to set myself up in a hotel, with staff. Years at the Plaza in New York. But I learned the hard way you can't break into the Algonquin Round Table as a sixteen year old girl. So back to boarding school it would be, where I could at least have some semblance of a social life.

Service calls have been going through the ROOF I tell ya! I got tickets six ways from Sunday. Pinched pipes, kinks in the hoses... of course the Nectar doesn't actually flow like a liquid, but that about captures the issue because it's just not flowing like it should. Vendors are moving from place to place, looking for hotspots to tap, and there I am out with my witching sticks and dowsing rods--days, nights, weekends, and holidays--trying to isolate the problem. I can usually open up the flow a little, but do I get any thanks? This dry up's got everyone tense I'll tell you that.

Ray, Service Tech Level III
The Grand and Ancient Secret Society of Immortal Plumbers

Upon reaching the source of the river Na, we discovered a disturbing scene. We had docked the barge in one of the dark and twisty caverns that line the river's path, then made our approach stealthily over the rocks. The source of the river filled the air with a golden glow, like a setting sun in the distance. Rainbows filled the air, the light bouncing off the spray as the river crashed through battlements and parapets, out sluice ways and spill ways. The huge dam was not yet finished, and workers clambered over it on ropes and scaffolding, cringing under their taskmaster's whips. The half-built walls of the complex locking system strained against the crushing flow of the river, but still workers forced great blocks of stone into place, sometimes winning, more often losing and being swept away by the rushing waters, stone and slaves alike.

As our eyes adjusted to the scene--a sandcastle rebuilding itself in reverse from the crush of the tide, crawling with ants--it was clear there was a center to the nervous system of activity. On a commanding cliffside, there was an enormous being, on an enormous throne. The attendants stood no taller than his foot, and his features were clear in the golden light.

It was dad.