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On Rahn, and Danerran
Newly awakened from sleep, roused from muteness with the aid of @Flinn, and with enough energy to seek a new start in more ways than one, Pieri tries her hand at religious discourse as a brand-new and cautious Iniha - only to discover it isn't always a rigid or futile attempt after all.
Paging @Roux - neatly accomplished, eh?
Your voice echoes in @Mahar 's ears, "A presence I have not felt in a long while. Thank you, by the way, for helping me gain knowledge I needed back when I was still with the Templars."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "Aha, I remember you! Are you not still with the Templars?"
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "No - the work of a soldier, and the duty of a soldier, proved not to suit me as well as other matters might have."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "I don't know much about being a soldier,"
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "I don't know much, but I can understand that still."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "If I remember correctly... you are a warrior still, yes?"
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "Yes, I'm still a warrior - a sentinel. I don't think I'm a good one, but I'll get there."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "Ah - I was right." Her mind shifts, as though taking in a long breath. "And still you helped me find a Shaman, despite not being from among their number."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "A conduit of knowledge, yes." Faint satisfaction in her voice - she has a thought. "It so happens that I may be able to return the favour. Knowledge, for more than one to share, if you are interested."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "Would've felt bad if I hadn't." There's a pause - silence so clearly full of interest. "What sort of knowledge?"
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "I have known the value of collecting things, and I wager your guild may, too." She does not promise treasures out of the ordinary, but something as grounded as the quality of her mind. "A book. I do not know if someone in the Sentinels has already added it to your collection, but one cannot know unless one sees it, looks past the cover."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "I don't know much about our collection of books, but I could ask or look. What's interesting about its insides?"
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "It does help to know about one's allies, different though we may be. The text I have to offer showcases rather well one facet of Enorian. Regarding prophets, and the works of Gods already passed. It is honest, and unapologetically so, in what it holds to be true, and that is one of the ways of gaining insight about a thing."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "Does it have a name?"
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "The Revelation. Or perhaps the Bestowing. Are you familiar with these?"
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "No, but I don't read many books so I didn't think I would. I was just going to see if I could find it in our library."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "Ah, yes, Do let me know if it is there."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "I often wonder what it would have been like for the prophetess who lived those two books. To hear a God and a Goddess' voice, to be chosen for a task that holds significance to a large community. Simply put on page... something -living- is a little bit lost."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "I think little words probably don't always capture the scale of things, because you can't see the greatness."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "It's just whatever your imagination can think up."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "I think we have The Revelation of Lanu Du by Lahkencai and The Bestowing by Lady Auresae. Are either of those yours?"
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "Ah, the latter may be, but not the former."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "But I may remedy that."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "If we have one and not the other, then that remedy would likely be good."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "Where, do you think, ought this remedy be administered?" A hint of mirth is in her voice now. "Somewhere by the forests?"
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "That would work. Wherever you think it's best administered."
Stone bridge over a spring.
Mahar raises his hand over his head in greeting as he comes to a halt right beside you.
He is a muscular Mhun. A youthful complexion bears dark brown skin and the touch of a life lived in the sun. He stands slightly taller than the average Mhun, with a willowy frame that exaggerates his height. Hard muscle rests where it counts as his arms and legs carry the lines of definition created from years of an active lifestyle. A heart-shaped face carries finer features, with a thin, aquiline nose and full lips. Almond eyes shine darkly underneath heavy eyebrows. A wild mane of bushy, auburn hair flows down to his shoulders in an untamed display. It's controlled enough to keep it out of his eyes, but only just. Vertical lines of gold run down his cheeks, with a single line of white cutting down over brow, nose, and chin. The clean scent of a refreshing sea breeze lingers around him - the aroma marking the blessing of the Maelstrom. Eldritch violet light surrounds him - a blessing of chaos and dreaming. His skin looks supple and fresh, the healthy glow surrounding him evidence of the deeply floral and honeyed smelling lotion he has recently applied.
a crescent-shaped pectoral of gold design : (encompassing the neck)
2 gold triangle earrings : (worn on the ears)
an oiled black leather pack : (worn on the back)
2 gold cuff bracelets : (around one wrist)
a cracked hematite medallion of the Pride : (around the neck)
the ancestral mark : (pressed into the waist)
a tempestuous globe of the Maelstrom : (hanging from a klaio bronze pendant chain)
a knotted, periwinkle silk belt : (wound around his waist)
a radara and diamond ring : (worn on a finger)
a long loincloth of gray linen : (hanging from the hips)
You have emoted: The Atavian turns at that, bushy brows rising at the quick entrance. Pieri's greeting is a deep incline of her head for Mahar - for Jaamir, a lighter nod - she does not yet know the face of her ordermate. "Ah, the hunter arrives. I have the offering."
Jaamir leaves to the east.
He is followed by a blindfolded ancestral simulacrum, a one-eyed ancestral simulacrum, and a wrinkled ancestral simulacrum.
You give a simple book to Mahar.
It is now dawn on Falsday, the 23rd of Chakros, year 495 of the Midnight Age.
Birds fly from their roosts as a throaty voice rises from the caverns of the Heartwood. Others soon join in the lasting sonorous harmony, the forest Shaman's call to morning meditation.
Mahar turns the book in his hands once he receives it, examining the cover with interest. No clear expression shows on his face beyond an acceptance that this must be what you say it is. "I'll make sure it gets into that library. Talk to people." He claps his hands together, the book caught in between. "Thank you."
You have emoted: And with a light sound of boot upon stone, Pieri has stepped up to Mahar - hardly nose-to-nose, but for the reserved Atavian Mahar might remember her being, the gesture is boldly mirthful. "Remember these plans," she whispers, in an oddly focused whisper. "They will build your home."
You have emoted: And then Pieri is drawing back away - if it can be called that, for there is still several handspans of distance between them. "I cannot be sure if I read it sufficiently Goddess-like."
Mahar's eyebrow twitches inward and that is the only sign that makes it to his face to show he's processing your words. He nods carefully as his gaze drifts down to the book again. When you move, he looks back up and says, "I suspect reading it like that would be a bit of a feat for a non-Goddess."
You have emoted: "Mm." Pieri nods solemnly. "I daren't try keeping the next bit faithful to the original. Difficult for one to channel true urgency without being a prime actor."
Mahar echoes your nod, "Actors have to practice a lot just to manage that. You'd need that or natural born talent."
You have emoted: "Much talent and presence would be needed to channel anything like Lord Rahn." There is faint awe in Pieri's voice. "I only wish I had been born at a time when He still walked the earth. Gods in general make me very much curious - I had only been taught the ways of a Goddess already dead, before Enorian."
"Who's Lord Rahn?" Mahar asks, tilting his head to the side. "Gods scared me for a while, but now it's just a good scared."
You have emoted: "He was among the earliest to receive the Fire Essence, Mebrene. A God of Fire, dead by the machinations of Corruption and Hers." Without a book to hold, Pieri's hands clasp at her front. "I have heard at least two stories pertaining to Him, but when He was mortal, He was a warrior by the name of Idar Karif."
Quietly, you say, "A man who would push himself to achieve the heights of what many would see as right and good. He fell, was claimed by Her, and somehow withstood Her trials to become the God He was, for a long while."
You say, "And I do not know how He quite managed all of it."
Mahar absentmindedly runs his thumb across the edge of the book as he listens. His attention doesn't stray from you once, watching intently. "Was His feats impressive, even for a God?"
You have emoted: "After He became a God..." Here Pieri's face falls slightly. "There are not enough books on His achievements, only on who He was."
You say, "And from what writings are left of Him, and comparisons between Him and His predecessor, shall we say..."
You say, "He may have been a just God, unafraid to forge forward to bring forth what He believed in. But He may also have been a hard-edged God."
Hunter Mahar dur Naya says, "Which would you prefer?"
You have emoted: "Only few can make the hard decisions." You can see Pieri is not treating the question like some parlour game; her face is earnest, and her bushy brows are close to knitting when she thinks. "That is what separates them from the rest. Mistakes will be made, no doubt - but if one ought to choose, then... better to be hard-edged when needed." Then she blinks. "Ah - well. That was... more what I might aspire to be."
You say, "As a mortal, looking to a God... I would admire a hard-edged God who is also just. But... the God I would, and do, turn to is someone like Lord Damariel."
Much like the answer he receives, Mahar listens and watches you with a sincere and interested attentiveness. He nods softly along, a light bob of the head that shifts his hair around his face. "Better to be able to make those decisions than be left floundering when they come up." Then, as you continue, he confesses, "I don't know much of Lord Damariel."
You have emoted: "Strange tales would be better heard where you find it more comfortable - if you would hear of Him, that is." Pieri brushes a strand from her mane behind a rosy ear. "I do realise I've been going on rather a lot about myself and my views, and Gods of another place and time."
Mahar gives a loose, rolling shrug of his shoulders. "I don't mind. I like listening to things I don't know about - it's how I learn new things."
You have emoted: "After you, then," Pieri offers with an in-between sweep, like a bow and a gesture rolled into one. "Where you often listen to stories unfamiliar - or where you might like to."
You begin to follow Mahar.
"We could go to my home?" Mahar suggests, and his tone is full of uncertainty. The decision-making has clearly put him on the spot, with the answer evading him.
You have emoted: "I don't mind." Pieri is not without her considerations, but having run through them all, her hazel eyes remain clear. If she has not gained enough confidence in him, she has enough of it in herself - overall, she remains amiable. "Into the woods proper, then?"
A biting cold hangs in the air, heralding the arrival of Aisling.
“Into the city, more like." Mahar answers you, with a vague gesture that explains nothing. His gaze flits towards Aisling briefly and the gesture turns into a wave in passing, before he steps off the Bridge.
Mahar unlocks the in door.
Mahar opens the door to the in.
You follow Mahar to the in.
An open sitting room full of plants.
A small foyer, large enough to stand in, opens into a spacious sitting room. Windows fill up most of the walls, wedged between exposed stone. The large room is made to feel small by the clutter taking up most of the space. Where available, plants fill the room. The potted trees and bushes and vines creeping through gaps in the window lack any order or organisation to their placement. The vines have crawled from the window, across the ceiling, to the opposite wall. In amongst the bushes, pressed against the eastern wall, a table and chairs are hidden. The table is rendered unusable by the sheer amount of potted plants covering it. When the light from outside is not enough, lanterns from the ceiling provide additional light. Through the ever-open windows, the distant sound of stomping boots fills the room periodically. A sturdy rustic asper table stands here. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. A rare night-blooming cereus grows within a pot, its flower closed against the sun. An elegant pot sits here, painted in bright hues of gold and blue.
You see exits leading south and out (open pine door).
Mahar closes the door to the out.
Mahar locks the out door.
You have emoted: Whisked away into the city, as Mahar had said, Pieri's eyes are wide all through the journey. "Djeir - I might have known, yes..." The flowers catch her eye almost immediately, and she does not hesitate to inhale the air, looking for traces of them.
A rare cactus, the night-blooming cereus has a flanged body with sharp ridges, growing several feet tall. Irregular buds branch off of each ridge, closed against the sun.
It has 75 weeks of usefulness left.
It is strangely weightless.
Upon entry, Mahar immediately busies himself with clearing a chair. He pulls it out, indicating for you to take it, with the comment, "Never had anyone in here before. It's only been me and the animals that live here."
You have emoted: She has not yet seen a trace of said animals, not yet. Pieri sits with a rustling of wings, careful not to let them press too hard against the back of the chair upon settling. "Then it is an honor," she offers. "I can assure you I can be a model guest." And her smile is indeed assured. "And hopefully I will remain, with what stories I do have."
Only once you has sat does Mahar go about clearly a seat for himself, moving as if following a script. When he sits, placing his dhurive on his lap and the book on top of that, he relaxes and looks to you. The corner of his lip tugs upwards in the hint of a smile. "I'm looking forward to hearing your stories."
Quietly, as an afterthought, Mahar adds, "I like stories."
You have emoted: "And what I share here and now will be just that." Pieri is still an Enorianite, and she is well aware of it. Her smile is warm enough to be reassuring without entering the realm of self-effacement. "Once, in a faraway continent, there was a man. This man was not different in attire, or station, or appearance - not in any earth-shattering way - compared to his fellows, whose lives were governed by the ugly chain of slavery." The lanterns cast a dim light over the Atavian's eyes, painting them a hazel that warms with amber tones.
As the story starts, Mahar settles into his seat, leaning forward as he listens. One would think the words you spill were gospel, because that is how he seems to treat them. His attention doesn't waver, eyes glued to you. Upon the mention of slavery, his nose wrinkles in disgust and that is the first mar to his otherwise pleasant expression.
You have emoted: "It were the days when the Aalen had been alive, and ailing, that brought this man, whose deeds had yet been unknown to Sapience, into the light." The words flow and shift, weaving themselves on the low tones of Pieri's voice into the image she has seen through the scrolls and scraps she has seen. "Days when the Lord Hunter Himself was held captive, caught by a trap the Artificer had laid; He came upon His Brother with armies of shadowbeasts, seeking to capture another Divine soul within His artifact, which had already held the essence of Truth and Valor."
You have emoted: Her hand rises, and is joined by its twin. "Waves upon waves, inky, black like spilled oil did they advance. Varian willed that no mortal who fell to the bickering of Gods would be deprived of a chance to live, and know the taste of triumph against the waywardness of His second-born; Varian willed, yet the will of Severn matched the strength of His horde." Reddened palms, forever ruddy, and covered with the callouses of a life harder than the features of Pieri's face might suggest. "He found His chance - advanced - and then..."
You have emoted: "Danerran." Those two palms meet, silent and complete in their joining. "The ragged one, the slave from Albedos, refugees from Delve - and a leader. And what a man he would have been! Chains still dragging from his wrists, a symbol of his life before, which he either kept or failed to discard." Pieri's eyes shift from point to point as the tale continues to unfurl, yet even as she spins it along, she is ever aware of the presence of Mahar before her. "And now - that which had signified shame, anger, repression, all that makes the world miserable - would soon be freed from their associations, to be transformed themselves by his deed. Alone among mortals, as a mere -mortal- he stepped before the Artificer; his shadow was still Severn's to claim, and so was ended the man known as Danerran in one fell swoop, in one move that many may have mocked as idiocy."
Quietly, you say, "What could he do?"
Quietly, you ask, "What could a slave in stolen iron and borrowed clothes, ever do against the God of Lies?"
"Nothing!" Mahar fills in the space with a hushed answer, more to himself than anything else.
You have emoted: "It was not his will which turned the tide." Irises limned in gold, steady and strong even where the light may flicker. Pieri speaks on. "And yet it was his will which allowed the tide to be turned. Danerran fell, and the Gods rose. For the Goddess of Fire, the one after Lord Rahn, had been with the Hunter then. They struck the artifact their Brother held, for They now had a chance. A chance, earned and paid for by one man's blood." And finally, the corners of the Atavian's lips begin to rise. "One God-in-man - Whose essence was contained within that artifact, good hunter?"
Mahar had not expected to be asked a question, as he hesitates. He rises into a more upright position as he thinks, before he answers with a voice laced in uncertainty, "Lord Damariel?" There's no denying that is a guess.
You have emoted: Pieri's smile only grows. "If by some cosmic author's hand the tale was planned before - yes, that is a way of looking at it. Because Danerran had fallen, because Danerran was who he is, the essences within that artifact could become Lord @Damariel ." Fingers twine upon her lap now, long and slender, thickened round the joints. "Who was Danerran? A man. What man was he? A man who knew what it was to be alone."
You say, "A man who knew what it would mean to help another."
You say, "A man who knew temperance, enough to lead a group marked by desperation and despair."
You say, "A man who would throw himself between a -God- made helpless and a God in full power, who would know the cost to his own family - who chose to intervene not because he cared any less about his people, whom he led... but because none else might."
You say, "Because he could not stand by and watch when the cause - perhaps not sole cause, but nonetheless - of so many reinterpretations, liberties... when He who is called to generate parades of grey and grey until all darkens into black, is about to claim another life."
Awe can be seen in the light sparkle of Mahar's eye and the slight parting of his lips, another crack in his typically unmoving expression. "He was a good person."
You have emoted: "The essence of Truth - Lord Lanos - and the essence of Valor - Lord Arion - found a humble, but worthy shell who was there in the right place and at the right time." Pieri pauses. It is not the fire of zealotry that resides in the Atavian's eyes, but none could say she is only reciting. "He -was- a good person. And good He would come to embody still. A great pillar of light flared up. Danerran was the light. And there was still the stream of shadow that had broken his body, merging with the essences of Truth and Valor."
You say, "As a mortal had stepped forth and shed his blood to become -more-, so did mortals rise to gather the shattered pieces of the artifact, spread across the land, to battle against the corruption those shadows brought."
You have emoted: "And so became Damariel mot Lanosaryon, the Unbound. Breaker of chains - it was He who broke the curse over the Lord Hunter." The story finds its close, and Pieri's voice softens. "A God not as bright as the Queen of nightmares and images, but as Her court loves Her, He loves His own in turn - if not always close by."
Mahar leaves that story content, leaning back in his chair. "That was a story well told." He comments, sincerity resting in his tone. The compliment isn't out of politeness, but genuine. "I can understand why you would turn to Him."
You have emoted: "But not yet how." Pieri was not a particularly timid Atavian. Even so, the slightly crooked smile she offers - paired with the person she had been while weaving the tale - feels like a cool wave cradled in a bottle. "Perhaps that can be a story for another time, when we may both find the chance among our daily duties."
Mahar gives a firm nod of his head, one singular, forceful motion. "I'd like that." He then ponders you, eyes squinting with thought. "What are your daily duties?"
You have emoted: "Settling into the life of a Luminary." Certainly Pieri is no longer in the uniform of the Templars. "Training, so I may not lose what strength I have built. Studies, of the Spark, of the Gods, whatever catches my eye, and the crafting of rituals." Though her time of departure nears, she will not yet stand - information for information. "What of you, good hunter? Save for, of course, hunting?"
Mahar lets out a quiet hum of acknowledgement, a small, interested noise. The curiosity still lingers in his eyes, though it's ignored in favour of answering the question posed to him. Curiosity is replaced with confusion, betrayed in his answer, "All I do is hunt." His gaze drifts toward a closed night-blooming cereus and he adds, "And tend my plants."
Hunter Mahar dur Naya says, "Once I'm strong enough, I plan on expanding my focus."
You have emoted: "There. There was more than hunting to the hunter." Pieri's eyes, too, follow Mahar's. "Perhaps next time we may speak, I might ask that one's name." Another fleeting, mirthful look. "Something other than just cereus." She brushes down the front of her skirt when she does finally rise. "I am curious to know where that expansion may tend," she offers earnestly. "Now, though, I fear sleep comes for me. I hope the story was well-formed enough to stay, though its teller must now return and rest?"
Mahar rises as you do, adjusting his dhurive and the book as he does so. "It was a good story. One I'll keep here," His fingers rise to his temple, tapping it once, "If nowhere else." His lips stretch into a purposeful smile, a baring of his teeth. "I hope your rest is well."
It is now dusk on Falsday, the 23rd of Chakros, year 495 of the Midnight Age.
Like an awakening star, the buds of a night-blooming cereus slowly open, pale and beautiful as the sun sets into darkness.
You focus on your city's pylon, calling out to it for its guiding pull. Ylem energies surge around you to pull you home.
Paging @Roux - neatly accomplished, eh?
Your voice echoes in @Mahar 's ears, "A presence I have not felt in a long while. Thank you, by the way, for helping me gain knowledge I needed back when I was still with the Templars."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "Aha, I remember you! Are you not still with the Templars?"
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "No - the work of a soldier, and the duty of a soldier, proved not to suit me as well as other matters might have."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "I don't know much about being a soldier,"
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "I don't know much, but I can understand that still."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "If I remember correctly... you are a warrior still, yes?"
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "Yes, I'm still a warrior - a sentinel. I don't think I'm a good one, but I'll get there."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "Ah - I was right." Her mind shifts, as though taking in a long breath. "And still you helped me find a Shaman, despite not being from among their number."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "A conduit of knowledge, yes." Faint satisfaction in her voice - she has a thought. "It so happens that I may be able to return the favour. Knowledge, for more than one to share, if you are interested."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "Would've felt bad if I hadn't." There's a pause - silence so clearly full of interest. "What sort of knowledge?"
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "I have known the value of collecting things, and I wager your guild may, too." She does not promise treasures out of the ordinary, but something as grounded as the quality of her mind. "A book. I do not know if someone in the Sentinels has already added it to your collection, but one cannot know unless one sees it, looks past the cover."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "I don't know much about our collection of books, but I could ask or look. What's interesting about its insides?"
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "It does help to know about one's allies, different though we may be. The text I have to offer showcases rather well one facet of Enorian. Regarding prophets, and the works of Gods already passed. It is honest, and unapologetically so, in what it holds to be true, and that is one of the ways of gaining insight about a thing."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "Does it have a name?"
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "The Revelation. Or perhaps the Bestowing. Are you familiar with these?"
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "No, but I don't read many books so I didn't think I would. I was just going to see if I could find it in our library."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "Ah, yes, Do let me know if it is there."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "I often wonder what it would have been like for the prophetess who lived those two books. To hear a God and a Goddess' voice, to be chosen for a task that holds significance to a large community. Simply put on page... something -living- is a little bit lost."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "I think little words probably don't always capture the scale of things, because you can't see the greatness."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "It's just whatever your imagination can think up."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "I think we have The Revelation of Lanu Du by Lahkencai and The Bestowing by Lady Auresae. Are either of those yours?"
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "Ah, the latter may be, but not the former."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "But I may remedy that."
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "If we have one and not the other, then that remedy would likely be good."
Your voice echoes in Mahar's ears, "Where, do you think, ought this remedy be administered?" A hint of mirth is in her voice now. "Somewhere by the forests?"
Mahar's thoughts fill your head, "That would work. Wherever you think it's best administered."
Stone bridge over a spring.
Mahar raises his hand over his head in greeting as he comes to a halt right beside you.
He is a muscular Mhun. A youthful complexion bears dark brown skin and the touch of a life lived in the sun. He stands slightly taller than the average Mhun, with a willowy frame that exaggerates his height. Hard muscle rests where it counts as his arms and legs carry the lines of definition created from years of an active lifestyle. A heart-shaped face carries finer features, with a thin, aquiline nose and full lips. Almond eyes shine darkly underneath heavy eyebrows. A wild mane of bushy, auburn hair flows down to his shoulders in an untamed display. It's controlled enough to keep it out of his eyes, but only just. Vertical lines of gold run down his cheeks, with a single line of white cutting down over brow, nose, and chin. The clean scent of a refreshing sea breeze lingers around him - the aroma marking the blessing of the Maelstrom. Eldritch violet light surrounds him - a blessing of chaos and dreaming. His skin looks supple and fresh, the healthy glow surrounding him evidence of the deeply floral and honeyed smelling lotion he has recently applied.
a crescent-shaped pectoral of gold design : (encompassing the neck)
2 gold triangle earrings : (worn on the ears)
an oiled black leather pack : (worn on the back)
2 gold cuff bracelets : (around one wrist)
a cracked hematite medallion of the Pride : (around the neck)
the ancestral mark : (pressed into the waist)
a tempestuous globe of the Maelstrom : (hanging from a klaio bronze pendant chain)
a knotted, periwinkle silk belt : (wound around his waist)
a radara and diamond ring : (worn on a finger)
a long loincloth of gray linen : (hanging from the hips)
You have emoted: The Atavian turns at that, bushy brows rising at the quick entrance. Pieri's greeting is a deep incline of her head for Mahar - for Jaamir, a lighter nod - she does not yet know the face of her ordermate. "Ah, the hunter arrives. I have the offering."
Jaamir leaves to the east.
He is followed by a blindfolded ancestral simulacrum, a one-eyed ancestral simulacrum, and a wrinkled ancestral simulacrum.
You give a simple book to Mahar.
It is now dawn on Falsday, the 23rd of Chakros, year 495 of the Midnight Age.
Birds fly from their roosts as a throaty voice rises from the caverns of the Heartwood. Others soon join in the lasting sonorous harmony, the forest Shaman's call to morning meditation.
Mahar turns the book in his hands once he receives it, examining the cover with interest. No clear expression shows on his face beyond an acceptance that this must be what you say it is. "I'll make sure it gets into that library. Talk to people." He claps his hands together, the book caught in between. "Thank you."
You have emoted: And with a light sound of boot upon stone, Pieri has stepped up to Mahar - hardly nose-to-nose, but for the reserved Atavian Mahar might remember her being, the gesture is boldly mirthful. "Remember these plans," she whispers, in an oddly focused whisper. "They will build your home."
You have emoted: And then Pieri is drawing back away - if it can be called that, for there is still several handspans of distance between them. "I cannot be sure if I read it sufficiently Goddess-like."
Mahar's eyebrow twitches inward and that is the only sign that makes it to his face to show he's processing your words. He nods carefully as his gaze drifts down to the book again. When you move, he looks back up and says, "I suspect reading it like that would be a bit of a feat for a non-Goddess."
You have emoted: "Mm." Pieri nods solemnly. "I daren't try keeping the next bit faithful to the original. Difficult for one to channel true urgency without being a prime actor."
Mahar echoes your nod, "Actors have to practice a lot just to manage that. You'd need that or natural born talent."
You have emoted: "Much talent and presence would be needed to channel anything like Lord Rahn." There is faint awe in Pieri's voice. "I only wish I had been born at a time when He still walked the earth. Gods in general make me very much curious - I had only been taught the ways of a Goddess already dead, before Enorian."
"Who's Lord Rahn?" Mahar asks, tilting his head to the side. "Gods scared me for a while, but now it's just a good scared."
You have emoted: "He was among the earliest to receive the Fire Essence, Mebrene. A God of Fire, dead by the machinations of Corruption and Hers." Without a book to hold, Pieri's hands clasp at her front. "I have heard at least two stories pertaining to Him, but when He was mortal, He was a warrior by the name of Idar Karif."
Quietly, you say, "A man who would push himself to achieve the heights of what many would see as right and good. He fell, was claimed by Her, and somehow withstood Her trials to become the God He was, for a long while."
You say, "And I do not know how He quite managed all of it."
Mahar absentmindedly runs his thumb across the edge of the book as he listens. His attention doesn't stray from you once, watching intently. "Was His feats impressive, even for a God?"
You have emoted: "After He became a God..." Here Pieri's face falls slightly. "There are not enough books on His achievements, only on who He was."
You say, "And from what writings are left of Him, and comparisons between Him and His predecessor, shall we say..."
You say, "He may have been a just God, unafraid to forge forward to bring forth what He believed in. But He may also have been a hard-edged God."
Hunter Mahar dur Naya says, "Which would you prefer?"
You have emoted: "Only few can make the hard decisions." You can see Pieri is not treating the question like some parlour game; her face is earnest, and her bushy brows are close to knitting when she thinks. "That is what separates them from the rest. Mistakes will be made, no doubt - but if one ought to choose, then... better to be hard-edged when needed." Then she blinks. "Ah - well. That was... more what I might aspire to be."
You say, "As a mortal, looking to a God... I would admire a hard-edged God who is also just. But... the God I would, and do, turn to is someone like Lord Damariel."
Much like the answer he receives, Mahar listens and watches you with a sincere and interested attentiveness. He nods softly along, a light bob of the head that shifts his hair around his face. "Better to be able to make those decisions than be left floundering when they come up." Then, as you continue, he confesses, "I don't know much of Lord Damariel."
You have emoted: "Strange tales would be better heard where you find it more comfortable - if you would hear of Him, that is." Pieri brushes a strand from her mane behind a rosy ear. "I do realise I've been going on rather a lot about myself and my views, and Gods of another place and time."
Mahar gives a loose, rolling shrug of his shoulders. "I don't mind. I like listening to things I don't know about - it's how I learn new things."
You have emoted: "After you, then," Pieri offers with an in-between sweep, like a bow and a gesture rolled into one. "Where you often listen to stories unfamiliar - or where you might like to."
You begin to follow Mahar.
"We could go to my home?" Mahar suggests, and his tone is full of uncertainty. The decision-making has clearly put him on the spot, with the answer evading him.
You have emoted: "I don't mind." Pieri is not without her considerations, but having run through them all, her hazel eyes remain clear. If she has not gained enough confidence in him, she has enough of it in herself - overall, she remains amiable. "Into the woods proper, then?"
A biting cold hangs in the air, heralding the arrival of Aisling.
“Into the city, more like." Mahar answers you, with a vague gesture that explains nothing. His gaze flits towards Aisling briefly and the gesture turns into a wave in passing, before he steps off the Bridge.
Mahar unlocks the in door.
Mahar opens the door to the in.
You follow Mahar to the in.
An open sitting room full of plants.
A small foyer, large enough to stand in, opens into a spacious sitting room. Windows fill up most of the walls, wedged between exposed stone. The large room is made to feel small by the clutter taking up most of the space. Where available, plants fill the room. The potted trees and bushes and vines creeping through gaps in the window lack any order or organisation to their placement. The vines have crawled from the window, across the ceiling, to the opposite wall. In amongst the bushes, pressed against the eastern wall, a table and chairs are hidden. The table is rendered unusable by the sheer amount of potted plants covering it. When the light from outside is not enough, lanterns from the ceiling provide additional light. Through the ever-open windows, the distant sound of stomping boots fills the room periodically. A sturdy rustic asper table stands here. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. A rare night-blooming cereus grows within a pot, its flower closed against the sun. An elegant pot sits here, painted in bright hues of gold and blue.
You see exits leading south and out (open pine door).
Mahar closes the door to the out.
Mahar locks the out door.
You have emoted: Whisked away into the city, as Mahar had said, Pieri's eyes are wide all through the journey. "Djeir - I might have known, yes..." The flowers catch her eye almost immediately, and she does not hesitate to inhale the air, looking for traces of them.
A rare cactus, the night-blooming cereus has a flanged body with sharp ridges, growing several feet tall. Irregular buds branch off of each ridge, closed against the sun.
It has 75 weeks of usefulness left.
It is strangely weightless.
Upon entry, Mahar immediately busies himself with clearing a chair. He pulls it out, indicating for you to take it, with the comment, "Never had anyone in here before. It's only been me and the animals that live here."
You have emoted: She has not yet seen a trace of said animals, not yet. Pieri sits with a rustling of wings, careful not to let them press too hard against the back of the chair upon settling. "Then it is an honor," she offers. "I can assure you I can be a model guest." And her smile is indeed assured. "And hopefully I will remain, with what stories I do have."
Only once you has sat does Mahar go about clearly a seat for himself, moving as if following a script. When he sits, placing his dhurive on his lap and the book on top of that, he relaxes and looks to you. The corner of his lip tugs upwards in the hint of a smile. "I'm looking forward to hearing your stories."
Quietly, as an afterthought, Mahar adds, "I like stories."
You have emoted: "And what I share here and now will be just that." Pieri is still an Enorianite, and she is well aware of it. Her smile is warm enough to be reassuring without entering the realm of self-effacement. "Once, in a faraway continent, there was a man. This man was not different in attire, or station, or appearance - not in any earth-shattering way - compared to his fellows, whose lives were governed by the ugly chain of slavery." The lanterns cast a dim light over the Atavian's eyes, painting them a hazel that warms with amber tones.
As the story starts, Mahar settles into his seat, leaning forward as he listens. One would think the words you spill were gospel, because that is how he seems to treat them. His attention doesn't waver, eyes glued to you. Upon the mention of slavery, his nose wrinkles in disgust and that is the first mar to his otherwise pleasant expression.
You have emoted: "It were the days when the Aalen had been alive, and ailing, that brought this man, whose deeds had yet been unknown to Sapience, into the light." The words flow and shift, weaving themselves on the low tones of Pieri's voice into the image she has seen through the scrolls and scraps she has seen. "Days when the Lord Hunter Himself was held captive, caught by a trap the Artificer had laid; He came upon His Brother with armies of shadowbeasts, seeking to capture another Divine soul within His artifact, which had already held the essence of Truth and Valor."
You have emoted: Her hand rises, and is joined by its twin. "Waves upon waves, inky, black like spilled oil did they advance. Varian willed that no mortal who fell to the bickering of Gods would be deprived of a chance to live, and know the taste of triumph against the waywardness of His second-born; Varian willed, yet the will of Severn matched the strength of His horde." Reddened palms, forever ruddy, and covered with the callouses of a life harder than the features of Pieri's face might suggest. "He found His chance - advanced - and then..."
You have emoted: "Danerran." Those two palms meet, silent and complete in their joining. "The ragged one, the slave from Albedos, refugees from Delve - and a leader. And what a man he would have been! Chains still dragging from his wrists, a symbol of his life before, which he either kept or failed to discard." Pieri's eyes shift from point to point as the tale continues to unfurl, yet even as she spins it along, she is ever aware of the presence of Mahar before her. "And now - that which had signified shame, anger, repression, all that makes the world miserable - would soon be freed from their associations, to be transformed themselves by his deed. Alone among mortals, as a mere -mortal- he stepped before the Artificer; his shadow was still Severn's to claim, and so was ended the man known as Danerran in one fell swoop, in one move that many may have mocked as idiocy."
Quietly, you say, "What could he do?"
Quietly, you ask, "What could a slave in stolen iron and borrowed clothes, ever do against the God of Lies?"
"Nothing!" Mahar fills in the space with a hushed answer, more to himself than anything else.
You have emoted: "It was not his will which turned the tide." Irises limned in gold, steady and strong even where the light may flicker. Pieri speaks on. "And yet it was his will which allowed the tide to be turned. Danerran fell, and the Gods rose. For the Goddess of Fire, the one after Lord Rahn, had been with the Hunter then. They struck the artifact their Brother held, for They now had a chance. A chance, earned and paid for by one man's blood." And finally, the corners of the Atavian's lips begin to rise. "One God-in-man - Whose essence was contained within that artifact, good hunter?"
Mahar had not expected to be asked a question, as he hesitates. He rises into a more upright position as he thinks, before he answers with a voice laced in uncertainty, "Lord Damariel?" There's no denying that is a guess.
You have emoted: Pieri's smile only grows. "If by some cosmic author's hand the tale was planned before - yes, that is a way of looking at it. Because Danerran had fallen, because Danerran was who he is, the essences within that artifact could become Lord @Damariel ." Fingers twine upon her lap now, long and slender, thickened round the joints. "Who was Danerran? A man. What man was he? A man who knew what it was to be alone."
You say, "A man who knew what it would mean to help another."
You say, "A man who knew temperance, enough to lead a group marked by desperation and despair."
You say, "A man who would throw himself between a -God- made helpless and a God in full power, who would know the cost to his own family - who chose to intervene not because he cared any less about his people, whom he led... but because none else might."
You say, "Because he could not stand by and watch when the cause - perhaps not sole cause, but nonetheless - of so many reinterpretations, liberties... when He who is called to generate parades of grey and grey until all darkens into black, is about to claim another life."
Awe can be seen in the light sparkle of Mahar's eye and the slight parting of his lips, another crack in his typically unmoving expression. "He was a good person."
You have emoted: "The essence of Truth - Lord Lanos - and the essence of Valor - Lord Arion - found a humble, but worthy shell who was there in the right place and at the right time." Pieri pauses. It is not the fire of zealotry that resides in the Atavian's eyes, but none could say she is only reciting. "He -was- a good person. And good He would come to embody still. A great pillar of light flared up. Danerran was the light. And there was still the stream of shadow that had broken his body, merging with the essences of Truth and Valor."
You say, "As a mortal had stepped forth and shed his blood to become -more-, so did mortals rise to gather the shattered pieces of the artifact, spread across the land, to battle against the corruption those shadows brought."
You have emoted: "And so became Damariel mot Lanosaryon, the Unbound. Breaker of chains - it was He who broke the curse over the Lord Hunter." The story finds its close, and Pieri's voice softens. "A God not as bright as the Queen of nightmares and images, but as Her court loves Her, He loves His own in turn - if not always close by."
Mahar leaves that story content, leaning back in his chair. "That was a story well told." He comments, sincerity resting in his tone. The compliment isn't out of politeness, but genuine. "I can understand why you would turn to Him."
You have emoted: "But not yet how." Pieri was not a particularly timid Atavian. Even so, the slightly crooked smile she offers - paired with the person she had been while weaving the tale - feels like a cool wave cradled in a bottle. "Perhaps that can be a story for another time, when we may both find the chance among our daily duties."
Mahar gives a firm nod of his head, one singular, forceful motion. "I'd like that." He then ponders you, eyes squinting with thought. "What are your daily duties?"
You have emoted: "Settling into the life of a Luminary." Certainly Pieri is no longer in the uniform of the Templars. "Training, so I may not lose what strength I have built. Studies, of the Spark, of the Gods, whatever catches my eye, and the crafting of rituals." Though her time of departure nears, she will not yet stand - information for information. "What of you, good hunter? Save for, of course, hunting?"
Mahar lets out a quiet hum of acknowledgement, a small, interested noise. The curiosity still lingers in his eyes, though it's ignored in favour of answering the question posed to him. Curiosity is replaced with confusion, betrayed in his answer, "All I do is hunt." His gaze drifts toward a closed night-blooming cereus and he adds, "And tend my plants."
Hunter Mahar dur Naya says, "Once I'm strong enough, I plan on expanding my focus."
You have emoted: "There. There was more than hunting to the hunter." Pieri's eyes, too, follow Mahar's. "Perhaps next time we may speak, I might ask that one's name." Another fleeting, mirthful look. "Something other than just cereus." She brushes down the front of her skirt when she does finally rise. "I am curious to know where that expansion may tend," she offers earnestly. "Now, though, I fear sleep comes for me. I hope the story was well-formed enough to stay, though its teller must now return and rest?"
Mahar rises as you do, adjusting his dhurive and the book as he does so. "It was a good story. One I'll keep here," His fingers rise to his temple, tapping it once, "If nowhere else." His lips stretch into a purposeful smile, a baring of his teeth. "I hope your rest is well."
It is now dusk on Falsday, the 23rd of Chakros, year 495 of the Midnight Age.
Like an awakening star, the buds of a night-blooming cereus slowly open, pale and beautiful as the sun sets into darkness.
You focus on your city's pylon, calling out to it for its guiding pull. Ylem energies surge around you to pull you home.
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