Mhaldor's presentation for Convention

Taraus surveys the gathered crowd as her hand fiddles at her side. Untying a small charm from her
belt, her black eyes scan the gathering, her languid gaze lingering to make eye contact with
everyone in the auditorium.

Taraus says warmly with a throaty, lyrical accent, "Ladies, gentlemen. Before I begin, I offer you a
choice - those who might take umbrage at being hypnotised for the sake of an experience, please exit
the auditorium now."

Taraus says slowly with a throaty, lyrical accent, "While I can guarantee no harm will come to your
person in this exercise, I must warn you: you may be made to see and feel things you'd not otherwise."

After pausing a beat, and satisfied with the current audience, Taraus holds aloft a tinkling bell
charm and allows it to swing freely from her fingertips. A soft chime issues in tandem with its
pendulous swaying, small glints of light kicking from its shining surface.

As you focus on the shifting charm, you feel your consciousness begin to wane, reality slipping
further and further away.

Taraus says in a low, rhythmic voice, "To expose one to the culture of the western isle -- to make
one comprehend our way of life -- for one to truly understand what it means to be Mhaldorian, one
cannot simply hear, or see."

Taraus says in a low, rhythmic voice, "One must be made to think, and feel."

Taraus says in a low, rhythmic voice, "Ours is a culture of..."

Your surroundings begin to shift, throbbing in time with the lilting cadence of Taraus' voice. The
tangibility of your settings fades, replaced with a shimmering overlay of a darkened landscape:
rocky, barren, nondescript save for a stalagmite that surges upwards. Inexplicably, you're filled
with a sudden sense of loss, of grief, and a yearning spirals through the very core of your being,
urging you to action.

Taraus says quietly in a low, rhythmic voice, "... of willing sacrifice in favour of Truth, and
Strength."

A sudden wash of determination galvanises you, and you realise what you must do.

Taraus says in a low, rhythmic voice, "To truly understand our culture, and what drives and
motivates each and every one of us, you must look to our roots."

Taraus says in a low, rhythmic voice, "Our very foundations were built upon torture, upon pain:
imagine the insurmountable torment suffered by a God, to be stripped and imprisoned."

Taraus whispers loudly in a low, rhythmic voice, "Held captive, while the entire world remained just
beyond your grasp..."

As you're drawn inexorably closer to the jagged shard, undeniable hope surges through you.

Taraus chants rhythmically in a low, rhythmic voice, "The spirit may be made stronger..."

As Taraus' voice grows louder, it rings clear to the back of the auditorium, and something within
compells you to move forward, towards the stalagmite. Though you take no actual step, though you
fling not your form atop, you still feel an agonising spike of pain tear through you -- and from
within this pain comes clarity, comes exaltation, comes an unmistakeable strength.

Taraus chants rhythmically in a low, rhythmic voice, "The spirit may be made stronger..."

Swirling up from the ground, yet seeming borne by your own spirit, a dense red haze covers the
ground at your feet.

Taraus chants rhythmically in a low, rhythmic voice, "... by enduring hardships!"

Taraus' chanting seems to echo the pounding of your own heart, the sounds of both filling your ears
and deafening all else. Undeniable is the power that fills you now, a certainty of conviction, held
aloft by that which can only be called faith.

Taraus Bravi'os exclaims triumphantly, "And 'lo, He endured, and He did rise - great and terrible
and wonderful, and brought forth this nation known as Mhaldor!"

Rising higher and higher, the fog swirls around your ankles, calves, surging and swirling.

Taraus Bravi'os says, "We are a city of faith! Of sacrifice! There is nothing we'd not give to
further His glorious malevolence -- and THAT is the true culture of a Mhaldorian."

Taraus Bravi'os says, "Not that which we surround ourselves with -- but that which we cherish at our
very core."

You become aware of those standing beside you, radiating the same sense of reverence, and the fog
pulses brighter in response.

Taraus Bravi'os says clearly, "Each and every one of us."

Unseen to your sight-blind eyes, Taraus surveys the hypnotised crowd with a secretive smile. An
appeased light, and perhaps a gleam of pride, shines in her gaze; you, yourself, feel filled with
satisfaction, with new purpose, and a sense of being a necessary part of something much greater.

Taraus Bravi'os says loudly, "When you hear the sound, you'll remember what you've seen, and more
importantly, what you've felt."

As Taraus' voice begins to quieten, the restless, sanguine miasma weaving through the crowd begins
to disperse, thinning, growing more and more insubstantial with each passing second.

Taraus Bravi'os says reverently, "You will leave here this day carrying something sacred: cherish it,
 and remember it well."

Compelled to touch, you lower your hand to the fading haze, a tendril twining 'round your wrist like
a crimson whisper.

Taraus snaps her fingers once, the sharp noise echoing through the room; within your grasp, you hold
the tendril still.