Faith and the Flower

Looking up from her book, Illyria smiles a warm, soft greeting to $Rhalkyr, noting the motions from
the guards. With a long blink, she closes it and places it into her lap, patting the cracked earth
beside her in mute invitation.

Sparing the guards a flat, unamused look as he passes, Rhalkyr pads over to
Illyria, moving with familiar, predatory grace. In a fluid motion, he lowers himself into a loose-
limbed crouch, precisely over the spot that was patted. Angling his jaw up at Illyria, his eye
glints as he studies her from the corner of his mask's sockets, uttering a rough, interrogative
rumble.

Illyria tilts her head somewhat to the side, returning the sidelong glance with a peripheral one of
her own. To the wordless inquiry, she offers a small smile. "I'm well, Rhalkyr. Working on my book.
What of you?" she murmurs, the sound hushed and blending into the wind through the clearing. Her
wings catch the passing gust, fluttering madly until she angles them downward and presses then to
her back.

[[Isser arrives, Rhalkyr promptly tells him to leave]]

Staring at the point where the intruder occupied until the last motes of light
dwindle away to nothingness, Rhalkyr finally relaxes back into his former posture, turning his head
to regard Illyria intently. "Book, of?" His mask cocks abruptly, held at a steep angle as his eyes
track over Illyria's face. "Do not, seem, well."

You think to yourself: The matter of the moronic interloper vanishes from his mind immediately,
dismissed in favour of matters far more important. Within the vast, sprawling jungle woven of
gossamer silk that forms his mindscape, the legions of lurking predators settle back into quiescence
- Save for one. The monstrous, striped beast paces behind the flowing fall of darkness that screens
its lair, prowling across the hard-packed dirt in a ceaseless back and forth, lambent green eyes
locked upon the cracked and decaying sculpture of the Auspice.

Illyria touches the cover of the book, one delicate finger tracing the leather from top to bottom
almost lovingly before lifting. "A book of stories," she replies, the hint of a smile on her lips.
"Short stories.. fae tales, if you will." The touch of a smile fades, then, and she shakes her head.
"I am.. well enough, rather. Who could truly call themselves well with our Lady gone, betrayed?
And.. I feel in some ways as if I failed in my part. I was given the task of summoning Mother Night
within the Auguries ritual and... She did not come," she says, her eyes shadowed as her fingers
tighten around the edge of the book.

Rhalkyr listens with the silent patience of a still night, a benign emptiness that
he seems content to have Illyria fill with Illyria's soft words. With a ponderous lack of speed, his
chin angles up and aside, the ragged bass of his voice mild as he replies, "Rhalkyr, is well.
Blackpetal, will return. Betrayer, punished. Forest, peaceful, again. Faith." He extends a massive
hand, brushing the rough pad of his two forefingers along the back of Illyria's own, light as a
summer breeze. When he speaks again, his words are soft, gentle in a coaxing manner. "Look, at
Rhalkyr."

Illyria draws in a breath, holds it a moment, then lets it out in a quiet rush and her chin lifts
obligingly at the prompting. Feline eyes of dainty rose rise up to study your verdant ones,
unflinching as she studies the tiny patterns and flecks within the vividly green irises. "I know,"
she says softly, placing a hand lightly on your forearm. "I know it will all be well again. It.. is
MUST be so," she says, as if to will the thought into existence. The chill wind comes again,
whistling eerily and tossing pieces of unruly pink hair about her face as she gazes up through the
tumbling veil of bangs. "And yet.." she whispers, her voice in quiet chorus with the trees' lament,
".. will it?"

For once, Rhalkyr's gaze does not flicker or dart aside, does not slip away or
drift elsewhere - The entirety of his focus is upon Illyria, the weight and heat of his full
attention rendering his eyes feverishly bright as he stares into the feline, roseate depths of
Illyria's own. "Yes." The word, so simple a thing, is delivered with a certainty so absolute as to
make bedrock seem frail and ethereal by comparison, a complete totality of belief that leaves no
cracks for doubt to slither its way within. "Have read, much. Blackpetal, had died. And died. And
left. And vanished. And changed. Many times, in past. Always, comes back. May, be different, be
better - But is Her. Always, Her. Always, is well, again." The monstrous hand rises from Illyria's
to rest the blunt tips of its fingers upon Illyria's cheek. "Have done, so well. Am, so proud. Do
not, despair. All, is as, meant, to be. Playing, part, as intended."

You think to yourself: The belief in his words is as nothing compared to the faith that burns within
his mind, that fills his soul and sears through his blood like liquid zeal. The intensity of it is
sufficient that no sane mind could truly sustain it - Could no more bear the fervor of it than a man
could hold the sun within his hands, and not burn to ash. It is a thing of monstrous beauty, of
roaring beasts raising their voices in a hymn of abject ecstasy, shadows and roses and spiders and
roots and all that is the Glomdoring, woven together and flowing in a mass of unshakable faith, a
/knowing/ that permeates all that he is.

As if the unflagging faith within the words were mortar for the uncertain masonry of her own belief,
a subtle change comes over Illyria as she listens to you- truly listens, the entirety of her focus
locked into a study of the wildling. Her gaze sharpens, penetrating in its intensity as her slitted
pupils dilate slightly, her head tilting as the tip of a pointed ear twitches just slightly. The
faeling, though her statuesque height for such seems to defy the description, straightens from her
slumped, somewhat defeated posture and looks back into the eyes of the inferno of quiet zeal. "You
are right," she says softly, though her words hold a note of something unreadable, the tiniest
downturn of a single brow adding to the vagueness of the elusive tone. "And that's all any of us can
do, in truth. Play our part."

The acuity of Rhalkyr's study intensifies as he watches Illyria's reaction, gauging
and weighing in some indefinable way. At length, he dips his chin in a small, approving nod, and
allows his eyes to slide off from Illyria's face, drifting over to gaze into the trees. "Yes. Doubt,
useful tool. Should not, wallow in, over-indulge. Causes, more harm, than good." Caressing the curve
of Illyria's cheek with the edge of his thumb, he lifts his hand away and drapes his forearm across
his knee, toes flexing against the ground beneath him. "Illyria, is quiet, of voice. Should learn,
to quiet, voices, inside. Whispering doubts. Lies. Seductive, unworthiness. Quieten, crush, or kill.
Yes?" The emerald of his eyes flickers, bright as jade flame as it flits to Illyria to watch the
response to his words, and he adds, "Should, rest. Growing, displeasure. Wilting, is not, good."

Though your eyes slip away, Illyria's remain, studying the fall of mussed hair and the lines of mask
over skin. "I will try," she vows quietly, her voice sincere and firm, promising that said trying
would be made with every expectation of success. Eventually. Her hands find her book once more,
running along the embossing in the eventide leather and the pleats of gossamer across it. Rotating
to face you more fully, the shadowed faeling, a wisp of a figure next to your massive form, smiles
faintly. "I think you'd have enjoyed watching the ritual. Both, but especially the first. Honors
were done to all the Spirits, beautifully so. And I.. danced," she admits, her eyes sharpening with
remembered adrenaline. "It was wonderfully done, the whole of it. I feel very much at home among the
Auguries."

Despite the fact that his visual focus has roamed elsewhere, ceaselessly stalking the perimeter of
the clearing, is it clear that Rhalkyr yet listens to Illyria, his great head canted down towards
her. His vast chest expands and contracts at a steady, calm rate, his wrists limp and hands dangling
down between his knees, lending him a general air of supreme relaxation. He absorbs the words
without much reaction at first - Until the confession of dancing slips from Illyria's lips. His
reaction is immediate, an abrupt, sharp turn of his head, his eyes wide and afire with interest as
he leans towards Illyria. "Quiet, flower, /danced/?"

The intensity of reaction startles Illyria , causing her to lean back reflexively even as you leans
forward. It passes quickly, and she leans forward once more, her head canting off to one side as she
takes in the sudden interest. "Yes- quite a while, actually. Several hours, honoring and beseeching
each aspect of Mother Night, while bleeding into a bowl for the sacrificial urn. I even sang a
little, too," she adds, a soft bubble of laughter emerging from her lips. "My throat was sore for a
week." Her eyes linger curiously on your a moment longer before slipping away. "This surprises you?"
she ventures.

Rhalkyr stares at Illyria with a degree of keen interest that would, to most, reach
far into the realm of the unsettling, given the fey hunger that sets his violently green eyes to
glittering. It is a peculiar, textured thing, though, different from the predatory intent which is
typical of his attention, albeit no less ferocious in its own way. "Yes!" The admission is
unabashedly enthusiastic, the hulking manrocking back and forth in small, swaying motions, so great
is his excitement. "Did not, think, would sing, or dance. Always, quiet, always, still." This time,
despite the mask, the crinkling at the barely visible corners of his eyes leaves no room for doubt -
he is /beaming/ beneath the carved, immobile surface, fairly radiating a pure, blissful joy. "Will
sing, for Rhalkyr, yes? Dance, yes? Yes?"

Evette doffs a dapper, silver-banded black felt hat cordially.

Illyria begins to answer, then pauses to smile and incline her head to Evette. To you, she simply
says, "Yes. If you'd like."

Uncharacteristically, Rhalkyr pays no attention to Evette, or to anything at all,
save Illyria, before him he fairly bounces with unrestrained excitement. "Yes! Will, be good. Very,
good. Yes. Yes." Fidgeting with overflowing energy, he abruptly rises, placing his fingers against
the underside of Illyria's jaw in a fleeting, light touch, before he bounds up and away into the
trees, disappearing from sight.