Prayer to the Sword

Avaris's finger slows as it reaches the end of the catalogue's list, the crimson
sweep of his antennae drawing forward and down.

You think to yourself: "We have listings for enemy Divine, but only one for the currently waking
Ladies. Why is that? Where are the volumes on my Lady, or Lady Terentia? This seems a strange lack."

Avaris sighs faintly.

((Tries to contact Romaan, but he's not awake, so. To the Fulcrux!))

The Fulcrux of Terentia.
The walls of this chamber span out massively, encasing this area in a protective cocoon of cavern.
White marble lines the ground, covering each inch of the cavern floor and rising half-way up the
walls before blending in with the natural texture of the cave. Many pillars rise up in different
areas of the chamber, each column of marble etched with the same symbol: A set of scales crafted
from two criss-crossed swords. A translucent fog of white energy clings close to the ground, rolling
over the marble floor in patches, covering and uncovering various areas of the chamber. A single
pillar appears vaguely translucent and is larger than most in the area. A square column of marble
rises here, surrounded by a glowing white aura of energy.
There are no obvious exits.

Pausing for a long moment to absorb the layout of the Fulcrux, Avaris's faceted
eyes are hard and gleaming as sapphires cut into the shape of teardrops. The sanguine banners of his
antennae sweep slowly back and forth as he scans the area, and do not cease as he begins to move
forward. Each fall of his foot is accompanied by a sharp 'clack' as the natural armour of his
chitinous soles impact upon the marble, the curving arcs of his talons clicking faintly in tandem.
As he passes each set of crossed swords, his fingers brush upon the grips of his own in a light,
fleeting gesture of respect, until he reaches the grand pillar. In an elegant motion, he bends at
the waist, holding the bow for a time before he straightens, and gives a crisp, precise salute.

Kneeling humbly, you press your palms together before you and close your eyes momentarily as you
pray devoutly to Terentia, the Even Bladed, "[A voice of layered pitches, woven from buzzes and
hums, is preceded by a sense of courteous deference, as one might expect from a soldier sent before
an allied court.] Greetings, Lady Terentia. My apologies, first of all, for disturbing You - I
strove to find an answer for my question via other means, but I could not find any of Yours awake,
and the library is peculiarly lacking in material pertaining to You. Given the state of mortal views
in New Celest, perhaps it is best that I ask You directly, regardless. My question, should You wish
to answer it, is thus; Do You think the alliance with the Wyrd is weakening the Light? Should You
not, I thank You for Your forbearance, and hope that You do not mind if I pursue some of Yours to
ask it of them, instead. May Your blade never dull, Lady.".

Avaris lowers his hands and turns upon his heel, striding from the Fulcrux with a
steady, purposeful gait.

((Upon another login, collated for tidiness, mid-teleport))

"Avaris." Your name rings in your head, not by your own voice, but by another's. It rings in your
head as if it were a sword pulled from its sheathe.

Avaris pauses, releasing the strand of aether, the banner of his antennae
flicking stiffly upright. He comes immediately to attention, fists impacting upon his armoured chest
in a salute.

"I have heard your prayer, kephera. Find yourself to My fulcrux. Now."

As you step into the translucent pillar, a white light fills your senses and when it fades, you find
yourself emerging from the pillar into a large cavern of white marble.
The Fulcrux of Terentia.
The walls of this chamber span out massively, encasing this area in a protective cocoon of cavern.
White marble lines the ground, covering each inch of the cavern floor and rising half-way up the
walls before blending in with the natural texture of the cave. Many pillars rise up in different
areas of the chamber, each column of marble etched with the same symbol: A set of scales crafted
from two criss-crossed swords. A translucent fog of white energy clings close to the ground, rolling
over the marble floor in patches, covering and uncovering various areas of the chamber. A single
pillar appears vaguely translucent and is larger than most in the area. A square column of marble
rises here, surrounded by a glowing white aura of energy.
There are no obvious exits.

Ringing like an unsheathed sword, a firm and commanding voice cuts through the air, "How quick. It
seems military training has taught you well, Avower."

An acute sense of amusement passes through your consciousness, and you feel lighter, as if you had
unshed your armour.

Avaris does not step far into the Fulcrux once he enters, but rather halts, once
again assuming a stance of militaristic attention, his shoulders set and head held high. It dips,
curtly, as he nods, the harmony of his voice crisp, professional. "I would not keep You waiting,
Lady." There is a subtle diminishment of tension in his frame, but it is a very slight easing of the
rigidity of his stance.

You think to yourself: Alertness sharpens his focus, but it is not alarm, nor is it born of fear -
More the acute awareness one feels when reporting before an officer far, far above oneself in the
chain of command.

Ringing like an unsheathed sword, a firm and commanding voice cuts through the air, "Let us cut to
the chase: Your question is whether or not the alliance with the Wyrd weakens the Light. The answer
is simple."

Ringing like an unsheathed sword, a firm and commanding voice cuts through the air, "No."

The Goddess' answer cuts through the air like an arrow, finding you as its target.

Ringing like an unsheathed sword, a firm and commanding voice cuts through the air, "For the Wyrd
cannot handle the raw power of Celestia's radiance; its ethereal energies is a pittance in
comparison, no matter how many seeds Viravain decides to sew within it from mortal blood and bone."

Ringing like an unsheathed sword, a firm and commanding voice cuts through the air, "But I imagine
that is not exactly the question you meant to ask, is it?"

Avaris's antennae twitch aside, ever so faintly, but he does not rock back when
struck by the directness of the response. Instead, he remains standing, his hands shifting to fold
into a complex, interwoven lock of white chitin at the small of his back. "Thank You for the
response." A pause, in which the words are considered carefully, as one would inspect the edge and
balance of a new blade. "I think that You are correct, Lady, yes."

You think to yourself: "But how to phrase it? This is not my Lady, and I have grown used to dulling
the edge of my words of late."

Ringing like an unsheathed sword, a firm and commanding voice cuts through the air, "You may speak
plain, Avower. I need not silken words. I favor steel."

You think to yourself: A glimmer of relief, and no small amount of appreciation - Finally, an
opportunity to bare words and not fear that they might cut the soft of heart.

Avaris's tone is unvarnished, his manner direct, but ever respectful. "The mortals
of New Celest have strayed from the Light, from a purity and clarity of purpose. Their vision is
marred by a coating of slime and shadow, but they do not see it." A minute thread of tightly
restrained anger wends its way into his voice, a slight harshening of the edges. "It disgusts me to
see the Wyrd and its mortals gathered close like beloved companions, as trusted brothers in arms. I
am frustrated by their inability to see, by how...Lax, they have become." A pause, though not a long
one, a hand hovering over a rack of weapons to choose from. "I want to purge the Wyrd's influence
from New Celest, cut away the rot, clear their eyes, even if they should wail and weep. How can I do
this, Lady? Am I right to?"

A long pause fills the space, the chamber silenced as the Goddess considers your questions.

You think to yourself: Patience, despite the deep, coursing currents of anger that churn far beneath
the surface.

Before you hear Her voice, you feel something: like the press of a hand against your shoulder. Aware
of your righteousness, the firm yet feminine voice of the Even Bladed rings clear, "Deep breath,
Avower. Let not wrath cloud your judgment."

Ringing like an unsheathed sword, a firm and commanding voice cuts through the air, "In a word, yes.
I have found Glomdoring's delusions, temptations, malformations long against the vision of Creation
that Dynara has set before us Elders. It, its Matron, and the Wyrd seeks to claim dominion over all
the known world, making us all flies in a spider's web, ready to be feasted upon."

Avaris stiffens briefly at the contact, a shifting of the muscles beneath the
banded plates of his chitin - but he does as he is bidden. He inhales deeply, a slow and centering
breath that eases the rigid, taut set of his shoulders, even as his antennae shift from quivering
plumes of suppressed anger. He bows his head slightly, tone quietly respectful, but grateful. "I
apologise, Lady. I struggle, with that." He lapses into silence, lifting his head as he pays keen
attention, his mien sharpening once more.

You think to yourself: A deliberate slowing of the wrath that threatens to surge through him, a
great effort to instill calm, a cool clarity of focus, worthy of the conversation at hand, and the
One with which he engages.

Ringing like an unsheathed sword, a firm and commanding voice cuts through the air, "Now how? That
is a different question. That requires different strategies. And not because such a cleansing would
be right and true, but because Celest, I fear, fails to take the Light seriously enough."

You think to yourself: A firm, grim sense of agreement, the bleakness ameliorated by the knowledge
that the Divine still see clear, and true. With that, there is greater hope.

Avaris dips his head in a sharp nod of affirmation, chin brushing into the halo of
white, thick fluff that rings his neck. "That is my opinion precisely, Lady. In this, I have the
sense that we are outnumbered. There is a sense of...Comfortable idleness, of lassitude and
indifference, that permeates the city."

Ringing like an unsheathed sword, a firm and commanding voice cuts through the air, "Indeed. Few
turn to the Light to sharpen themselves, but rather, and turn to it as a balm. If they did, they
would be mindful to know who would tempt them and their desires."

Ringing like an unsheathed sword, a firm and commanding voice cuts through the air, "Again, now how?
Now... how..."

The burgundy sweep of Avaris's left antennae curls faintly inward as he utters a
brief sound of acknowledgement. "There is little that is sharp in New Celest, presently, Lady, as
You are no doubt well aware. While kindness surely has its place, I believe it should not take
precedence over vigilance. It has softened the core, and clad the cutting edge of judgement in
cotton and sugar." A sliver of a pause, and he amends, "Unintentionally, of course - But weakness is
weakness. I have been cautioned to move more gently with my efforts, but in truth, I am ill suited
to it." Inclining his head, he asks, "How is the crux of it. I know that the Divine seem reluctant
to involve themselves in such matters, but I would truly appreciate any guidance You might grant,
Lady. How would You act, if You were in my stead?"

At your feet, the rippling fog of white energy darkens, taking on the hue of smoke or ash. And where
before it was a gentle lapping of waves, now it twists in thick plumes that coalesce into a pillar
of smoke.

Then, a flash of indigo slices through this column of energy, from which stands the Even Bladed,
sword in hand.

Possessing a diminutive frame, the Goddess Terentia might be easily overlooked; however, Her
commanding presence forces attention nonetheless upon the fact that She is a radiant immortal. What
was once brilliant coral blue hair has paled to the most subtle silvery turquoise, and its curls
forming a loose crew cut with a close shave on either side of Her head. Icy green eyes are set in a
steely gaze that are constantly and completely focused, seeming to never miss a single detail. Lithe
muscles ripple gracefully beneath smooth, starlit skin; traces of previous battles remain, the cruel
beauty of scarred god-flesh acting as both medal and wound of battle alike. Most significant amongst
these scars are three trailing claw marks cross Her left cheek and descend across Her chin and down
a long neck. While time seems to have taken the Goddess' appearance, Her lips form a tight, thin
line that suggest the disposition of a more ageless being.

She is wearing:
a buckled weaponbelt of scaled silver-hide
a skirt of bejeweled silver scalemail
a shining helm of empyrean steel
ornate, silver-plated greaves
an intricate breastplate of white edged in silver
a pair of pearl-studded, winged sandals
a mirrored vambrace
a gilded gauntlet of albescent metal
a delectable meatball pouch. ((<-- ???? ))

Though there are no pupils to indicate the direction of his gaze, Avaris's
attention unmistakably snaps to Terentia, where it remains, bright and sharp.

Terentia tilts Her head toward you, lowering the sword with a gentle swing of Her arm. "How would I
act?" Her voice is smooth, bright. "One must be both the tactician and the commander, Avower."

With a firm voice, Terentia, the Even Bladed says, "The former is to say, you must understand your
goal, your tools, your allies, your formation. To the latter, you must inspire them to realise that
something has dug its fingers into their hearts. You must inspire them to believe that they could,
in fact, free themselves."

As Terentia concludes, She considers Her own words. "Perhaps that is not the most pragmatic." A curl
of a smile forms upon Her face; Her grip on the blade tightening with a subtle flex.

Avaris considers Terentia and Her words for but a fleeting moment, before he
responds, his own voice a layering of cool, firm tones. "Only a fool would accuse You of a lack of
pragmatism, Lady, I think. My mind is naturally given to viewing matters via a tactical lens, I
believe, so that much I will not have great issue with." Freeing his hands from their interlock of
hard plates, he lifts his upper right to gesture at himself demonstratively. "I am not a commander.
I have no authority, and I do not believe I have the necessary...Charisma, to draw and bind others
to my banner. My attempts to inspire are as like to drive a wedge between myself and those I would
motivate.".

You think to yourself: Cold, hard facts? Breaking down a situation into its constituent components
and analysing them, formulating strategies? As natural as breathing. Setting fire to the hearts of
others, weaving a net of will and personality, being as a beacon to draw them in? As likely as a
fish defeating the Lady before him in a duel, he thinks, albeit with a wry, faintly ironic amusement
directed at himself.

"Ahh, I would not consider it charisma that you need," Terentia remarks, her eyes flashing pale like
a glacier. "You simply need to find ways to speak to the heart, rather than to the brain."

Continuing,"You are rather charismatic in any case, Avower. Clearly you have found yourself a
companion and ally in Ladyn's cause--for I believe you are the youthful one she spoke to Me about."
Terentia brings Her sword down with a sharp swing, the blade nearly scouring the cavern floor.

A faint ripple of scintillating motes of brilliant light spreads across Avaris's
eyes, his antennae bowing out and up. His tone is tinged by a slight dry humour, as he replies, "I
feel I would be speaking a language I do not know, to hearts that are deliberately turned deaf at
uncomfortable words, but that is sound advice, Lady." A halt, in both words and the subtle motion of
his form, as he is taken very much aback.

"Something I said, Avower?" Terentia asks, a single brow arched.

You think to yourself: "Ladyn? Ah." The, belated, as if regarding something alien and new, but not
unpleasant, "Charismatic?" There's a thought. His focus drawns in, once more, discarding unnecessary
thoughts.

Avaris nods curtly. "Yes. I was not aware that Lady Aeldra had spoken to You, at
all, or of me. I am glad to have her as an ally in this, however - There are precious few of those,
and she will be a great boon to the effort."

"You were more of a passing reference, but I took that as a sign that your opinion is valuable to
her," Terentia offers coolly. As Her brow lowers, a sudden idea fills Her head--evident by the flash
of an expression on Her face. "They may be deliberately deaf, but until you begin speaking a
language that might shine a light for them, I imagine they will remain that way."

Terentia, the Even Bladed says, "That is why, Avower, your quest is quite simple. You must learn the
language of the heart. Of poets."

You think to yourself: Natural, for Her to pick up on subtler signs and follow them to their source.
A professional thrum of respect, unruffled by the coolness of the tone - but cut short by the
ensuing words. Poetry? Him? Oh gods.

Avaris stares at Terentia for a long moment, the feathered curves of his antennae
slowly sagging aside. At length, he gives voice to a single sound. "Ah."

Terentia laughs. Suddenly. As She had heard the very thought that formed within your head. The sound
is airy, lighter than Her more commanding voice. "You seem unamused, Avower."

If a kephera could grimace, Avaris's face would be a very picture of ruefulness -
but alas, all that betrays his discomfiture on the surface is the squirming of the bloody sweeps
that extend from his brow, along with a faint dimming of the hue of his eyes. "It...Surprised me,
Lady. I am as adept with wordplay as a walrus is suited to high society." A heavy, resigned sigh,
before he squares his shoulders once more - the very picture of a man prepared to get his hands
dirty in the pursuit of higher goals. "I will do as You suggest - though I have no idea where to
start." A brief hesitation, and, the for the first time uncertainty creeps into his voice, "Do You...Know
any poets?"

Another pause, and then Avaris tacks on, "Also, forgive me if this is rude, but I
find addressing You as merely Lady to be as uncomfortable as a poorly weighted sword. It
feels...Generic. How shall I address You? Even Bladed? Something else?"

Terentia's eyes sparkle with delight. "You may call me Even Bladed if you find yourself repetitious
with Lady. And I imagine it might be of value, as Celest is already guided by so many of Us Ladies."
The smile appears again, a flash of pearlescent teeth that soon disappear by the thin line of Her
mouth. "There are perhaps many passing poets, some perhaps alive. But... I do have a muse. One of My
sibling Lyreth's muses. And if there is any who know the rhythms and music of words, it would be
Calydice."

"You would find her in Fort Vigilant," Terentia adds. "I'm certain you would be able to find her.
She tends to sing to the lyrebirds."

"Oh, She is enjoying this." A ripple of respectful fondness, and amusement,
quiet laughter at himself - And an appreciation for seeing that light come to Her eyes, and the
fleeting gleam of a true smile. Something he will commit to his memory, as he would any sight of
rare wonder. To business, now.

Again, that glinting wave of sparkling points of light within the pools of Avaris's
eyes - a smile of his own, in a way. "Thank You, Even Bladed - There are many Ladies, but there is
only one You." A small shrug, and he smoothly continues, "I shall approach her as soon as You think
appropriate. When do You think would be the best time to visit?"

"Mmm, so it would seem you accept this quest? I shall inform her, and she will reach out. She has
not had many visitors since Parhelion in any case," Terentia considers, completing the thought with
a quick nod. "Perhaps that would give you time to confabulate with Ladyn, simply to put yourselves
on similar pages."

You think to yourself: Faint surprise - Why would he not? It was never in question that he would
accept any quest bestowed upon him by a Celestian Divine, particularly One he has taken time and
attention from. Following on the heels of this, "Confabulate. A fine word, that one, and rare. I
wonder if She has penned a poem or two, Herself?"

A firm yet feminine voice rattles in your head, "Such a question, Avower. One would wonder indeed."

An acute sense of amusement passes through your consciousness, and you feel lighter, like the
unshedding of armour.

You think to yourself: A long pause, and then a faint sigh, though the sound is threaded through
with laughter. "I really need to stop forgetting that You can hear me." A very slight glint of
mischief, a benign flash of humour that is borne on the back of sincerity, and /much/ curiosity.
"Perhaps You will share with me, after I have penned my own, so we can compare techniques."

Sobering, ostensibly, Avaris nods readily, his acceptance immediate, and emphatic.
"Of course. That will suit, Even Bladed. I shall confer with Lady Aeldra, and ensure that we are
both ready, when the time comes." A slight tilt of his head, and then, politely, "Is there anything
that I can do for You? You have been much generous with Your time, patience, and advice. I would
show appreciation."

The Goddess shakes Her head. "I desire nor need no further appreciation. If you are to find ways to
rouse Celest back toward its purpose, toward the Light, then that is appreciation enough." Then,
Terentia dips Her head into a nod as plumes of smoke rise to overtake Her figure.

Soon enough, the Even Bladed is gone.

Ringing like an unsheathed sword, a firm and commanding voice cuts through the air, "You are
dismissed, Avower."

Avaris brings both of his right fists to his chest in a precise salute that would
be not at all out of place within a command tent. "Yes, Even Bladed. Strength in Your arm, and
courage in Your heart, always." With this, he turns sharply upon his heel, and departs.

You think to yourself: "What a fine Goddess, indeed." A sense of sharpened purpose, the comfort of a
soldier that knows he is commanded true, and clear - A direction, at last.

((To the library, searching for poetry)

Avaris regards the booklet with a grimness that is utterly almost incongruous,
given the medium.

Avaris strides over to beneath the trailing shelter of the willow tree, where he
turns and settles down with his upper back resting against it - wings spread aside to avoid being
pinned, and his legs stretched out before him. Holding the book solidly in the palms of his lower
set of hands, he utilises his upper right to open the cover, while its opposite winds a coil of his
ruff's dense fluff about its finger, the motion slow and thoughtful.