Softly Shadowed (Illy POV)

[In a subdued, elegant calligraphy, each stroke even and measured as if
written in an unhurried and thoughtful manner.]

Humble Avaris, Avower of the Archons,

We have not formally met, but my inquiries have placed a name to the
memories I have of you. My name is Illyria, and I am one of the young
citizens of the Glomdoring commune. Most recently, we encountered one
another at the Awaking of that poor, hideously tortured Goddess,
Li-varili. I have not, by and large, left the commune other than to
answer the summons of the Basin such as in that case there. Friendships
do not come easily, as I would prefer to keep my own company in the
comfort and concealment of the shadows, reading and learning and
listening to the world around me.

However, I have been urged to seek self-improvement in several ways, and
to further my understanding of both our allies and enemies and just why
each is what it is. As such, I am reaching out to you, whom I remember
to be someone of intelligence and tempered impulses, a protector, and
kind. You offered to shelter me with your wing- do you remember? I was
warned once by Auspice Esei that you hate anyone of the forest, and to
keep my distance. From my subsequent observations of you, however, I
think that you are not the type to hate anything universally, and not
without a very good reason. I have not given any such reason, and so I
wish to extend a hand with a polite invitation.

Would you care to take tea with me? I do not know nearly as much as I
should of the city of Celest, or the Light, or its honored Ladies. I
would very much like to learn of them from you, if you were willing.
What is more, I would like to get to know you better.

I understand if you do not wish to do so. We are strangers, after all.

Still, I will hold out a hope to change that.

Inquisitively yours,
Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell



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[The penmanship of this letter is so precisely placed upon the page that
it seems more the work of machine than mortal hand. Each letter is
simple, formed of perfectly straight lines and gentle curves, each crisp
and elegant in its cleanliness.]

Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell,

I recall you from our previous meetings, yes. You are often in the
company of the Auspice that you speak of.

Have you, indeed? Betterment of the self is a worthy goal, if a
difficult one. I wish you success upon the path of improvement. May it
lead you to brighter places. As for the matter of offering my wing as
shield, yes, I remember that as well. I may tolerate the corruption of
the Wyrden for now, but I am not prone to letting their younger,
potentially salvageable members be slaughtered out of hand.

There seems to be an unusual degree of people seeking me out to learn of
things that a great many others know far better than I. I wonder why
that is. As for your invitation, I will accept, though I can promise you
neither a wealth of knowledge, nor scintillating conversation. I lack
your apparent artistry with words. Inform me of a time and place of your
choosing.

Light's blessings be upon you,
Avaris, Faithful of Devotion


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Your soft voice reaches out to Humble Avaris, Avower of the Archons, tickling their ear, "It is pleasant and surprising to hear from you so quickly. I am startled to hear that you find my words artful- that is new. I simply speak my heart. I do not know of others seeking you out, nor do I know anything of what knowledge you may hold. I simply wish to speak, I suppose. As for a place.. hm. I am loathe to be interrupted by others when speaking, as it so often derails conversations fully by those too blind or self-important to contribute meaningfully or depart. Would a manse be out of line to suggest? Mine has many lovely places to sit and speak. I will bring the tea."

Avaris tells you, "I have been noted to be punctual and prompt. I do not believe in making people wait. I agree upon a desire not to be interrupted. I am amenable to meeting within your territory, so long as you are not offended that I will not partake of the tea. I do not consume that which has been touched by the Wyrd, even lightly."

Your soft voice reaches out to Humble Avaris, Avower of the Archons, tickling their ear, "[A touch of uncertainty, tinted with hurt quickly hidden] Oh.. well, alright. No tea, though. It truly was to be just tea, though. Bought from the Aetherplex. Not.. twisted."

Your soft voice reaches out to Humble Avaris, Avower of the Archons, tickling their ear, "Perhaps if you bring the tea, then?"

Avaris tells you, "[A low, resonant sound, a thrumming sigh.] I do not aim to upset. I am very prone to doing so unintentionally, and so I must apologise. If you wish, I can bring tea."

Your soft voice reaches out to Humble Avaris, Avower of the Archons, tickling their ear, "[A gentle touch of reassurance] Do not apologize. You speak your heart. There is nothing wrong with that. [A short pause, reflective] I do not often speak at length, and because of that, my throat becomes rather raw when doing so. Warm drinks help, and it feels rude to not share when one partakes in company. That is all."

Avaris tells you, "I have secured, against all odds, two cups from which to drink tea. I wonder, at times, how people do not die of thirst. How might I access your manse?"

Your soft voice reaches out to Humble Avaris, Avower of the Archons, tickling their ear, "Ah- a moment, and I will come."

[teleport]

[look Avaris]
An imposing figure of titanic proportions, he is a compound-eyed kephera empyreal demigod. Easily twice the height of a tall man, he possesses a dignified and noble bearing. Six vast wings of gently effulgent, aureate feathers spread out from his back, bearing a multitude of lucent, stylised eyes formed of two curving lines and a circle betwixt them - which move and gaze about with eerie awareness. The shape of his domed head is reminiscent of a knightly helm, the alabaster of his pointed chin and the wide flares of chitin that form his jaw contrasting with the layered crest of shining gold that sweeps up and out from his severe brow in broad, curving blades. Seven eyes of brilliant azure are set into the burnished, aureate visor of his immobile face, three beneath each side of his brow, with a single, larger one set at the center of his forehead. Flowing up from behind the prominent crest are two arcing pairs of liquid, red antennae, each thick line of sanguine aether dense and opaque. An imposing halo of harsh, solid light hovers behind his head, with frozen tongues of holy flame jutting out in fearsome spikes of varying size. Engulfing much of his upper torso is a dense, luxurious mane of pristine white fluff, which flows up over his shoulders and behind his neck in a spray of lustrous tufts. His immense frame is plated in dense chitin of white-streaked, gleaming gold, the exoskeleton formed in the manner of natural armour - most notably so in his upper set of shoulders, which are shaped like pauldrons from which a halo of spiked gold arcs, with a baleful, stylised eye of intense red emblazoned upon them. All four of his arms are thick and powerfully constructed, the long limbs terminating in pointed fingers that extend from long, inherently gauntleted hands. His narrow waist juts out into broad hips, from which descend the wide span of his plated thighs, the digitigrade legs supported by large feet that possess viciously hooked talons of thin, steeply angled gold, three at the front of each foot, and two upon each heel. Soothing mists of water and light weave about him in a sparkling white veil, marking the truefavour of Lantra, the Empyreal.
He is wearing:
a white imperial scabbard on his right hip
a white leather scabbard bearing a silver cross hanging low from his right hip
a black scabbard with a gold horn on his left hip
a black scabbard with a gold horn hanging low from his left hip
a glass ampoule of bottled starlight secured through the chitin of his left hip via a fine chain
Immaculate Prayer Beads of the Empyreal Goddess wrapped tightly about the forearm of his upper right arm.

[look me]
She is a nimble shadowcaster faeling demigoddess of sylph descent, ethereally built and far taller than most faelings, a statuesque five feet in height. Her refined complexion is a milky kawhe in hue, darkened by smudged kohl around her eyes. In stark contrast to the tan, a generous smattering of pale white freckles dapples her cheeks and shoulders, and a multitude of ridged, pale scars cover her palms, wrists, and forearms. Smooth, dark brown antlers arc up from her head, each tine sharpened to a deadly point and inlaid with gold runes in an ominous promise of danger that belies the softness of her features. A wavy fall of gold-touched rose pink hair is caught up in a loose, tumbling tail that keeps the majority of the voluminous tresses from her face, interwoven with aureate charms of wyrden flowers. Catlike, almond shaped eyes of a matching rose hold slit pupils, framed by thick lashes below dark and carefully shaped eyebrows. With a delicate nose and plush lips, her face is lovely and alluring in its dainty structure, but the brightness of her eyes suggests a constant careful observation and calculation of the world around her. Six wings of ephemeral shadows and roiling black storm clouds trail behind her, flickering now and then with flashes of eldritch mauve lightning. Tattooed on her hands is an illustration of a seven-pointed star. Shadows cling adoringly to her, reluctant to surrender their grasp on one with the truefavour of Nocht, the Silent.
A mane of pale pink hair frames her head, teased and blown out to create outrageous body and volume. Her pink tresses fall nearly to her waist, at once shaggy and meticulously styled for precise effect.
She is wearing:
Ebon Prayer Beads of the Silent Lord muffled with pink silk ribbons
a glittering, arm-wrapping spiral bracelet of stygian crystal
a hallowed brooch of the Silent, pinned to the shroud
a ravenwood stud through her lower lip
a silky cloak of woven starlit night embroidered with prayers
an azure-limned triquetra ring of the eternal Night
an intricate, ribbon-wrapped gown of a lady of Night
a phantasmal shroud of shadows, draped over her shoulders
an ebon necklace bound with a shadowfire gem.


You curtsey gracefully before Avaris.

In a hushed, melodic murmur, you say, "Good morning, Avaris. Early though it may be."

Avaris inclines his head towards you politely. "Good morning to you as well, Reader."

In a hushed, melodic murmur, you say, "If you would follow me..?"


You portal to A quiet retreat.
Avaris follows you ether.
Within a blackthorn grove.
Underneath a starry sky without a moon, a dense, extensive grove of large blackthorns surrounds a small clearing. Tall and strong, their branches are adorned with obsidian ribbons holding silver charms that sway silently in the breeze, too far from each other to touch and chime. Always blooming, the white star-shaped blossoms on the boughs send down swirling showers of tiny petals. The subtle sick-sweetness of wyrden flora wafts on the cool breeze, the spiked mauve undergrowth healthy and thick. Underfoot, a thick loamy soil is rich and dark, fertilized by the continual decay of fallen leaves and half-eaten prey. Deep purple ivy creeps up and around the blackened tree trunks and arching branches, their veins and flowers soft-lit with pale bioluminescence, accenting the darkling beauty of the grove. Strange blossoms cluster along both ground and tree bark, glowing in eerie pastels. Quiet reigns in the perpetual night, broken only by the soft whispers of the wind and the muted sounds of furtive creatures creeping through the trees. The darkness of night looms here. You see a sign here instructing you to use the PORTAL command to enter the aetherplex system.
You see exits leading north (open door), south, and west.

The arcing, bladed talons of Avaris's immense feet sink into the loam as he steps within the manse, antennae recoiling faintly at the scent of wyrden flora. The light-forged eyes that illuminate his wings flick and roam about as they subject the area to a careful scrutiny, with several remaining fixed vigilantly upon you. He says not a word, simply lifting his upper right hand to flick a blackthorn blossom from where it rests lightly upon the dense ruff of his mane.

Humble Avaris, Avower of the Archons thinks to himself: Wariness, but of the calm, watchful variety, a soldier scanning a new environs for potential threats. "Subtler, but still present. I wonder, do manses reflect their creators, as the realms of the Divine do?"

As their forms coalesce within the blackthorn grove, Illyria tilts her head back with closed eyes, feeling the cool breeze on her face as a faint smile touches her lips. Turning to Avaris, the faeling looks well up to meet his eyes and nods slightly toward the west, a motion for Avaris him to follow. Drifting lightly onward, the tips of her toes only brushing the soil as she half-floats along in a weightless stride, she weaves a path through the dense grove of blackthorns, lightly touching a bioluminescent flower now and then as she passes. "There is better seating this way," she says over her shoulder, her voice soft but easily audible in the stillness of the woods.

Avaris follows you west.
A starlit amphitheatre of wyrden splendour.
To the west of the grove, a trail of soft obsidian sand twists through thinning blackthorns and down an increasingly steep hill of dark green-black grass and decaying leaves. The eternal night shrouds the area in a comforting veil of shadows, punctuated by dim stars that twinkle like shifting, smoky diamonds. Halfway down the hill, the slope transitions into terraced seating in an intimate semicircle around a raised stage. The sides of the oval-shaped platform are lined with ravenwood planks carved with an intricate sprawling panorama of the Glomdoring landscape, from mountainous borders to forest and fen. Draping veils of ivy in muted mauve and intense violet form curtains and a backdrop for the stage, each leave veined with black in lacy patterns. Pale, eerie bioluminescent moss and blossoms carpet the stage with a gentle glow, illuminating the activities upon it. The darkness of night looms here. Adorned with simple drapes, a sturdy wooden stage rests here, tempting the would-be thespian.
You see exits leading east and in.

As the woods thin and a trail of soft obsidian sand appears underfoot, the trees part to either side to allow easier passage. Illyria follows it a ways, until the blackthorns give way to a steep, terraced hillside before an intricately carved stage. She makes her way down the path with an easy grace, stopping at the first terrace and waiting for Avaris. "Will this suit?" she inquires quietly.

The muted impact of each of Avaris's heavy footfalls is accompanied by the crunch and whisper of ebon sand as the dense plates of his chitinous feet compact it, leaving a trail of odd tracks in his wake - Three indentations in front, a long, flattened plane, and two further holes where the talons of his heels stabbed into the sand. As he follows you along the trail, he alternately ducks or lifts his armoured arms to push the blackthorns from his path, wings folded in tight against his back. Emerging upon the cusp of the woods, he pauses, looking upon the seating and the stage without expression upon his visored face. "I see no reason that it would not."

You have emoted: With a nod of acceptance, Illyria moves farther into the terrace, rounding it halfway before selecting a spot at random and sinking down onto the thick green-black grass in a swirl of shadows and aphotic silk. Tucking her legs modestly to one side, the statuesque faeling folds her hand lightly onto her lap. With a hint of a frown, she tilts her head and studies Avaris. "I will not ask you to be at ease with me, and I see that you are not. But.. I admit that I find myself perplexed by the guardedness. Have I done aught to threaten you?" Her voice is gently and genuinely curious, as if working through a puzzle. She pauses for a long moment, as a smile dispels the slight line on her brow. "Of equal interest.. what sort of tea have you acquired?"

The kephera makes no move to follow you at first, maintaining his position as he watches you wend your way further in, his hands secured at the small of his back. Once you are settled, Avaris proceeds along precisely the same path, taking care to place his feet where every third or fourth one of your set lightly upon the ground. Once before you, he folds himself down into a cross-legged position, hands resting upon his thighs as he regards the faeling for a moment, before replying, almost mild in his polite tone, "Not that I am aware of, but I know Who you serve, and from whence you presently hail. That is sufficient to have me on my guard." At the second query, he reaches up beneath the feathered layers of his wings, head tilted at an angle as he concentrates on retrieving something. As he does so, he replies, "It is a tea that reminds me of my Lady. You may find it pleasant." So saying, he carefully extracts two cups and sets them before him, then a modest flask, from which he decants a stream of tea that glitters like liquid starlight. Once this is done, he straightens, setting the flask to one side, and waits for you to select a cup.

Avaris drops a glistening, sugarplum-glass tea cup.

Avaris drops a porcelain tea cup covered in cross-stitched roses.

Illyria watches the towering, gleaming figure of the kephara paladin come closer, a quiet and sincere little half-smile on her face, pleased to have company beneath the shadowed stars. The smile does not fade much with the reply, though her quirked brows and curious eyes reflect a wave of puzzlement at it. "I serve Lord Nocht," she agrees, her tone bemused, "and am from the Glomdoring. Yes. But... why does that put you on guard? Are we not allied?" With a little tilt of her head, the faeling regards Avaris with a thoughtful expression that is distracted by the presenting of the tea and transformed into one of unabashed delight. She leans forward, placing a hand down to brace herself, and lifts the other toward the cups, wavering between the two for a few seconds. Catching sight of the roses on the latter cup, her eyes light, and she picks it up, settling backward once more as she wraps both hands around it. "What sort of tea is it?" she asks, a subdued but genuine enthusiasm for the topic seeping into her voice.

Once more, Avaris elects not to respond immediately, opting instead to sit and watch your moment of indecision, the layered edges of his jaw tilting up a shade as he studies the pleasantly delighted faeling. The smaller of his right-side antennae, the outermost, flicks up and twists in a strange gesture as you choose the rose-stitched cup, and it is only once you have resumed your position that he extends a massive, clawed hand down to pluck the remaining cup up in a delicate cage of aureate chitin. He places it upon the flat of his lower left hand's palm with a gentle clink, and lifts a single shoulder in a modest shrug. "I do not know. It does not, I believe, have a particular name. It is simply labeled as dreamy liquid starlight tea in the places of business in which I have purchased it." Brushing the edge of his index finger along the rim of the cup, a ringing tone emanates from the contact, so faint as to be near inaudible. "An interesting question. Allow me to answer with one of my own. Why should someone from New Celest be on guard, in regards to the Silent One, and the Wyrden Forest?"

"Dreamy liquid starlight..." Illyria muses softly, her eyes closing in involuntary bliss as she inhales the scents of the lively tea, fruity and a bit spicy as she inhales. "Oh, a white tea," comes the approving note, both hands lifting the cup to her lips with a serene and unhurried grace. She sips it slowly, savoring the complex and ambrosial interactions of fruit and flower even as she raises her gaze to study Avaris with curiosity that becomes reflective speculation at the question. Letting the flavors of the tea linger on her tongue as she considers, the cup settling into her lap, the shadow-wreathed faeling hums softly. "I guess," she finally answers, meeting his eyes openly, her voice frank and laced with a pensive undertone as her mind turns the question over carefully, "that it depends on what that someone is afraid of."

A calming, warm breeze swirls around you as the fragrant scent of roses suddenly suffuses the area around you.

Avaris sips white tea from a glistening, sugarplum-glass tea cup.

With a great deal of care, Avaris brings the comically small cup to the smooth, curving planes of his chitinous face - Which form seams, and split apart just enough to open a sliver of darkness, which contains hints of a great many sharp and gleaming elements. Deftly, he tips the cup so that a frugal stream of the tea pours precisely between the crevice, which seals shut as he lowers the cup to his palm once more. A very faint glimmering of minute motes of light briefly surface within the azure, solid depths of his seven natural eyes, each of which reflects you in miniature, cast in sea and starlight. "Fear." He tastes the words with much the same thoughtful air that the faeling sampled the tea, gently rotating his hand in tiny dips that sets the sidereal fluid within his cup to swirling serenely. "What most should fear. A warping or destruction of the values, places, and people that are held dear."

Contemplating the answer with care, understanding alights in Illyria's eyes, and she nods slowly, a thoughtful sound humming in her throat. The cup rises again, and she sips it slowly, the tips of her fingers tracing the subtle rise of painted cross-stitched roses along its surface as she holds it within her hands. As the cool breeze sweeps up the hill, stirring loose tendrils of dusk-touched pink hair and tugging at the shadowy lines of her skirts and shroud, she watches Avaris with alert, speculative eyes. "I see, I think," the petite demigoddess muses, little crackles of lightning flickering in a gentle mauve within the roiling clouds of her wings. "Tell me... when a village is abandoned and nature reclaims it, is nature evil to have done so? Aside from the care taken to tend their lands, should the villagers have hated the land around them, knowing one day it would thrive and feed from their absence?" Shaking her head slightly, she gives him a faint smile. "The Wyrd is inevitable, yes. It will be the last thing in this world, I believe, having survived things that destroyed all the rest. But it is not malicious, Avaris. Simply a force of survival. It is not hunting you, nor is that eventual consumption an imminent threat. I do not aim to subvert, consume, or any of those things. Simply to talk. Perhaps even make a friend, in time."

The massive, golden kephera is so still while you speaks that he seems closer to a statue that a living thing, forged from unfeeling metal beaten into the depiction of some hybrid denizen of Celestia melded with a predatory insect. The stillness is undisturbed, as is his silence, even after the faeling finishes you quiet speech, so long so, indeed, that it appears that he may not respond at all. With a whisper of feathers, Avaris shifts slightly, setting his cup carefully to one side, then leaning forward slowly, studying you intently, his face immobile, innately expressionless. When he speaks, the chorus of voices that harmonise to form his own, resonating words is quiet, a soft hymn raised up to an absent Divine. "Do you think me a very stupid creature, Reader? Or is it that you have been so wholly twisted by the Wyrd that you believe this with all of your heart?"

Illyria tilts her head, frowning slightly. "I do not think you stupid at all," she disagrees. "Though I am at a clear disadvantage here, as you are clearly coming with preconceptions that I am unaware of. I do not know what you think, that you think you must guard against me, but I suppose... if you must, you must." Looking down at the ground, regret passes through her eyes, the cloudstuff and shadow of her wings thinning and dispersing to an insubstantial shade of their former robust presence. Her voice is a bit roughened, and she takes another sip of the tea to soothe it, then sets the cup down fully in favor of folding her hands in her lap once more. With a softer voice, she ventures, "Well.. is there anything you would find inoffensive as a topic of conversation? I truly did just wish to learn more of you, and your city." From her tone, she seems braced for a negative.

Humble Avaris, Avower of the Archons thinks to himself: A sharpening of already keen wariness at this reaction - Is she so subtle and dangerous that she can act the misguided maiden so convincingly, or has she, in truth, been shrouded in corruptive shadow for so long that she can no longer see what is true? Troubling.

Scrutinising you for a long moment, the stylised eyes of his wings thinning slightly, Avaris eventually makes a low, humming sound, and sits straight once again. "I am willing to speak on most matters, so long as you are prepared for me to be disapproving of those you may hold dear. I not disguise my intent, for I am very poor at it." Lifting a hand, he turns it to you, palm-upwards, in polite invitation. "Ask what you wish to. I shall answer as I judge best, and ask in return. Does that suit you?"

You think to yourself: Groundwork, groundwork...

Surprised at the assent, Illyria looks up, regarding Avaris a bit warily for a few moment before exhaling softly and nodding. "As I said before.. I do not begrudge you to speak your heart, as I speak mine. It is refreshing, in truth, as so many swath their intentions in layers of misdirection and sweet smiles," she muses, frowning slightly. With a shake of her head that sends the gentle bioluminescence of the flora glinting off the golden charms woven into it, the faeling exhales, gathering the scraps of her smile and offering it tentatively once more. "Well.. I've only been one time, and then straight to and through the Pool. Is it true that you have a playground there? And friendly cats that just roam about, for anyone to pet? And..." she pauses, her eyes deeply and sincerely wistful for a moment. "Pegasi. Tell me of pegasi."

"Yes," Avaris replies flatly, returning your gaze directly, "They do." Folding his hands together into a rigid lattice of glinting edges and smooth plates of burnished gold, he inclines his head by was of confirmation. "I have heard of the playground, but have never visited. You may wish to inquire of some of the others, for I know nothing of it, other than the fact there are swings, and a slide." Neutrally, he lifts his spiked, ringed shoulders in a small shrug. "They are friendly enough, as far as cats go, to those of Celest. I do not know how they react to outsiders. Perhaps they are more aloof." At the question of pegasi, the curved sweep of his bladed crest tips aside, catching the faint light as it draws a caress of bioluminescent light along the glinting edges. "I know very little of them. They are native to Celestia, and citizens may request a foal to take care of. I, myself, have one in my service. You have seen him, I believe, upon the astral plane."

Unbothered by the flat tone in which the answers are given, Illyria leans forward with bright eyes to listen, nodding at points. The dark cloudbanks of her wings thicken slightly as the faeling perks up at the talk of pegasi. "I have," she confirms, naked admiration painting her voice. "He is astonishing. A work of beautiful, bellicose art." Glancing up the hill and into the distance, as if looking at something just out of sight there, she adds in tone of blended humor and regret, "I grew wings on my horse.. but it is not the same, as lovely as she may be. They have this certain... something, about them. Is that because of Celestia? I went there, once." She pauses, reclaiming her hold on the rose-patterned tea cup for another sip. "The Supernals were very.... well, very much like you. Except Raziela. She's lovely." Blinking, a touch of rosy pink floods her cheeks. "Which isn't to say you aren't lovely too! Just not so very... huggable."

You think to yourself: [In contrast to the brightness and effervescence of her words, her mind is cool and calculating, her thoughts sharply aware of each of Avaris's reactions and words, probing and parrying in turn with the intent to disarm.].

At the open appreciation of his pegasus, one of Avaris's antennae curls in a manner strikingly remniscent of an arched brow. In a faintly dry tone of voice, he assures you, "I will pass along the compliment. I am sure that he will enjoy having an admirer." Several of the solid lines of light which comprise the kephera's aetheric eyes shift, following your gaze, though he himself does not so much as twitch in that direction. "It is. They are born within the Light, and it infuses them. If you wish to have a pegasus, you must be of the Light also. What did you think of Holy Celestia?" At the comparison to the Supernals, his head drifts gradually aside, until it is canted at a quizzical angle, antennae twisted into a wavering, questioning quarter of sanguine lines. "The Supernals are not like me at all, save for the wings, perhaps, and that we are of the Light. I am as to the Supernals as a streak of paint upon a rock is to a masterwork of artistry." Freeing his lower left hand, he waves your embarrassment away, unperturbed. "I am well aware of my disposition, and unsuitability for affection. Lady Raziela is, indeed, a very loving and lovable being." Restoring the angle of his head to balance once more, he asks, politely, "What did you think of the other Supernals? I am curious to hear your opinion on Lord Japhiel, in particular."

Following the aethric glow and shifting patterns of the kephera's expressions and wings, Illyria purses her lips lightly. "It was... cold and harsh, to me," she admits quietly. "Very little of nature in it, save for Raziela's meadows. And they may not be like you, but you are very like them in manner. It is not intended as insult or compliment, simply observation and memory." Her brows turn down as she attempts to remember, her fingers lifting to twist absently in the atramentous shroud as she thinks. "Lord Japhiel... which of them is he? I did not really have the opportunity to get their names. Still, I can answer generally. All of them were some degree of unyielding and chill. A couple made me deeply uncomfortable, especially the one with all those lovely books that one could not read, and his implacable eyes.." Drawing her cloak a bit closer, the faeling shakes her head lightly, offering an apologetic smile at her inability to answer the question with specifics. A thought strikes her, and a quizzical light sparks in her eyes. "What is the Light, exactly? Aside from just... bright. What does it mean to be 'of the Light'?"

You think to yourself: Closer...

You think to yourself: [She sees the conversation ahead like a chessboard, her mind dancing ahead through various paths and countermoves, all angling ever closer to the desired topic].

The seven, inhuman eyes that are studded into Avaris's metallic face remain fixed upon you throughout - Though there is not discernible, visual cue as to their focus, the weight of their regard is difficult to miss. "I expect it was. Holy Celestia is not like the mortal city of New Celest. If you are pure, and good, it will be a warm and joyous place, filled with love, courage, wisdom and loyalty. If not..." He trails off, turning a hand in a tilting motion to indicate you to illustrate his point. "Lord Japhiel is the One with the books, yes. Do you know why He made you so uncomfortable?" At the query of the Light, he breathes a soft, faintly amused sound, which shivers in the air, bright and clear, before fading away. "An oft asked question, of late. First, your estimation of it, so that I may have a proper foundation upon which to build."

Illyria tilts her head, meeting Avaris's gaze levelly, though sadness touches her face. "You expected it was like that for me... because I am neither pure nor good, to you." Her eyes fall away, making an intent examination of the blades of grass before her. "So swiftly you judge me, before you even know me. What made me uncomfortable were the high mountains, open spaces without cover, unrelenting brightness. Shadows are not impure, Avaris, nor is one unpure to be made uncomfortable by their absence, any more than a nocturnal creature is to be uncomfortable at being awake at noon." She exhales, laying one hand atop the other and contemplating the question in light of the other information imparted. "He made me uncomfortable for his bleakness and austerity, the promise of knowledge in the books but held out of reach, his unyielding eyes. I expect very few would be fully comfortable in his presence." She studies him a long moment, then shakes her head. "Again, I know nothing of others and their questions. And I have no estimation of it at all. That is precisely what I have been looking to find out in the first place."

You take a drink of white tea from a porcelain tea cup covered in cross-stitched roses.

In a melodic layering of many voices of varying pitch and tone, Avaris's reply is neither gentle nor filled with rancour - It is even, smooth, and calm. "You are not pure, because you are soiled by the Wyrd. I do not know whether you are good or not, but I do not believe one can be truly good, when their heart and eyes are so occluded." Tilting his head fractionally, he observes, "You compare the Wyrd often to something natural, yet there is little natural that seeks to overwhelm all else, to infect and supplant." Regarding the faeling impassively for a time, the seraphic kephera simply dips a hand aside. "I find Lord Japhiel's presence to be most comforting. He is wise, clear of sight, and possesses keen judgement. I admire Him greatly." At the admission of ignorance, he once more utters a quiet, thrumming sound of thought, replacing his errant hand as he contemplates his answer. "The Light is a cosmic force. It is aspected power, alive and surging with inherent Divinity. It cleanses, purifies, sears, and illuminates. It is a balm to those that hold it close in their hearts, and bane to the corrupt, and the wicked."

Avaris dips his head towards you, tone neutrally polite as he inquires, "And the Wyrd?"

Appearing from seemingly nowhere, Bizirik pads over to Avaris, a creamy bowl of coconut milk, shrimp, and lemongrass soup clutched in its smaller set of forelimbs. It clumsily hands a creamy bowl of coconut milk, shrimp, and lemongrass soup over to Avaris before quickly slinking away.

Illyria listens, her face settling into neutrality, choosing to reply to the return question first. "Nothing natural about something that seeks to overwhelm all else? That is the most natural thing of all. Left unattended, even the Serenwilde will consume civilization brick by brick. By the terms of this dichotomy, those of Celest are all pure and good and right. I have seen that to be false, Avaris. People are people, wherever they are. Good and bad, evil and righteous. Their surroundings flavor them, but do not define them." She leans forward, her eyes intent, hands gathering fistfuls of dark silk within them. "Corrupt and wicked. What things do you think are inherent in the Wyrd that are corrupt and wicked? It is a transformative force- it wiped the lifelessness and Taint away from the Gloriana, and brought renewal. Is it because the form that renewal takes is ugly to you?" Her words are calm, but delivered with a quiet fervency. "Crows are creatures of lovely, iridescent feathers and unsightly carrion alike. They are not inherently evil, though one may be disgusted by their diet. Beetles and spiders, decay and regrowth... these things often offput people whose definition of beauty and goodness are things bright and delicate. But they are not wicked. It is very easy to decry something as a whole, to slap labels on it." The faeling sits back once more, a brow lifting at the uninvited entry of the leothin and its delivery, but she makes no comment on it. "The Light is a balm, then, or should be," she repeats softly. "I see. And that is how your Divines see it too?"

Avaris sits, and listens, as unmoving as a rock thrust up from a darkling sea. your impassioned words flow around him, the soft susurration of insistent waves breaking upon an immovable spire of stone. He does not react at all to your increased proximity as you lean forward, simply watching with an air of tranquil, cool patience. Once you subside, he exhales quietly, studying you with a peculiar, detached interest. "The Wyrd is a sickness, Reader. It is gangrenous flesh that has taken an existing disease and mutated via putrefaction. It did not wipe anything away - It simply altered it into a different strain. Its greatest feat is in the corrupting of the senses of those it takes ahold of, so that they see their pallor as the flush of health." His reply is, in contrast to your quiet fervor, entirely calm, smooth and cool as the surface of a still pool. "I do not speak for the Ladies of New Celest. What does it matter to you how They see it?"

Illyria tilts her head and studies Avaris, her eyes thoughtful. "A sickness implies that it weakens what it changes. It does not- it strengthens. Scars are stronger than the skin around them, unsightly though others may find them. I am curious to know what you have formed this conviction based off of. Just because something holds different values and standards does not make it wrong. Unless... you believe it does, and you seek to remake the entire Basin in Celest's image, erasing and changing. And in that case.. how different is it, truly?" With a last penetrating look, she lets the topic drop with a soft sigh, her eyes lingering on the teacup as she lifts a hand to rub her the smooth curve of her throat ruefully. "It matters because they are the souls of the City. The Divines of a place are its lifeblood, the pulse within its body. People come and go, and They remain, generally. What They feel on a matter is an important gauge of the long-term course of it."

A number of the smaller eyes that rest within the upper reaches of Avaris's wings travel down to study the myriad scars that mar the smooth skin of your hands, wrists and forearms, their lambent regard faintly sorrowful. His reply is quiet, but is not touched by the tinge of sadness that is expressed via the light-forged markings. "A wounding never makes the wounded stronger. That is something told to ensure those who have been hurt are proud enough to stand up and be hurt once more." His own teacup neglected, if perhaps not forgotten, beside him, the kephera makes no move to take it back up, instead keeping his hands folded across the hollow of his crossed legs. "The Divine are not constant. They change, They die, They move to other places within the Basin. They do, however, have an influence upon the mortal populace." A glance from the wing-born eyes, shifting towards the shroud you wears, then up to your face. "Some more so than others. Your Divine has had a rough time of it lately, has he not?"

Illyria's eyes follow the regard of the markings down to her arms, criss-crossed with the leavings of ritual gashes. Her own expression is an odd contrast to Avaris's at the sight- no sorrow touches her eyes, but rather pride that pairs with a soft smile. "Respectfully," she says quietly, "I disagree. Pain teaches. Wounds can have a purpose. Change can strengthen." Her legs still tucked daintily to the side, ankles crossed lightly beneath the draping folds of silk, she shifts her weight to lean upon one arm. A dip of her chin concedes the correction about the Divines, but her eyes sharpen at the inquiry. "He has been wronged and betrayed on many occasions, yes," she says, curiosity staining her voice at the shift in the topic, her eyes alighting on the prayer beads. "Which is yours? Whom do you follow?"

A very minute shake of Avaris's head meets your response, the dense, lustrous fluff of his mane stirring in the rose-scented breeze. "You prove my point, Reader." Letting the matter drop, he utters a resonating sound that descends in pitch briefly, the shivering tone hanging in the air even as he begins to speak one again. "So very recently, as well. It is interesting that He has not learned from His earlier occasions, is it not?" At the query, his upper right antenna flicks down towards the ampoule that depends from his hip, via a fine, silver chain that is threaded through the aureate chitin. "You do not recognise the symbols? I admit to some disappointment, if so. You seem sharper than that."

Illyria lifts her chin, frowning at the string of barbs. "As I said. I do not know anything of your city nor its Divines. From the water... I might guess Carakhan, though that does not suit you well, from what little I have read. I would have guessed Terentia for you, but she does not seem the type to have that as a symbol. Lantra, perhaps, but She is a hamadhi, and seems unlikely to have attracted your attention. Which is to say, of all of these assumptions, either one or many is wrong. No matter how sharp one may be, no one knows everything, and I -am- trying to remedy this gap in knowledge." Lifting the cup, the faeling swirls the cold tea around, visibly determining whether or not to take another sip of it.

Once again belaying from responding immediately, Avaris instead notes your conundrum, and lifts his upper right hand free to tap the back of his bladed knuckle against the flask that waits at his side, the contact creating a bright, metallic 'ting'. "If you wish for a fresh cup, merely ask." There is a distinct hardening of his tone, cool and flat as a blade in the hand. "I have been polite enough to refer to your Lord with His title. Return the favour, or this conversation is over." He extracts his lower, left hand, which drifts down to brush lovingly along the curved glass of the ampoule, his words warming with soft, rapturous voices joined in praise and devotion. "I serve my Lady, the Empyreal."

Avaris tilts his head aside slightly, his antennae curling curiously. "You know of Her, I imagine, considering that those of your ilk are close to Cheliyi." Mildly, as if discussing a matter of only casual interest, he remarks, "Indeed, one was inquiring of a member of my Lady's Order about Her, and a very particular topic, just recently. What do you make of that?"

The cup is forgotten as the kephera's tone shifts, and Illyria looks up, frowning. "There is no need for hostility," she murmurs. "No disrespect was intended, and I apologize." The bemusement on her face reflects in her voice, tinging it and drawing out each word minutely. "Lady Lantra, then. I would not have guessed that, of you. And as for Cheliyi, all I know of her is that she was the one who encouraged me to seek out Glomdoring when I was in Serenwilde, and felt the call of the Silent One. We have had only peripheral contact since." A hint of weariness finds its way to her voice. "And for the third time, now, I've no idea of what other people may be asking of other people. So I make nothing of it. Perhaps the same people urging me to get to know our allies better urged someone else. It would be pointless to speculate on something so vague."

Whether your reaction to his admonition perturbs Avaris at all is unclear, so smooth and immobile is the alien visage with which he regards you steadily. "That was not hostility. I was simply being firm. I do not tolerate the slightest disrespect towards my Lady, from any source," explains, his voice cool and measured. "It seems odd, that you know so little of her, when you seem to share a companion in kind. Are you not close to the Auspice?" A minute lift of his shoulders brings the sharp, cold glean of his spiked halo up a fraction. "So you do not know why Evette Stormcrow was inquiring after the Lady of the Lagoons, or the possibility that She may be healed?"

Illyria tips her head in acknowledgement of the first. "The Auspice does not confide in me, nor do they share their affairs, nor do they bring me to meet with anyone they speak with. I care for them, and likewise. It is not the closeness of boon companions, and I am content for it not to be." An eyebrow raises, genuine surprise on her face. "Ah, now that we raise specifics, speculation becomes more fruitful. I would imagine that she was inquiring about it because the topic has come up of how a healed would-be Traitor might harm the Basin with the Eye of Dynara in the pursuit of vengeance, and the Lady Lantra is one well know for such healing. It is logical. And Evette is a commune leader, one that may take such affairs on herself to pursue." She shrugs her shoulders, equally minutely.

Avaris watches you closely for a long moment, then utters a quiet sound of indistinct intent. "Are you so content to no be close with all, or simply the Auspice?" At the explanation, he lifts the plated fingers of his right hand in a small, waving gesture. "Are those of the Wyrd so uncertain as to their ability to either thwart Her, or endure such an event? Do your Divine not possess confidence in Their ability to withstand Her, backed by the...Puissance of the Wyrd They so adore?"

Letting her fingers curl in the dark grasses, feeling the texture of the lush foliage under her fingertips, Illyria lets the questions roll over her, unperturbed. "To the first? That is my own business, respectfully, and has no bearing here on this matter." Plucking a tiny, lambent blossom and twirling it in her fingers, the faeling regards Avaris with a faint frown. "As to the others, each one of those is a loaded question, and steeped in disdain. I find them to be disingenuous. I cannot speak for anyone other than myself, to give you clarity on their thoughts and motives, or Theirs. For myself, I would say that part of the Wyrd's.... 'puissance'... is its adaptability, and that includes the help of allies when needed."

"Disingenuous." Avaris repeats flatly, his back straightening so that he sits with rigid shoulders, his antennae quivering faintly with indignation. "I do not lie or deceive. I have told you that I am poor with words, and yet you imbue my questions with falsity, while you dodge and weave about them and give me no answer at all." The quiet rasp of chitin scraping lightly across gleaming carapace emanates from his thigh as he draws his hands in together at his abdomen. "Do you believe that my Lady is an ally of the Wyrd, then?"

Illyria closes her eyes, shaking her head. "What I meant is that you seemed to be asking them with a predetermined answer already set in your mind, which makes the asking of those questions.. insincere. Not a lie or deception. Simply insincere in their intent, and worded rather unpleasantly." She opens her eyes and frowns. "Which questions have I not answered, Avaris? Ask, and if it is something I have the authority to speak on, I will do so plainly." She exhales and touches her temple, a frown lingering on her lips. "You continue to ascribe more knowledge to me than I possess. It would be presumptuous of me to believe or disbelieve that without knowing. Though..." her voice quiets, and she whispers softly, "if you are a reflection of your Lady, I suppose the answer is no."

Avaris lifts his shoulders once more in a slow shrug. "I also told you that you would be unlikely to be fond of what I said. I wear my distaste for the Wyrd openly. As for my questions, they were sincere. I do not know your Divine as well as one that dwells within Their domain. Perhaps They do believe they can stand against Her without aid. Elders are often more confident, perhaps, than They should be." Flicking aside the last statement with a sharp blurring of golden claws, he responds with a blunt, "I am not. You will find that I am quite different from the majority of Her Order."

Catching the corner of her bottom lip in her teeth and nibbling at it, Illyria nods slowly. "I do not intend to dodge your questions. Sincerely. I am simply strongly reluctant to speak for others, or on matters in which I am uncertain or unfamiliar," she says apologetically. With a deep frown, she shakes her head. "Between my guild task to get to know other allies, the urging to learn more, and my positive impression of you, I came to learn generally, not to probe specifically. But if we are turned to this topic? From all I'm since read about the Eye of Dynara, it is not something that any Divine in the Basin would wish to stand alone against, or wish to be in the hands of a Divine bent on vengeance against the world. What if She turns it on the Seals? On a populace? A whole city? I think it would be a mistake to heal Her, and give Her back the power She needs." The faeling pulls her cloak around her, tilting her head back to look up into the sky. "Not that my thoughts on the matter are of any import."

You think to yourself: [The destination reached, the seed planted.] May it be heeded, for all of our sakes.

Rather than address your words on the Eye, Avaris tilts his head at you, studying the quiet faeling for a time. "Why would they be of no import?"

Illyria looks down and frowns. "I am no one of importance, and therefore my thoughts on any given matter are of little import. Once follows the other," she says simply.

Avaris fixes you with an odd look, his head angled aside, antennae bending in strange, sharp twists. "Why do you believe that you are of no importance? You are young, and yet you are named repeatedly in the events involving your home. Do they trample upon your self worth so thoroughly, that you are made to believe such?"

Staring at the kephera with a somewhat blank look, startled, Illyria shakes her head slowly. "Being present for something does not indicate one's significance in the matter. I am there, whenever needed, but not in any position of prominence. I make no decisions, lead no forays, simply... watch. And listen. And sometimes crack cyphers." The last is added with a ghost of a smile. "But if I was not there, for any of those, I do not believe their outcomes would have been different. And that means not important. It does not bother me, Avaris. As you said.. I am young."

Returning the stare with a faintly nonplussed air in kind, the eyes that are visible within the golden expanse of Avaris's wings squint at you as if attempting to discern your sincerity. "Did you not participate in the rituals in the recent conflict between your Lord and the Bloom of Serenity?"

Illyria nods readily. "Yes. I was there. And as I said, it made little difference one way or the other." She seems even more bewildered than Avaris, a faint line creasing between her brows. "I would not have thought you would care about the self-worth of a Glomdoring youngling," she says.

Avaris lifts the index finger of his right, upper hand, tapping it upon the curved expanse of his plated thigh in a slow, measured beat, staring still. "You fought, did you not, in your way? You were present, which in itself is a boon to one's allies. Even the quietest, most unassuming individual can be a source of strength and reassurance for others. More so, if they act. A single touch can turn the tide, whether the one that shifts the balance can see it or not." At the comment, he shrugs, the spiked ring of his pauldrons drifting briefly into the lustrous white of his ruff. "Salvation comes in two basic forms. I, for all my reputation for wrath, prefer the least destructive as a first option."

Illyria watches Avaris with enigmatic eyes, thoughtful and still. "Salvation?" she repeats quietly, her voice quiet and light as petals on the breeze. "What, if I may ask, would that look like to you?"

Again, Avaris's gaze travels down to the scars that you bears with such pride, the hue of his natural eyes dulling to something darker, subdued. "For you? Not having to endure scarring, or taking pride in it. You would be at home, I feel, among the anchoresses of my Lady's realm. Quiet, dignified, regal. At peace. Recognised as a valued person, for who you are, and what you have done. You have a soothing manner about you - You could do much good to ease the suffering of others, or in guiding the young."

Humble Avaris, Avower of the Archons thinks to himself: An series of images, carefully constructed from shards of memory and vibrant, colourful panes of raw imagination, in a vast array of striking hues. The quiet faeling, as she sits before him, but altered - Shrouded in mist and starlight, rather than shadow and lambent flora. The scars, still visible, but faded, a faint smile suggested behind the veil she wears, a sense of satisfaction, of contentment, of self-worth radiating gently from her. Another image, of this fictional Illyria at the side of someone in pain, providing succour with soft, soothing words and a calming hand upon the brow, argent light emanating from the contact. Her, again, in the company of others, cheered by her presence, offering sincere words of encouragement, of acknowledgement. In all, that faint sense of purpose, of benign will.

Illyria's eyes flit between the pale ridges along her arms and Avaris, a quiet astonishment in her expression at the sincerity of the well-thought reply. She exhales softly, a small smile slipping onto her lips as she regards the aureate planes of the kephera's face. "I am honored that you wish such things for me. But I am happy where I am. I have purpose, a Lord to whom I am devoted, and love. It is enough." Rising smoothly to her feet, she holds out her hand reflexively to help him up, then lets it fall back to herself in mild amusement and embarrassment as she realizes the absurdity of the gesture. "I must rest for a time. Thank you for the tea, and for the talk," she says sincerely.

Despite the inherent lack of expression that Avaris's face is restricted by, there is no missing the distinct air of faint disappointment and commingled sorrow that meets your reply - Though he does not seem at all surprised, simply nodding. "You have moved before. Perhaps there is hope that your path to the Light is simply a winding one, as so many others' has been." Ascending with a stately elegance, he inclines his head towards you in a courteous gesture. "Thank you, as well."

Quietly, Illyria leads back through the woods, stopping at the ripple in aetherspace that indicates a portal outward. "Be well, then, Avaris," she says softly.

Once again leaving a miniature path of destruction upon the sand in his wake, Avaris follows you through the blackthorn copses, dipping his head to you in a polite nod. "Light's blessings upon you, Reader."

Avaris marches off to the ether, the air about him rippling and shimmering with flows of celestial energy.

Illyria watches in thoughtful contemplation long after Avaris is gone, a faint smile blossoming on her face. "That went well," she says softly to herself.