Next came a dark period in Tiphareth’s life in this realm, during which, as far as outward appearances went, she lost all will to live. She was calmly sipping a shot of vodka in the local tavern, a filthy little bar populated with the usual gene filth and mortal decay that so painfully characterized the plane she had found herself prisoner of when her partner had sent her as an unwilling and helpless castaway of sorts all those months before. Unsuspecting that anything had gone amiss, imagine her horror when a woman she didn’t know in the slightest approached her and informed her that Darrian had died. The bringer of bad news presented Tiphareth with Darrian’s signet ring, the silver “SW” inlaid into the onyx stone, expressed her condolences, and left again, as suddenly as she’d appeared. She was shocked beyond words, heart broken and devastated, plainly unable to accept the fact that he was gone as she slid the ring onto her right thumb, the only digit that it would fit. The vodka was instantly forgotten, and she dropped the glass to shatter upon it’s impact with the floor. Her immediate thoughts were to kill herself and join him in death; she had grown so attached to him that she couldn’t bear the thought of having to live without him, but for whatever reason, she didn’t. Perhaps she knew deep down somewhere, that she would disappoint him if she did.

The story went that he had been jumped by fourteen attackers, and took five out before the rest remaining felled him. She anguished to hear the gory details of the incident that she was still so hard pressed to accept as fact, and the days immediately after that one were filled with dire misery. She found that she could do nothing but weep an endless stream of glowing tears, mourning her lost lover with a steady unrelenting fervor. She came to depend on a choice few during this trying time. One of which was a dear friend, and an alien like herself, though the similarities stopped there. He was a ten foot protoss who appeared a bit unnerving at the very least, but despite his somewhat frightening appearance, he was a sensitive and caring being with a big heart, and took on almost a fatherly role to her while she blindly struggled through her loss. Tiphareth spent countless hours crying into his armored chest, arms wrapped around his neck, her little feet dangling many feet above the floor. Cire would remark, after many days went by with Tiph’s grief not slackening any, “This is not healthy. Death is a natural part of life. Never before have I seen it mourned with such zeal.” She was distressed to say the least.

It was as if a part of herself had died with Darrian, and she virtually lived in the nasty little bar, no longer noting the idiotic patrons, or the filthiness, neither caring to act in her usual sarcastic and cynical manner. All she could do was sob openly, attempt to drink the pain away, and stare dumbly at her ring, the only tangible thing she had left to remember him by. Getting drunk was no easy chore, much to her dismay. Being a Jenova hybrid, she had an incredible tolerance for alcohol, her chances of actually getting loused were comparable to a human drinking themselves senseless on water. But along with her plummet into the much sought after blur of the senses that vodka brought, she found a new friend, more appropriately, a drinking buddy, in Dauthi Seraphim. Tiph found reason to command her curious powers to fashion herself a never ending shot glass, which would refill it’s contents of vodka all on it’s own accord as soon as the bottom was dry.

During this trying time, she learned who her real friends were. She also acquired herself a family, immediately prior to Darrian’s “death”. Curiously for her to have made that step immediately before the “Death of Darrian” situation was to arise, and luckily for her that she had, because her newfound brother was all that kept her alive at times in the days to come. A few short weeks before she was to be brought the tragic news of Darrian having died, chance sent her to the tavern, where she found a strange, exuberantly ebullient man (Runic vampire technically) named Lu who was seemingly obsessed with saying “yo”. “Yo” was affixed to the end of every statement and question. Finding that to be all too strange, Tiph struck up a little conversation, and, being in something of a silly mood herself, the “yo” became contagious. They became fast friends and in a few days Lu came to hear of Tiphareth’s highly unusual upbringing, after a comment about family was made, and she stated, nonchalantly that she had never had any, and as such was completely oblivious as to what they were like, and what it meant to be a part of one. Lu’s heart went out to her, and he wanted for whatever reason to show her what having a family was like. So he asked her into his, and though she was frankly dumbfounded she figured it couldn’t really hurt anything, and accepted, warning him beforehand though that she probably wouldn’t make a very good sister. He sweetly reassured her, and she was adopted into Watchman when he slit open both of their palms, and let their blood mingle.

Not everyone in Tiphareth’s little world was quite so understanding and compassionate however. She received the harshest treatment surprisingly from her own newfound “sister”, Deedlit. It must be made known that Tiph had never much cared for her, before, during and after her being brought into Watchman, and only accepted her as a sister on a tentative and trial basis. They had in essence, a love hate relationship, openly hating each other one day and then warming up and being nice the next. This could be blamed entirely on Deed, for the dramatic mood swings she was all too prone to were an endless confusion and frustration to Tiphy. She tried for a time to be as understanding as she could but the back and forth became too much, after one particular incident for which she could never find it in herself to forgive Deed. Hardly a few days had passed since the awful news had come, and Tiph was still extremely distraught with all of it. Both “sisters” were in the tavern, along with numerous others which all played a significantly lesser role. Deed, noting that Tiph was still too upset to function, and perhaps a little incredulous that she still hadn’t gotten over it, walked over and made the heartless comment that she should die for being so weak. In that moment Tiphareth learned exactly what kind of person Deedlit was, and from that time on, she considered herself without sister. She knew next to nothing about families, but still was quite sure that it’s members were not supposed to treat each other with such cold and hateful disregard. Never being one to stand for whatever she found to be disrespect towards herself, though she was openly shocked that even Deed would have stooped so low as to tell her flat out that she should die for her weakness, Tiph retorted beautifully. “Excuse me for not being able to pretend that I never cared for him, or that his dying came to me as anything less than tragic news, *sister* but I am not quite the heartless bitch that you have proven yourself to be.” A fuming Tiph made one last general comment before neatly kicking the door down, and storming out. “If any of the rest of you have objections to my behavior then I suggest you keep it to yourselves. I will mourn my loss until this pain is gone and God forbid it annoys someone before I am through. Having to witness someone cry is so much worse than having perfect reason to cry and never stop, as you all would understand completely.” Sarcasm could be her middle name.

Angry at the world after that particular incident and less than caring to put up with people any longer, Tiphareth retreated to the peaceful seclusion of her Obelisk, the only thing she had that was even comparable to a home, where she meditated, trained, and cried the passing days away. She lost track of time after a while and sometimes would sit for days silently weeping, leaning against the walls of her fifty foot monolith of sable stone with an endless stream of shining sapphire tears slipping down her pale cheeks. She didn’t weaken any physically as she sunk perpetually deeper into the void of despair that came to claim her, much to her dismay. Being prone to immortality has more down sides than up at times. She couldn’t even begin to think about what should come next in her life. She would have loved nothing less than for it to end. She never slept, and began to have crosses between hallucinations and fever dreams, in which the same thing would always happen, simply, Darrian would be alive again, and she would be happy beyond words. These were always rudely awakened when sanity grabbed enough of her screaming mind to jolt her roughly into consciousness so she would see that she was still alone, and it had all been nothing but the wistful thinking of her subconscious. Then one day, without any warning, it ceased to be a dream. An all too acutely missed and beloved smooth rich voice came to her from behind as a pair of strong, familiar arms laced their way around her waist. “And thus it is said that those fallen shall rise again, my love.” The extent of her joy in that perfect moment of bliss, as she turned around to find it real, and not just another fever dream would never be rivaled up until the moment that he presented her with another ring, more directly this time, and asked her to be his bride. She was instantly moved to happy tears, and held him tightly, desperately, all but pulling him inside of her as she smothered him with kisses and pleaded that he never leave her again, the whole while half expecting to be awakened from the dream at any moment.

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