Note
Witness: the city of Sigil bathes in perpetual twilight, turning ever in on herself around the impossible, celestial peak of the Spire. A thousand doors, a million, as many as stars in the sky and eyes in the dark, as many as gods in the cosmos, opening and closing in an iridescent wash across the city’s surface.
Witness: in the city’s heart - insofar as she can be said to have one - the Lady of Pain rests on her throne of blades. That iridescence moves, pulses with her breath, reflected in her eyes and her crown and the blue of her veins: she inhales, and doors open. She exhales, and doors close.
Witness: one such door has opened, deep in the Hall of Concordance. The light that spills from it is heavy and humid, plaguesick and reeking. The door lasts the space of a blink, the time between heartbeats - the Lady closes it with less than a thought, with a touch of power far beneath the notice of a god. Less than slapping a mosquito in your sleep; less than scratching an itch. The door closes, and leaves the wall where it opened untouched.
Almost untouched.
A single bead of condensation remains, that wave of hot air dissipating against the cold stone.
A door opens; a door closes. We move on.
Elsewhere, in the fighting pits, blood is spilled. This is nothing new. These pits have been here forever, and they will be here until Sigil falls (an impossibility: the City is as eternal as her Lady), but for you, huddled deep in your cell, every death is a harbinger, a portent, a prediction. Like rolling a dice: your odds don’t change, but your thoughts do. Deep in the bowels of the fighting pits, of the City of Doors, of the Outer Planes - snarled in the thorns of Fate, your old life discarded, only one objective remains to you.
Survive.
The primary site for the City of Doors campaign is under construction:)