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In this Discussion
New Whispers
Who knew another poke around Seer's Wood for all its lovely descs would lead to this? Thanks for being a good sport, @Omei and @Straid!
Where shallow stairs ascend
Pillows cover the ground in all different sizes and shapes, their colors in royal hues to leave a nice resting place for those who might need it. The floor rises in wide, shallow stairs toward the center of the room, raising it up on a platform whereupon a spiral staircase takes one up to the third level of the temple. The sandstone walls are covered in a frieze of the rising sun over the forest, many of the animals just rising for the morning to take flight into the air or prowl about the forest floor. A statue of a fae duelist challenges all comers, captured mid-lunge. A landscape of quicksilver hangs upon the wall, framed in glimmering magewood. A colorful cushion sits before the statue, providing a seat to see while settled. Straid is here. He wields a Shamanic quarterstaff in his hands. Lunar brilliance and chaotic light blaze about the form of Omei, the Imago. A cocoon of soft, pinkish hues is nested here within a cradle of colorful cushions.
You see exits leading northeast and down.
Comprehension flashes across your face.
Omei:
Omei stands, alongside Straid, beside the pink cocoon. She looks up, Her eyeless sockets fixing on you - a sharp shock of golden-hued sparks manifest there at noticing you.
You have emoted: Needlessly raising a hand to her already mute mouth, Pieri takes a single step back even as her eyes flit from Omei to the cushion-wrapped cocoon to a quicksilver landscape.
Calm yourself. You've seen Her once already.
Omei's expression gentles from initial surprise. She smiles - a thin, silvery crescent amid the sable hues of Her face - and lifts a claw, beckoning you forward with a curious crook of Her head. Her tail poises tensely at Her back, looped as though to form the impression of a question mark.
Her voice gentle but carrying, Omei, the Imago says to you, "This cocoon just formed."
Straid rests at ease beside Omei; The same sort of ease with which one might draw breath. His mind settles into an easy, coherent rhythm in place of the jumbled mess of thoughts and questions it had been only a moment before. His sightless eyes snap vaguely, but sharply in your direction.
You have emoted: Whatever progress Pieri had made with speech after her time on the Isle crawls back into her throat and wads itself up within. She swallows once, trying to regain her footing, and Omei's gesture gives her what she needs to move, if not speak.
You tell Omei, "Forgive me, Goddess, but what... are these?"
"We've a visitor," Omei explains to Straid in a murmur, settling Her paw on his shoulder in a soft pat. She parts from him and approaches you, moving to greet her not far from a statue of a fae duelist. Her tail's a slow sway at Her back. She stands even with you, hazel eye to empty socket.
Slyly, Omei, the Imago says to you, "You need not ask forgiveness for looking upon art. You'll have to explain what you mean by 'these', however..."
Gentling a bit at Omei's words, Straid's features soften into an easy smile. His voice kindles into a soft but clear baritone. "Ah, good timing. Be welcome. I find myself drawn here this night to look upon art as well." Straid leans upon his staff and readjusts his wings at his back absently. "Perhaps you might tell us what you see? We were only just beginning to discuss it."
You have emoted: Though Pieri knows better than to reply in a way most others would, she tries anyway on instinct and only produces a strained sound, hurling itself against her shut lips and bursting. Her already ruddy cheeks now veritably aflame, the Atavian steps gingerly closer to a colorful cushion and gestures to it before she looks upon a quicksilver landscape.
Comprehension seems to wash over his features as Straid listens with keen ears and gazes upon the scene with his mind's eye. "Oh, forgive me. I didn't mean for my words to be insensitive. I hadn't realized." The atavian seems sincere and amiable.
You tell Straid, "I'm... sorry. I was just - " Her pulse hammers faintly against your mind as a prey animal's blood might pound in its own ears. "I was looking about - not trying to be rude, but I was surprised and that's why..." It takes a moment for her to settle, though it hardly settles fully. "No, please don't apologise. I'm not always... like this."
"...all right," Omei whispers soothingly, contralto tones lowering to something careful, something rough. At your gesture toward a plain grey cushion, She gives an encouraging nod - circling around to get a better view of a quicksilver landscape, and assuming a lazy, supine sprawl amongst cushions of Her own. There She lies, arms folded beneath Her sharp chin and tail twitching over Her frame.
Her rough whisper continuing, Omei, the Imago says to you, "No need to speak. You can share space with us all the same."
Straid gives a nod as he pads over on worn leather boots and settles down onto a nearby cushion, laying his staff across his folded legs with a soft clatter of fetishes.
Straid says to Omei, "I do not recognize this one, my Queen. Perhaps you might introduce me?"
You have emoted: Pieri's memory - of her recent creeping beneath Omei's notice - is slow to release her. From her glances, you can tell the cocoon will be asked about next, and that last glance fades as she scurries to find her own seat.
Pieri:
Omei's attention fixes to you, and She gives you further examination, now. Her feline nostrils flare, and Her tail speeds ever so slightly. "You're familiar," She speaks. "Attended an audience. Quiet little creature then, too." Her folded hands rise, alongside Her chin, and She grins crookedly. "Pretty, too, although I only know that now that I've perceived you more closely."
Omei, the Imago says to Straid, "She'll have to introduce herself, in such time as she sees fit - a scintillating stranger amongst silver and sacred sandstone."
You have emoted: Pieri's shoulders almost jump up - along with her wings - at Omei's verdict, though she does not and visibly has no intention of recoiling. Pushing bravely through the colour in her apple cheeks, she bobs a few nods, an unspoken promise for later.
One day - one day, I'll be used to living Gods.
Lounging, Omei's teeth bare into a grin, fully appreciating the effect which Her remark has had upon you - to say nothing of the effect caused by Her mere presence. Her legs fold at the ankle and bend back at the knee, kicking in the air as if to measure time. Even in spite of the fiery mischief which hues the empty caves of Her gaze, there is a genuine, underlying warmth there nevertheless.
Purring, Omei, the Imago asks you, "Would you like to learn about what's in this room, girl?"
Straid seems to shift his focus between Omei and you as he listens to the words of his Goddess. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth as he observes the reaction of the young atavian girl. "Oh, aye? New footfalls beneath the pale moon? A splendid thing." His face turns to you, a few blonde braids falling to frame his face. "In that case, I shall look forward to said introduction and await it with patience."
Straid:
It is now midnight on Tisday, the 7th of Lleian, year 492 of the Midnight Age.
Today is one of the days of the First Month of Mourning.
You have emoted: Pieri's gaze, for now, has two different faces: on Omei, her eyes are wider, alert and teetering on the edge of arrested. Almost like a green recruit facing a superior but not quite that rigid, thanks to the environment around them all and perhaps due to the sheer colour and magic that She wears like a mantle. On Straid - she is still a little bit tense. Not having had enough time to examine him, her gaze still darts a fair bit around his features. His last comment draws another bobbing nod from Pieri, and she manages a small, shy smile that she still wears for Omei when she looks back to Her.
You tell Omei, "Yes, please, Goddess."
"This room's a collaborate artwork," Omei is quick - eager, even - to explain. "You see them?" Her claw angles out toward a statue of a fae duelist, reaching toward but not quite touching the tip of the thorn rapier. "My duelist. My art. It would be quicksilver, if not for My will bending it to the image you see." One of Her arms extends, and She makes a game of lightly bouncing a small cushion against the ground before Her. She angles one lacy corner toward a quicksilver landscape. "My narrator's responsible for the landscape. The two, interwoven..."
Omei, the Imago says, "...sometimes, when two artworks strike the watchers just so, they shall decide who lays claim to such a face. And then-."
Omei's head angles aside toward the cocoon, as yet ethereal and ill-detailed, nestled in its nearby cradle.
Omei, the Imago says, "-they cross over. They begin to become."
This statue of a fae duelist conveys an agile and merciless warrior. Stark androgyny defines their long-fingered frame, built short, compact, and slim. Their agile appearance belies the powerful muscle which cords them, making the weight of their half-filled waterskin and well-provisioned haversack seem nothing, casually slung across their off shoulder. Their hair of lunar silver is tied back from their widow's peak into a long, bauble-laden braid, puffing outward as though it were shaped from clouds instead of silver - only two trailing bangs frame their sharp-angled features, as well as two heterochromatic eyes of deep emerald and royal violet. A set of nimble moths' wings adorn the statue's back, the same prismatic non-shade as that of the moths which flock amidst the Seer's Wood, and of a span large enough to bear them into the air. The rest of their flesh, by contrast, is stygian, star-studded darkness, ornamented by the shimmers of distant nebulae. Their armor and garb are an arresting, rosy hue, wrought from the leathery hide of some chaotic beast, and the rapier they clutch in one nimble hand has been shaped from the vernal, spindled spine of some immense and well-defended plant. A lump of bronze has been stolen from the statue's base to form the hilt and basket of the duelist's rapier, glowing with chaotic effulgence within the fae's hand. The stolen bronze has, in turn, been filled in by quicksilver, which mimics the tone and lustre of the surrounding so nearly that the illusion is almost complete - but instead has been left apparent, as though by deliberate intent.
She Most Chromatic's oneiric signature pervades this statue.
This landscape, though flat, consists in a film of quicksilver stretched flat and immobile across a frame of magewood. In spite of its liquid appearance, and the slow shift of color which courses through its confines, it maintains cohesion, as well as the suggestion of some image within.
The image within the frame takes clearer form as you gaze on:
A scene seemingly pulled and stretched outward from the magewood borders surrounding it. The working within gives the sense of impossible depth. Slowly shifting shadows and dusky tones of color permeate the created image and lend shape to its contents.
Stirred tones of dark light and facets of quicksilver have been artfully arranged in such a manner that they depict a strikingly realistic tableau of a stone glade in the grip of a Stygian night draped from an alien sky. The image seems to deepen as it is looked upon, lending the impression of gazing through a window at some moment in the past. Smote upon one of the boulders in the glade, sword still grasped, lays a creature unusual enough in nature that some might consider it a monster. An elongated claw-tipped hand clutches at a gaping wound in its abdomen, trying in vain to staunch the black lifeblood that flows freely between fingers. Bent over the dying form is another such creature, somehow smaller and different in bearing, clearly distraught over the fate of its companion. A few small tears are caught frozen in their fall, glimmering like tiny stars in the night. Closer examination reveals a form smaller still, the comparative size of a child, standing off to one side a lone moth perched within its hair. In his tiny hand is a branch with a shape reminiscent of a sword, held in a white-knuckled grip as its eyes trail towards and beyond the observer, fixed upon the object of its apparent rage and admiration. Were the viewer to turn, they would see naught else it could be but the departing form of a fae duelist.
The narrator's oneiric signature pervades this landscape, silver stars glimmering in the air.
Seemingly satisfied with your silent answer, Straid falls into a comfortable silence of his own as Omei expounds upon the artwork herein. The expression upon his face reflecting a mixture of pride, nostalgia and quiet anticipation. His sightless green eyes shift in the direction of the cocoon.
You have emoted: Hazel eyes once more work away at the feast of two images laid before them. A soft breath is drawn, and Pieri's lips part a little with it as she studies the face of a statue of a fae duelist. A moment to take in a quicksilver landscape, another to wrench her eyes from its shifting tableaux, and then to look between the two works of art.
You tell Omei, "And..." A natural question follows while another hums at the back of her mind. "Did... the landscape once not feature the fae, then?"
"No," Omei answers, aloud, after moments of silence. Her empty eyes turn between you and a quicksilver landscape. "Not until the narrator shaped it thus, inspired in turn by My own work - and I, by theirs." Violescent sparks balance upon the edges of Her half-lidded eyes, spilling over like decadent stars upon a blank, black canvas of fur. She shimmers as She regards the art with fondness. "The statues, the art, within these sandstone halls... is, like sand itself, evershifting. A new guise, a new mark, in the course of weeks or months..."
Omei, the Imago says, "The temple itself lives by its art - breathes by it. So, too, I hope, some of those mortals who dare to behold it."
You have emoted: Mirroring her previous gesture, Pieri raises a lightly-curled fist to her lips. Her eyes grow glassy for a moment, pondering, and she slowly lowers that hand again, unfurls it, looks down at her empty palm. Behind those lashes, unmistakable longing raises its head. Slender fingers trace the skin of that palm, sketching a shape without a name and wishing for quicksilver to try and shape.
I wouldn't need to be trained by anyone, to make pictures like these.
A lunar smile blossoms on Omei's lips, and She nods - silent, encouraging, as She offers forth a paw to you. There She holds it, suspended in the air, radiant in Her quiet before She whispers low once more. Silver glimmers like stars upon Her, stirred to slow saunters by Her speech.
Straid cants his head askance as he studies you before his gaze flicks with sharp acuity to Omei. "A story waiting to become, it would seem, Goddess."
Softly, Omei, the Imago asks you, "Would you like the quill and chisel to do, dear?"
You have emoted: Pieri blinks once, and bows her head without truly nodding. Her fingers move away, closer to herself, and quietly brush a full circle around her wrist before repeating the motion with the other hand. She grinds empty air between thumb and index finger as one might crumble a herb, parting the air below her wrists - the Unbound's manacles.
You tell Omei, "Goddess, the tools You have given Yours call to me, it is true. And... they are for Yours alone, are they not?"
"Some tools are for Mine alone," Omei concedes, alongside a nod of acknowledgement, "This much is true- and yet..." Here She falls into pensive silence, debating for some time the words with which She intends to follow Her first sentence, "...I suppose I shall say what many oft hear from Me."
Omei, the Imago says to you, "I am not most Goddesses. I do not ask that mortals grant Me service or honor in the same ways as most of My Siblings. In this way, many who stand outside My whisper wear My mark - far-flung moths, nevertheless drawn to this wood as so many are."
Straid watches you closely for your reaction, his violet-flecked eyes of emerald oddly unfocused, but no less intent.
You have emoted: Even the awe that overtakes Pieri in the presence of - as her mind had put it - 'living Gods' cannot quite gloss over the pensiveness also coming to settle in the Atavian's eyes. One cannot pick apart a Divine's intentions without luck or without knowing Them, and the same is true for Pieri. She stares at Omei's offered hand and makes another quiet noise in the back of her throat without yet grasping it.
You tell Omei, "I serve Lord @Damariel - though I do not yet know Him, I wish to." While one might expect her mind to reflect more of the Atavian's tenseness or awe, it is in her mind that her true thoughts, unclouded by extraneous emotion, can be read best. "This would not interfere with me coming to know You, if You would allow. I have wished to know the Gods of today, not the departed Ultraist I was taught by my tutors."
Omei's hand remains poised in the air - in spite of Her silence and stillness, She yet smiles. It's warm, but in spite of this a difficult expression to read, balanced as it is upon a knife's edge of amusement and mischief. "I should welcome you coming to know Me. My whisper," She gives answer, tone soft. "My Brother's no issue, nor My Sister's memory."
You have emoted: Birds would not often associate with felines. It is with some trepidation that Pieri approaches, not out of mistrust, you can tell. Her fingers hover over the offered hand then plunge through the barrier of air to lay themselves atop Omei's own. The Atavian nods her head once, not in bobs, but in a slight and weighted dip.
Omei's paws clasp firm about your hand. She smiles, draws the slender digits near, and puts Her maw to them in a soft kiss. In spite of Her gentleness, and the silken brush of Her flesh, the sensory impact of the gesture is immense - a rush of multifarious sparks, rising through the air in tumult. Light blossoms from that point of contact, crimson showing upon the tanned skin before all the noise, pain, and fury resolves to a singular shape.
The tattoo on Omei's arm flares into full brilliance.
The tattoo on your arm flares into full brilliance.
This moon tattoo is violet in hue, yet shimmers with eerie pearlescence beneath closer observation, belying its seeming immutability. It is underscored by a series of squares.
You have emoted: The Templar's arm tenses immediately and Pieri's stare connects directly with the maelstrom of Omei's eyes. Caught in what that touch has triggered, it takes a while for her to realize just what has appeared beneath the sleeve of her garments.
Straid bears witness with a quiet reverence colored by a small grin that whispers of satisfaction and knowing.
Rosy light forms fading afterimages - whispers of ethereal music curl at your ears' edges now, and the quicksilver hums with a resonance that you hadn't quite heard before. The sparks which dance from the point at which your mark has been placed are redolent with sensation, slow to fade and leave the shores of your mind at ease.
Omei's claws slip from your arm, carefully retracted against any possibility of doing you harm in the brief moment. "There," She murmurs, inspecting you with a nod of satisfaction. "Now you should be able to see things a little more as they are..."
You have emoted: What can Pieri be feeling at the moment? Pain flaring in red sparks, humming in heavy indigo, hope spiraling away like a colourless breeze? Something indeed rosy with a different sort of weight, murmuring shades of plum settling in like drowsiness after eating? One by one they pull themselves back from behind her eyes, though they would undoubtedly lie still over her mind. "H - what... will I see?" The Atavian's voice is also a little husky, and while there is no guarantee it will not slip back into silence, the colours and sensations have for the moment claimed her mind and freed her from whatever had been weighing upon it before.
"Look at the art again," Omei encourages lowly, Her paws folding over Her lap. Her tail is a slow sway at Her back. In spite of Her clear excitement at examining you, there's a near-quiescent calm about Her, a slow swim of many-colored sparks for which She serves as the midnight background. "You'll see how malleable it really is."
This statue of a fae duelist conveys an agile and merciless warrior. Stark androgyny defines their long-fingered frame, built short, compact, and slim. Their agile appearance belies the powerful muscle which cords them, making the weight of their half-filled waterskin and well-provisioned haversack seem nothing, casually slung across their off shoulder. Their hair of lunar silver is tied back from their widow's peak into a long, bauble-laden braid, puffing outward as though it were shaped from clouds instead of silver - only two trailing bangs frame their sharp-angled features, as well as two heterochromatic eyes of deep emerald and royal violet. A set of nimble moths' wings adorn the statue's back, the same prismatic non-shade as that of the moths which flock amidst the Seer's Wood, and of a span large enough to bear them into the air. The rest of their flesh, by contrast, is stygian, star-studded darkness, ornamented by the shimmers of distant nebulae. Their armor and garb are an arresting, rosy hue, wrought from the leathery hide of some chaotic beast, and the rapier they clutch in one nimble hand has been shaped from the vernal, spindled spine of some immense and well-defended plant. A lump of bronze has been stolen from the statue's base to form the hilt and basket of the duelist's rapier, glowing with chaotic effulgence within the fae's hand. The stolen bronze has, in turn, been filled in by quicksilver, which mimics the tone and lustre of the surrounding so nearly that the illusion is almost complete - but instead has been left apparent, as though by deliberate intent.
She Most Chromatic's oneiric signature pervades this statue.
It is possible for you to oneirically ADJUST this statue.
This statue has been perceived by the Seer, the lyrist, and the narrator.
This landscape, though flat, consists in a film of quicksilver stretched flat and immobile across a frame of magewood. In spite of its liquid appearance, and the slow shift of color which courses through its confines, it maintains cohesion, as well as the suggestion of some image within.
The image within the frame takes clearer form as you gaze on: A scene seemingly pulled and stretched outward from the magewood borders surrounding it. The working within gives the sense of impossible depth. Slowly shifting shadows and dusky tones of color permeate the created image and lend shape to its contents.
Stirred tones of dark light and facets of quicksilver have been artfully arranged in such a manner that they depict a strikingly realistic tableau of a stone glade in the grip of a Stygian night draped from an alien sky. The image seems to deepen as it is looked upon, lending the impression of gazing through a window at some moment in the past. Smote upon one of the boulders in the glade, sword still grasped, lays a creature unusual enough in nature that some might consider it a monster. An elongated claw-tipped hand clutches at a gaping wound in its abdomen, trying in vain to staunch the black lifeblood that flows freely between fingers. Bent over the dying form is another such creature, somehow smaller and different in bearing, clearly distraught over the fate of its companion. A few small tears are caught frozen in their fall, glimmering like tiny stars in the night. Closer examination reveals a form smaller still, the comparative size of a child, standing off to one side a lone moth perched within its hair. In his tiny hand is a branch with a shape reminiscent of a sword, held in a white-knuckled grip as its eyes trail towards and beyond the observer, fixed upon the object of its apparent rage and admiration. Were the viewer to turn, they would see naught else it could be but the departing form of a fae duelist.
The narrator's oneiric signature pervades this landscape, silver stars glimmering in the air.
This landscape has been perceived by She Most Chromatic, the Seer, and the lyrist.
It is possible for you to oneirically ADJUST this landscape.
You have emoted: Pieri's fingers curl inwards, the movement at first like that of one jumping back from flame before wonder overtakes her again. "Change and grow," she breathes. "Could anyone...?"
Murmuring as she pushes back her sleeve, you say, "Anyone, with this...?"
Gently, Omei, the Imago says to you, "Any living mortal, deemed worthy by one with the capacity to mark them."
Straid deftly snatches a cushion as the moment of solemnity slips back into the comfortable air of a narrative organically unfolding. He tucks the cushion behind his back, betwixt his mottled wings and leans against the nearby wall as he crosses one boot over the other at the ankle. "One such as you are becoming." he remarks with an echo of the gentleness in his Goddess' voice.
You have emoted: Relief flits across Pieri's features, then a smile less hesitant in its shade but still a little bit shy unfurls over the Atavian's face. She almost reflexively looks to Straid next, seeking someone on relatively similar grounds with her mortal self; met with Straid's words, a fresh wave of colour suffuses her cheeks. "I will strive to remain such," she whispers, and she is indeed no stranger to spoken words.
"In that case," Omei murmurs, Her fur beginning to shift and shimmer as fluttering moths' wings break free of the confines of Her flesh, "Seek out silver, in a room where no cocoon is laid. Record what came before - and give new shape to it." Her silver teeth bare into a wide grin, eyes alive as though mirroring the brightness of your rosy grin. As moments pass, She continues to divide - moths, seven by seven, taking flight from Her and leaving Her silhouette a mere suggestion.
Hesitating, like a half-drawn breath, as a moth flits forth to circle them, Omei, the Imago asks Straid, "My narrator. Is there anything you require of Me ere I take wing?"
In a steady baritone suffused with respect, Straid says to Omei, "One such as I would never dare to make requirements of one such as you, my Queen. Thank you for allowing me to witness this beginning. We shall speak more when next you're awake and possessed of the time."
You have emoted: Pieri watches the Goddess dissolve, unable to remember the last time she had seen Her depart in this way. Quietly her left hand goes to rest around her newly-gained mark, then she quickly lowers herself into a bow.
The last of the Imago is gone, then, like a puff of breath - a cavalcade of many-colored moths, surging outward, upward, toward the sky and away.
In the wake of the moths, Straid is on his feet before you, a single calloused hand outstretched towards you in an offer to help you to your feet.
Straid says to you, "Rise, Whisperer."
You have emoted: Straid's form casts a shadow over the smaller Atavian, whose ever-curious gaze now flits to the mark upon his neck. Slowly it returns to his strange eyes. Pieri reaches out to grasp the larger hand before she is standing once again, awake but still slightly dazed by the recent happenings.
Straid lifts your hand to his bowed forehead until your knuckles lightly brush the warm skin there. His voice fills the quiet of the morning within the sandstone halls, ever quiet yet possessed of the quality of steel, as he gently relinquishes your hand back to you. "Be welcome, and thank you for allowing me to share in your prelude. It is my honor."
You have emoted: "Thank you - " She is without a name. "- Narrator." Straid is still a presence foreign to Pieri, and you can't quite tell if the presence of wings on him is helping or not. Nevertheless she accepts that brush of forehead to hand almost as though exploring it, carefully watching Straid's movements. Her responding actions are equally careful and light, as though afraid to shatter whatever that coils on the air of the temple. "For - bearing witness."
You tell Straid, "I didn't think anybody would be in here," she confesses. Her mind has calmed considerably further than before even with the faint hum of residue anxiety. "I hope She will wake soon, to finish what it was that I stumbled upon, sir."
"Straid." The blonde atavian's features warm into a friendly grin, though his blind eyes carry the impression of unshakable perceptiveness. "You may call me Straid, if it please you."
Straid tells you, "I've a knack for being unexpected, and I'm no sir." You can hear the grin as much in the telepathic words in your mind as you can in the words he speaks. "As for the Imago...I wouldn't worry. She wakens often to tend to her faithful. She will undoubtedly make the time for you."
You have emoted: Pieri's fingers remain where they are, curled gently around her own mark. Perhaps she is drawing strength from it, or she has persuaded herself that she can, for while Straid's mind is still visited by the sounds of her own, she does keep at speaking with her voice. "I meant - your business, that I stumbled upon." Her own smile is slightly self-conscious, but Straid's amiability is clearly helping. "I'm Pieri Yara. Of the Templars, and you can call me whichever name you would prefer, Straid."
Wings of grayscale twilight flex at his back with a whisper of feathers as Straid observes you. To his mind's eye, you look to be a collection of innumerable lights standing out against the comparative darkness of the chamber. Their sum gives him an impression of your form and bearing, and their hues speak to him of your energy. "Ah, I wouldn't worry over that either. She will tend to me with the same likelihood, I'd wager. We were simply speaking of this latest working." His hand gestures fondly to the quicksilver constructs resting nearby with the enigmatic cocoon. "Far be it from me to ever stand in the way of a seeker flying like moth to flame in pursuit of our Queen. I am pleased to know you, Pieri of the Templars."
Where shallow stairs ascend
Pillows cover the ground in all different sizes and shapes, their colors in royal hues to leave a nice resting place for those who might need it. The floor rises in wide, shallow stairs toward the center of the room, raising it up on a platform whereupon a spiral staircase takes one up to the third level of the temple. The sandstone walls are covered in a frieze of the rising sun over the forest, many of the animals just rising for the morning to take flight into the air or prowl about the forest floor. A statue of a fae duelist challenges all comers, captured mid-lunge. A landscape of quicksilver hangs upon the wall, framed in glimmering magewood. A colorful cushion sits before the statue, providing a seat to see while settled. Straid is here. He wields a Shamanic quarterstaff in his hands. Lunar brilliance and chaotic light blaze about the form of Omei, the Imago. A cocoon of soft, pinkish hues is nested here within a cradle of colorful cushions.
You see exits leading northeast and down.
Comprehension flashes across your face.
Omei:
She is an Immortal, ensconced within a Rajamala shell and not much taller than the typical mortal. Her frame carries the suggestion of youth despite Her undeniable power, and pale tigerlike stripes paint her slight frame. Strong, wiry muscle belies Her prowess as a huntress; swirling motes of light curl through the air about Her. Despite their muted, subdued quality, they seem to catch and burn bright in Her empty eye sockets: mere, twin pools of prismatic radiance which are an unmistakable tell of Her Divine nature. Her furred features are dark as night but for the silver strands of Her whiskers, and the hair upon Her head has been cropped inexorably short, leaving Her eldritch, hollow gaze unobstructed.
a purple silk loincloth : (left to stretch down to Her knees)
a dhurive of many colors : (slung across Her back)
a snow white star orchid : (behind Her ear)
a bow wrought from chaos : (slung over Her shoulder)
a crown of moths : (swarming upon Her brow)
a rainbow quiver of arrows and light : (across Her shoulder)
a violet moon tattoo : (blazing throughout Her left arm)
a collection of sculpted brass bangles : (looped about Her left wrist)
cascading golden bracelets : (wrapped around Her right wrist)
a purple silk loincloth : (left to stretch down to Her knees)
a dhurive of many colors : (slung across Her back)
a snow white star orchid : (behind Her ear)
a bow wrought from chaos : (slung over Her shoulder)
a crown of moths : (swarming upon Her brow)
a rainbow quiver of arrows and light : (across Her shoulder)
a violet moon tattoo : (blazing throughout Her left arm)
a collection of sculpted brass bangles : (looped about Her left wrist)
cascading golden bracelets : (wrapped around Her right wrist)
Omei stands, alongside Straid, beside the pink cocoon. She looks up, Her eyeless sockets fixing on you - a sharp shock of golden-hued sparks manifest there at noticing you.
You have emoted: Needlessly raising a hand to her already mute mouth, Pieri takes a single step back even as her eyes flit from Omei to the cushion-wrapped cocoon to a quicksilver landscape.
Calm yourself. You've seen Her once already.
Omei's expression gentles from initial surprise. She smiles - a thin, silvery crescent amid the sable hues of Her face - and lifts a claw, beckoning you forward with a curious crook of Her head. Her tail poises tensely at Her back, looped as though to form the impression of a question mark.
Her voice gentle but carrying, Omei, the Imago says to you, "This cocoon just formed."
Straid rests at ease beside Omei; The same sort of ease with which one might draw breath. His mind settles into an easy, coherent rhythm in place of the jumbled mess of thoughts and questions it had been only a moment before. His sightless eyes snap vaguely, but sharply in your direction.
You have emoted: Whatever progress Pieri had made with speech after her time on the Isle crawls back into her throat and wads itself up within. She swallows once, trying to regain her footing, and Omei's gesture gives her what she needs to move, if not speak.
You tell Omei, "Forgive me, Goddess, but what... are these?"
"We've a visitor," Omei explains to Straid in a murmur, settling Her paw on his shoulder in a soft pat. She parts from him and approaches you, moving to greet her not far from a statue of a fae duelist. Her tail's a slow sway at Her back. She stands even with you, hazel eye to empty socket.
Slyly, Omei, the Imago says to you, "You need not ask forgiveness for looking upon art. You'll have to explain what you mean by 'these', however..."
Gentling a bit at Omei's words, Straid's features soften into an easy smile. His voice kindles into a soft but clear baritone. "Ah, good timing. Be welcome. I find myself drawn here this night to look upon art as well." Straid leans upon his staff and readjusts his wings at his back absently. "Perhaps you might tell us what you see? We were only just beginning to discuss it."
You have emoted: Though Pieri knows better than to reply in a way most others would, she tries anyway on instinct and only produces a strained sound, hurling itself against her shut lips and bursting. Her already ruddy cheeks now veritably aflame, the Atavian steps gingerly closer to a colorful cushion and gestures to it before she looks upon a quicksilver landscape.
Comprehension seems to wash over his features as Straid listens with keen ears and gazes upon the scene with his mind's eye. "Oh, forgive me. I didn't mean for my words to be insensitive. I hadn't realized." The atavian seems sincere and amiable.
You tell Straid, "I'm... sorry. I was just - " Her pulse hammers faintly against your mind as a prey animal's blood might pound in its own ears. "I was looking about - not trying to be rude, but I was surprised and that's why..." It takes a moment for her to settle, though it hardly settles fully. "No, please don't apologise. I'm not always... like this."
"...all right," Omei whispers soothingly, contralto tones lowering to something careful, something rough. At your gesture toward a plain grey cushion, She gives an encouraging nod - circling around to get a better view of a quicksilver landscape, and assuming a lazy, supine sprawl amongst cushions of Her own. There She lies, arms folded beneath Her sharp chin and tail twitching over Her frame.
Her rough whisper continuing, Omei, the Imago says to you, "No need to speak. You can share space with us all the same."
Straid gives a nod as he pads over on worn leather boots and settles down onto a nearby cushion, laying his staff across his folded legs with a soft clatter of fetishes.
Straid says to Omei, "I do not recognize this one, my Queen. Perhaps you might introduce me?"
You have emoted: Pieri's memory - of her recent creeping beneath Omei's notice - is slow to release her. From her glances, you can tell the cocoon will be asked about next, and that last glance fades as she scurries to find her own seat.
Pieri:
She is a normal Atavian, slim, apple-cheeked and of a mild countenance. Earthy brown hair falls in wisps high above two bushy brows before being pulled into a chest-length braid whose colour pleasantly contrasts with her lightly sunkissed skin. Her downturned hazel eyes are lined with thick lashes, long enough for each blink to seemingly send them sweeping the tops of those ruddy cheeks, adding to the inherently gentle air of the Atavian. Thickly feathered wings the same colour as her hair sprout from her shoulder blades; the time she spends grooming is apparent from their neatness. While being unfurled, they add another six inches to her 5'6 frame. Suffused with a pale glow, she walks with the boon of the Unbound.
an undyed light-duty uniform : (comfortably fitted)
a soldier's durable leather gloves : (fitted and secured)
a hooded, dark azure burnoose : (wings peeking from makeshift slits)
a belt-hung leather pouch : (branded with a sword's silhouette)
a knotted, crimson silk belt : (wound about her waist)
a pair of reinforced black leather boots : (laces double-knotted)
a thin, beaded silver hairtie : (starry beads dotting her braid's end)
an elaborate golden Celesmas crown : (bells jingling merrily)
an undyed light-duty uniform : (comfortably fitted)
a soldier's durable leather gloves : (fitted and secured)
a hooded, dark azure burnoose : (wings peeking from makeshift slits)
a belt-hung leather pouch : (branded with a sword's silhouette)
a knotted, crimson silk belt : (wound about her waist)
a pair of reinforced black leather boots : (laces double-knotted)
a thin, beaded silver hairtie : (starry beads dotting her braid's end)
an elaborate golden Celesmas crown : (bells jingling merrily)
Omei's attention fixes to you, and She gives you further examination, now. Her feline nostrils flare, and Her tail speeds ever so slightly. "You're familiar," She speaks. "Attended an audience. Quiet little creature then, too." Her folded hands rise, alongside Her chin, and She grins crookedly. "Pretty, too, although I only know that now that I've perceived you more closely."
Omei, the Imago says to Straid, "She'll have to introduce herself, in such time as she sees fit - a scintillating stranger amongst silver and sacred sandstone."
You have emoted: Pieri's shoulders almost jump up - along with her wings - at Omei's verdict, though she does not and visibly has no intention of recoiling. Pushing bravely through the colour in her apple cheeks, she bobs a few nods, an unspoken promise for later.
One day - one day, I'll be used to living Gods.
Lounging, Omei's teeth bare into a grin, fully appreciating the effect which Her remark has had upon you - to say nothing of the effect caused by Her mere presence. Her legs fold at the ankle and bend back at the knee, kicking in the air as if to measure time. Even in spite of the fiery mischief which hues the empty caves of Her gaze, there is a genuine, underlying warmth there nevertheless.
Purring, Omei, the Imago asks you, "Would you like to learn about what's in this room, girl?"
Straid seems to shift his focus between Omei and you as he listens to the words of his Goddess. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth as he observes the reaction of the young atavian girl. "Oh, aye? New footfalls beneath the pale moon? A splendid thing." His face turns to you, a few blonde braids falling to frame his face. "In that case, I shall look forward to said introduction and await it with patience."
Straid:
He is a wise Atavian. Simmering like the banked coals of an emerald fire, and flecked with luminous violet, his eyes ensnare attention. His gaze seems to be calmly taking in nigh every detail of his surroundings in a keen but unhurried manner; The eyes of a hunter, accustomed to falling into middle focus. Standing a shade taller than six feet, his frame is clad in layers of lean, corded muscle, developed over a lifetime in the forest. He carries himself with the casual grace of a woodsman, but closer examination reveals a man always poised on the edge of action should the need arise. A knot- work of black tattoos wraps each wrist and is banded in mirrored patterns up his arms. The sides of his head are shaved bare while the rest of his thick, dark blonde mane sweeps back over his skull in a cascade of braids of various sizes that falls to the middle of his back between his wings. Bits of leather, beads of bone, silver and copper, and a few small symbols cast in metal are worked into these tresses at irregular intervals. His jawline sports a neatly groomed beard the same color as his hair, if tinged with a shade of rust, that is cropped close along the jaw and slightly longer at the chin. The powerful looking wings folded at his back are thickly feathered in multitudinous shades of gray and tipped with the black of a starless sky. Heavily muscled at the base, they extend to flight feathers that reach down to his mid-calf when not spread. They shift and flex in small motions that compliment and compensate his every movement. Small lines of seriousness and worry have been carved into the skin around his mouth and brow. In contrast, the corners of his eyes are creased with telltale laugh-lines and his cheeks bear the marks of small dimples forged by a host of grins. There is an air of duality about the Atavian that invites curiosity. The mark of a violet moth stands out upon his neck. Eldritch violet light surrounds him - a blessing of chaos and dreaming.
a rugged leather weaponbelt : (slung loosely around his hips)
a practical money pouch : (lashed to his belt with a small chain)
a Druidic pack of woodland greens and browns : (worn over a long, wrapped bundle)
a silver ring : (pierced on his left nostril)
a silver ring : (upon the middle finger of his left hand)
a silver ring : (pierced high on his left ear)
a silver star tattoo : (coiled around his forearm)
a tribal leather vest : (worn open, gathered at his back)
a pair of sturdy vine-wrapped leather boots : (protecting his feet)
a dark-grey fur cloak with a wolfen head : (artfully slung over one shoulder)
durable, black combat leggings : (snugly fitting his legs)
a half-buttoned, dark indigo shirt : (worn open at his chest)
a rugged leather weaponbelt : (slung loosely around his hips)
a practical money pouch : (lashed to his belt with a small chain)
a Druidic pack of woodland greens and browns : (worn over a long, wrapped bundle)
a silver ring : (pierced on his left nostril)
a silver ring : (upon the middle finger of his left hand)
a silver ring : (pierced high on his left ear)
a silver star tattoo : (coiled around his forearm)
a tribal leather vest : (worn open, gathered at his back)
a pair of sturdy vine-wrapped leather boots : (protecting his feet)
a dark-grey fur cloak with a wolfen head : (artfully slung over one shoulder)
durable, black combat leggings : (snugly fitting his legs)
a half-buttoned, dark indigo shirt : (worn open at his chest)
It is now midnight on Tisday, the 7th of Lleian, year 492 of the Midnight Age.
Today is one of the days of the First Month of Mourning.
You have emoted: Pieri's gaze, for now, has two different faces: on Omei, her eyes are wider, alert and teetering on the edge of arrested. Almost like a green recruit facing a superior but not quite that rigid, thanks to the environment around them all and perhaps due to the sheer colour and magic that She wears like a mantle. On Straid - she is still a little bit tense. Not having had enough time to examine him, her gaze still darts a fair bit around his features. His last comment draws another bobbing nod from Pieri, and she manages a small, shy smile that she still wears for Omei when she looks back to Her.
You tell Omei, "Yes, please, Goddess."
"This room's a collaborate artwork," Omei is quick - eager, even - to explain. "You see them?" Her claw angles out toward a statue of a fae duelist, reaching toward but not quite touching the tip of the thorn rapier. "My duelist. My art. It would be quicksilver, if not for My will bending it to the image you see." One of Her arms extends, and She makes a game of lightly bouncing a small cushion against the ground before Her. She angles one lacy corner toward a quicksilver landscape. "My narrator's responsible for the landscape. The two, interwoven..."
Omei, the Imago says, "...sometimes, when two artworks strike the watchers just so, they shall decide who lays claim to such a face. And then-."
Omei's head angles aside toward the cocoon, as yet ethereal and ill-detailed, nestled in its nearby cradle.
Omei, the Imago says, "-they cross over. They begin to become."
This statue of a fae duelist conveys an agile and merciless warrior. Stark androgyny defines their long-fingered frame, built short, compact, and slim. Their agile appearance belies the powerful muscle which cords them, making the weight of their half-filled waterskin and well-provisioned haversack seem nothing, casually slung across their off shoulder. Their hair of lunar silver is tied back from their widow's peak into a long, bauble-laden braid, puffing outward as though it were shaped from clouds instead of silver - only two trailing bangs frame their sharp-angled features, as well as two heterochromatic eyes of deep emerald and royal violet. A set of nimble moths' wings adorn the statue's back, the same prismatic non-shade as that of the moths which flock amidst the Seer's Wood, and of a span large enough to bear them into the air. The rest of their flesh, by contrast, is stygian, star-studded darkness, ornamented by the shimmers of distant nebulae. Their armor and garb are an arresting, rosy hue, wrought from the leathery hide of some chaotic beast, and the rapier they clutch in one nimble hand has been shaped from the vernal, spindled spine of some immense and well-defended plant. A lump of bronze has been stolen from the statue's base to form the hilt and basket of the duelist's rapier, glowing with chaotic effulgence within the fae's hand. The stolen bronze has, in turn, been filled in by quicksilver, which mimics the tone and lustre of the surrounding so nearly that the illusion is almost complete - but instead has been left apparent, as though by deliberate intent.
She Most Chromatic's oneiric signature pervades this statue.
This landscape, though flat, consists in a film of quicksilver stretched flat and immobile across a frame of magewood. In spite of its liquid appearance, and the slow shift of color which courses through its confines, it maintains cohesion, as well as the suggestion of some image within.
The image within the frame takes clearer form as you gaze on:
A scene seemingly pulled and stretched outward from the magewood borders surrounding it. The working within gives the sense of impossible depth. Slowly shifting shadows and dusky tones of color permeate the created image and lend shape to its contents.
Stirred tones of dark light and facets of quicksilver have been artfully arranged in such a manner that they depict a strikingly realistic tableau of a stone glade in the grip of a Stygian night draped from an alien sky. The image seems to deepen as it is looked upon, lending the impression of gazing through a window at some moment in the past. Smote upon one of the boulders in the glade, sword still grasped, lays a creature unusual enough in nature that some might consider it a monster. An elongated claw-tipped hand clutches at a gaping wound in its abdomen, trying in vain to staunch the black lifeblood that flows freely between fingers. Bent over the dying form is another such creature, somehow smaller and different in bearing, clearly distraught over the fate of its companion. A few small tears are caught frozen in their fall, glimmering like tiny stars in the night. Closer examination reveals a form smaller still, the comparative size of a child, standing off to one side a lone moth perched within its hair. In his tiny hand is a branch with a shape reminiscent of a sword, held in a white-knuckled grip as its eyes trail towards and beyond the observer, fixed upon the object of its apparent rage and admiration. Were the viewer to turn, they would see naught else it could be but the departing form of a fae duelist.
The narrator's oneiric signature pervades this landscape, silver stars glimmering in the air.
Seemingly satisfied with your silent answer, Straid falls into a comfortable silence of his own as Omei expounds upon the artwork herein. The expression upon his face reflecting a mixture of pride, nostalgia and quiet anticipation. His sightless green eyes shift in the direction of the cocoon.
You have emoted: Hazel eyes once more work away at the feast of two images laid before them. A soft breath is drawn, and Pieri's lips part a little with it as she studies the face of a statue of a fae duelist. A moment to take in a quicksilver landscape, another to wrench her eyes from its shifting tableaux, and then to look between the two works of art.
You tell Omei, "And..." A natural question follows while another hums at the back of her mind. "Did... the landscape once not feature the fae, then?"
"No," Omei answers, aloud, after moments of silence. Her empty eyes turn between you and a quicksilver landscape. "Not until the narrator shaped it thus, inspired in turn by My own work - and I, by theirs." Violescent sparks balance upon the edges of Her half-lidded eyes, spilling over like decadent stars upon a blank, black canvas of fur. She shimmers as She regards the art with fondness. "The statues, the art, within these sandstone halls... is, like sand itself, evershifting. A new guise, a new mark, in the course of weeks or months..."
Omei, the Imago says, "The temple itself lives by its art - breathes by it. So, too, I hope, some of those mortals who dare to behold it."
You have emoted: Mirroring her previous gesture, Pieri raises a lightly-curled fist to her lips. Her eyes grow glassy for a moment, pondering, and she slowly lowers that hand again, unfurls it, looks down at her empty palm. Behind those lashes, unmistakable longing raises its head. Slender fingers trace the skin of that palm, sketching a shape without a name and wishing for quicksilver to try and shape.
I wouldn't need to be trained by anyone, to make pictures like these.
A lunar smile blossoms on Omei's lips, and She nods - silent, encouraging, as She offers forth a paw to you. There She holds it, suspended in the air, radiant in Her quiet before She whispers low once more. Silver glimmers like stars upon Her, stirred to slow saunters by Her speech.
Straid cants his head askance as he studies you before his gaze flicks with sharp acuity to Omei. "A story waiting to become, it would seem, Goddess."
Softly, Omei, the Imago asks you, "Would you like the quill and chisel to do, dear?"
You have emoted: Pieri blinks once, and bows her head without truly nodding. Her fingers move away, closer to herself, and quietly brush a full circle around her wrist before repeating the motion with the other hand. She grinds empty air between thumb and index finger as one might crumble a herb, parting the air below her wrists - the Unbound's manacles.
You tell Omei, "Goddess, the tools You have given Yours call to me, it is true. And... they are for Yours alone, are they not?"
"Some tools are for Mine alone," Omei concedes, alongside a nod of acknowledgement, "This much is true- and yet..." Here She falls into pensive silence, debating for some time the words with which She intends to follow Her first sentence, "...I suppose I shall say what many oft hear from Me."
Omei, the Imago says to you, "I am not most Goddesses. I do not ask that mortals grant Me service or honor in the same ways as most of My Siblings. In this way, many who stand outside My whisper wear My mark - far-flung moths, nevertheless drawn to this wood as so many are."
Straid watches you closely for your reaction, his violet-flecked eyes of emerald oddly unfocused, but no less intent.
You have emoted: Even the awe that overtakes Pieri in the presence of - as her mind had put it - 'living Gods' cannot quite gloss over the pensiveness also coming to settle in the Atavian's eyes. One cannot pick apart a Divine's intentions without luck or without knowing Them, and the same is true for Pieri. She stares at Omei's offered hand and makes another quiet noise in the back of her throat without yet grasping it.
You tell Omei, "I serve Lord @Damariel - though I do not yet know Him, I wish to." While one might expect her mind to reflect more of the Atavian's tenseness or awe, it is in her mind that her true thoughts, unclouded by extraneous emotion, can be read best. "This would not interfere with me coming to know You, if You would allow. I have wished to know the Gods of today, not the departed Ultraist I was taught by my tutors."
Omei's hand remains poised in the air - in spite of Her silence and stillness, She yet smiles. It's warm, but in spite of this a difficult expression to read, balanced as it is upon a knife's edge of amusement and mischief. "I should welcome you coming to know Me. My whisper," She gives answer, tone soft. "My Brother's no issue, nor My Sister's memory."
You have emoted: Birds would not often associate with felines. It is with some trepidation that Pieri approaches, not out of mistrust, you can tell. Her fingers hover over the offered hand then plunge through the barrier of air to lay themselves atop Omei's own. The Atavian nods her head once, not in bobs, but in a slight and weighted dip.
Omei's paws clasp firm about your hand. She smiles, draws the slender digits near, and puts Her maw to them in a soft kiss. In spite of Her gentleness, and the silken brush of Her flesh, the sensory impact of the gesture is immense - a rush of multifarious sparks, rising through the air in tumult. Light blossoms from that point of contact, crimson showing upon the tanned skin before all the noise, pain, and fury resolves to a singular shape.
The tattoo on Omei's arm flares into full brilliance.
The tattoo on your arm flares into full brilliance.
This moon tattoo is violet in hue, yet shimmers with eerie pearlescence beneath closer observation, belying its seeming immutability. It is underscored by a series of squares.
You have emoted: The Templar's arm tenses immediately and Pieri's stare connects directly with the maelstrom of Omei's eyes. Caught in what that touch has triggered, it takes a while for her to realize just what has appeared beneath the sleeve of her garments.
Straid bears witness with a quiet reverence colored by a small grin that whispers of satisfaction and knowing.
Rosy light forms fading afterimages - whispers of ethereal music curl at your ears' edges now, and the quicksilver hums with a resonance that you hadn't quite heard before. The sparks which dance from the point at which your mark has been placed are redolent with sensation, slow to fade and leave the shores of your mind at ease.
Omei's claws slip from your arm, carefully retracted against any possibility of doing you harm in the brief moment. "There," She murmurs, inspecting you with a nod of satisfaction. "Now you should be able to see things a little more as they are..."
You have emoted: What can Pieri be feeling at the moment? Pain flaring in red sparks, humming in heavy indigo, hope spiraling away like a colourless breeze? Something indeed rosy with a different sort of weight, murmuring shades of plum settling in like drowsiness after eating? One by one they pull themselves back from behind her eyes, though they would undoubtedly lie still over her mind. "H - what... will I see?" The Atavian's voice is also a little husky, and while there is no guarantee it will not slip back into silence, the colours and sensations have for the moment claimed her mind and freed her from whatever had been weighing upon it before.
"Look at the art again," Omei encourages lowly, Her paws folding over Her lap. Her tail is a slow sway at Her back. In spite of Her clear excitement at examining you, there's a near-quiescent calm about Her, a slow swim of many-colored sparks for which She serves as the midnight background. "You'll see how malleable it really is."
This statue of a fae duelist conveys an agile and merciless warrior. Stark androgyny defines their long-fingered frame, built short, compact, and slim. Their agile appearance belies the powerful muscle which cords them, making the weight of their half-filled waterskin and well-provisioned haversack seem nothing, casually slung across their off shoulder. Their hair of lunar silver is tied back from their widow's peak into a long, bauble-laden braid, puffing outward as though it were shaped from clouds instead of silver - only two trailing bangs frame their sharp-angled features, as well as two heterochromatic eyes of deep emerald and royal violet. A set of nimble moths' wings adorn the statue's back, the same prismatic non-shade as that of the moths which flock amidst the Seer's Wood, and of a span large enough to bear them into the air. The rest of their flesh, by contrast, is stygian, star-studded darkness, ornamented by the shimmers of distant nebulae. Their armor and garb are an arresting, rosy hue, wrought from the leathery hide of some chaotic beast, and the rapier they clutch in one nimble hand has been shaped from the vernal, spindled spine of some immense and well-defended plant. A lump of bronze has been stolen from the statue's base to form the hilt and basket of the duelist's rapier, glowing with chaotic effulgence within the fae's hand. The stolen bronze has, in turn, been filled in by quicksilver, which mimics the tone and lustre of the surrounding so nearly that the illusion is almost complete - but instead has been left apparent, as though by deliberate intent.
She Most Chromatic's oneiric signature pervades this statue.
It is possible for you to oneirically ADJUST this statue.
This statue has been perceived by the Seer, the lyrist, and the narrator.
This landscape, though flat, consists in a film of quicksilver stretched flat and immobile across a frame of magewood. In spite of its liquid appearance, and the slow shift of color which courses through its confines, it maintains cohesion, as well as the suggestion of some image within.
The image within the frame takes clearer form as you gaze on: A scene seemingly pulled and stretched outward from the magewood borders surrounding it. The working within gives the sense of impossible depth. Slowly shifting shadows and dusky tones of color permeate the created image and lend shape to its contents.
Stirred tones of dark light and facets of quicksilver have been artfully arranged in such a manner that they depict a strikingly realistic tableau of a stone glade in the grip of a Stygian night draped from an alien sky. The image seems to deepen as it is looked upon, lending the impression of gazing through a window at some moment in the past. Smote upon one of the boulders in the glade, sword still grasped, lays a creature unusual enough in nature that some might consider it a monster. An elongated claw-tipped hand clutches at a gaping wound in its abdomen, trying in vain to staunch the black lifeblood that flows freely between fingers. Bent over the dying form is another such creature, somehow smaller and different in bearing, clearly distraught over the fate of its companion. A few small tears are caught frozen in their fall, glimmering like tiny stars in the night. Closer examination reveals a form smaller still, the comparative size of a child, standing off to one side a lone moth perched within its hair. In his tiny hand is a branch with a shape reminiscent of a sword, held in a white-knuckled grip as its eyes trail towards and beyond the observer, fixed upon the object of its apparent rage and admiration. Were the viewer to turn, they would see naught else it could be but the departing form of a fae duelist.
The narrator's oneiric signature pervades this landscape, silver stars glimmering in the air.
This landscape has been perceived by She Most Chromatic, the Seer, and the lyrist.
It is possible for you to oneirically ADJUST this landscape.
You have emoted: Pieri's fingers curl inwards, the movement at first like that of one jumping back from flame before wonder overtakes her again. "Change and grow," she breathes. "Could anyone...?"
Murmuring as she pushes back her sleeve, you say, "Anyone, with this...?"
Gently, Omei, the Imago says to you, "Any living mortal, deemed worthy by one with the capacity to mark them."
Straid deftly snatches a cushion as the moment of solemnity slips back into the comfortable air of a narrative organically unfolding. He tucks the cushion behind his back, betwixt his mottled wings and leans against the nearby wall as he crosses one boot over the other at the ankle. "One such as you are becoming." he remarks with an echo of the gentleness in his Goddess' voice.
You have emoted: Relief flits across Pieri's features, then a smile less hesitant in its shade but still a little bit shy unfurls over the Atavian's face. She almost reflexively looks to Straid next, seeking someone on relatively similar grounds with her mortal self; met with Straid's words, a fresh wave of colour suffuses her cheeks. "I will strive to remain such," she whispers, and she is indeed no stranger to spoken words.
"In that case," Omei murmurs, Her fur beginning to shift and shimmer as fluttering moths' wings break free of the confines of Her flesh, "Seek out silver, in a room where no cocoon is laid. Record what came before - and give new shape to it." Her silver teeth bare into a wide grin, eyes alive as though mirroring the brightness of your rosy grin. As moments pass, She continues to divide - moths, seven by seven, taking flight from Her and leaving Her silhouette a mere suggestion.
Hesitating, like a half-drawn breath, as a moth flits forth to circle them, Omei, the Imago asks Straid, "My narrator. Is there anything you require of Me ere I take wing?"
In a steady baritone suffused with respect, Straid says to Omei, "One such as I would never dare to make requirements of one such as you, my Queen. Thank you for allowing me to witness this beginning. We shall speak more when next you're awake and possessed of the time."
You have emoted: Pieri watches the Goddess dissolve, unable to remember the last time she had seen Her depart in this way. Quietly her left hand goes to rest around her newly-gained mark, then she quickly lowers herself into a bow.
The last of the Imago is gone, then, like a puff of breath - a cavalcade of many-colored moths, surging outward, upward, toward the sky and away.
In the wake of the moths, Straid is on his feet before you, a single calloused hand outstretched towards you in an offer to help you to your feet.
Straid says to you, "Rise, Whisperer."
You have emoted: Straid's form casts a shadow over the smaller Atavian, whose ever-curious gaze now flits to the mark upon his neck. Slowly it returns to his strange eyes. Pieri reaches out to grasp the larger hand before she is standing once again, awake but still slightly dazed by the recent happenings.
Straid lifts your hand to his bowed forehead until your knuckles lightly brush the warm skin there. His voice fills the quiet of the morning within the sandstone halls, ever quiet yet possessed of the quality of steel, as he gently relinquishes your hand back to you. "Be welcome, and thank you for allowing me to share in your prelude. It is my honor."
You have emoted: "Thank you - " She is without a name. "- Narrator." Straid is still a presence foreign to Pieri, and you can't quite tell if the presence of wings on him is helping or not. Nevertheless she accepts that brush of forehead to hand almost as though exploring it, carefully watching Straid's movements. Her responding actions are equally careful and light, as though afraid to shatter whatever that coils on the air of the temple. "For - bearing witness."
You tell Straid, "I didn't think anybody would be in here," she confesses. Her mind has calmed considerably further than before even with the faint hum of residue anxiety. "I hope She will wake soon, to finish what it was that I stumbled upon, sir."
"Straid." The blonde atavian's features warm into a friendly grin, though his blind eyes carry the impression of unshakable perceptiveness. "You may call me Straid, if it please you."
Straid tells you, "I've a knack for being unexpected, and I'm no sir." You can hear the grin as much in the telepathic words in your mind as you can in the words he speaks. "As for the Imago...I wouldn't worry. She wakens often to tend to her faithful. She will undoubtedly make the time for you."
You have emoted: Pieri's fingers remain where they are, curled gently around her own mark. Perhaps she is drawing strength from it, or she has persuaded herself that she can, for while Straid's mind is still visited by the sounds of her own, she does keep at speaking with her voice. "I meant - your business, that I stumbled upon." Her own smile is slightly self-conscious, but Straid's amiability is clearly helping. "I'm Pieri Yara. Of the Templars, and you can call me whichever name you would prefer, Straid."
Wings of grayscale twilight flex at his back with a whisper of feathers as Straid observes you. To his mind's eye, you look to be a collection of innumerable lights standing out against the comparative darkness of the chamber. Their sum gives him an impression of your form and bearing, and their hues speak to him of your energy. "Ah, I wouldn't worry over that either. She will tend to me with the same likelihood, I'd wager. We were simply speaking of this latest working." His hand gestures fondly to the quicksilver constructs resting nearby with the enigmatic cocoon. "Far be it from me to ever stand in the way of a seeker flying like moth to flame in pursuit of our Queen. I am pleased to know you, Pieri of the Templars."
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