Communion

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "Good evening, Rhalkyr of the Summer Wood!"

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, ""The brief sensation of surprise is swiftly followed by a watchful silence, which lasts for a long beat before a voice, ragged and torn as the tearing of dry bark, speaks in a peculiar, halting cadence." Lady Myeras-Silvermoon. Evening. Did not expect.

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "I pray that the chill of winter's bite has not been too strong for you?" Her bell-like voice echoes across the  aetherways, bright without a hint of guile. "Here, the woods are heavy-laden with the snow, but I cannot recall if I've seen how your Wood bears winter."

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, "Wetly. Much wind, slipping in, to steal warmth." A pause, and then the voice turns a touch sour." Very wet.""

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, "Enjoy snow, or prefer sun?"

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "In truth, I prefer the sun!" Her reply comes quick. "I'm always eager to greet the snow as it comes, and its beauty is enthralling, but ah! How it collects on my wings! It makes flight a greater challenge."

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "And yourself? is there a season you favour?" Her question is sincere, curious. Her presence lingers for a brief moment, as if waiting for the answer. "You spoke so warmly of autumn, but is there a season which is its better for you?"

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, "Sun is best. Little better, than basking under light of gold, suffused, with gentle warmth." In contrast, his own response is slow, measured, but the bass grinding of his tone is distinctly warmed as it speaks of the sun." Mm. Wings? Flight, in snow, seems a risk. Better than jumping, tree, to tree, and slipping." A beat, and then a dryly amused note." Painful lesson." Once more, a burgeoning of the fond warmth that crackles in his voice like a sparking fire." Mmh, autumn. Most favourite. Summer, is good, also - Lounging in sun, in trees. Favourite, for you?"

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, ""Spring, it must be spring!" She declares in turn, her words carrying along with them her effervescent energy. As she continues, her rate of speech grows more rapid. "Oh, to see the snows finally relent and recede, and then for my Dearest Lady's blooms to rise and unfurl their vivid petals! There are few sights so captivating.""

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, "The unrestrained enthusiasm elicits a low, rumbling sound, the pulsing, ragged noise threaded through with mirth. "Very certain. Good." A sense of languor, as a great cat curling up, entirely at ease." Wax poetic, for me. Tell me, of 'Dearest Lady'. Sing of love, for Spring. Will listen."

Draping himself across the slick branch languidly, Rhalkyr flicks a glance at the passing shadow, before settling in, eyelids lowered so that only the barest slivers of vibrant green are visible within the mask.


The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, ""I speak of the Lady Maylea, She who is known as the Bloom of Serenity, and also the Sword!" Adoration and respect mingle as she speaks the Elder Goddess' name. There is a pause, for just a moment, before her pace once again begins to accelerate. "Every flower in the Basin of Life was awakened by Her gentle guidance. When Spring was pale and lifeless, She brought it such vivid colour by listening to the very spirits of the flowers and coaxing out the truth therein! Whenever the Spring comes, and I see them arrayed throughout the Wood, I am ever-reminded of Her.""

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, ""/Every/ flower? Even rose, black as Night?" The response is mild, unhurried, though there is the sense of acute intent behind the mental presence." Why, the Sword? Your Lady, is also warrior?" A slight pause, the silence thick with consideration, and then, curiously; Vivid colour. Serene Bloom - Responsible, for bright hues, of autumn leaves?"

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, ""She bears Her weapon when there is need," comes the reply, the demidivine's rate of speech ebbing back to its original flow as she continues. "For She dances upon what life brings, and bends with the wind when She must." There is pause, a considering of your question. "I'm not certain if it was She, or another! I've only heard of Her painting the blossoms, and shards, so I imagine autumn owes its hues to Another! But, perhaps I shall have to ask Her!"

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, ""Sounds, of good sense, your Lady. Pliant sapling, survives storm's wrath, when proud, stiff oak, does not. Adapting, is good. Change, precious, vital." A languorous sound, as one might make when exulting in a particularly satisfying stretch, and when he resumes speaking, it is in a languid manner." If answer is granted, share, if allowed. Would enjoy knowing. You speak with Her often?" A pause, as he contemplates this." Have not heard Divine voice. Describe sound, of Lady's voice."

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "Her voice..." She repeats the word, then allows it to hang in the air. Her consideration is quiet and deep as she searches for how to reply. Then, at last, she responds gently but deliberately, "It is
alive. Strong. When She speaks fondly, the warmth is like a blanket wrapped about one's shoulders. And when someone draws Her to act, the power in her tone is enough to make the greatest quake." There is a another pause. "To Her own, it is motherly. Sweet, nurturing... But not lax, either. She helps each of Her own grow to fullness.""

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, "There is a prolonged silence, though it is far from an empty one - each statement and notion is considered with great intensity, the thoughts examined from many angles. A vivid image of a feline shape that prowls about in a stalking, elliptical pattern, eyes of flaring green fixed upon that which holds its interest." Love for your Lady, very deep. Speak of Her, as a beloved mother. Speak, often? Know Her, well?"

The Fulcrux of Nocht.
The image of a beautiful nighttime sky has been stretched across the fulcrux. Dim stars
struggle futilely to compete with the terrifying beauty of Mother Night. The ethereal
image wavers on occasion, the sky rippling like water in a pond. A lonely hill covered in
tall grass leads up to a single shrine. Behind the shrine stands a large blackthorn tree.
The tree is taller than most of its kind, extending upwards rather than outwards. Delicate
blossoms shower down from its branches, creating a flurry of white petals and filling the
air with the pungent scent of wyrden foliage. A complex series of stones orbit around a
stygian orb here. A rippling image of a beautiful night sky has been magically wrapped
around the fulcrux here.
You see a single exit leading through an image of the night sky.

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, "There is a prolonged silence, though it is far from an empty one - each statement and notion is considered with great intensity, the thoughts examined from many angles. A vivid image of a feline shape that prowls about in a stalking, elliptical pattern, eyes of flaring green fixed upon that which holds its interest." Love for your Lady, very deep. Speak of Her, as a beloved mother. Speak, often? Know Her, well?"

Rolling a densely muscled shoulder in a slow, loose motion, Rhalkyr surveys the Fulcrux with darting eyes, the vibrant green of his gaze flickering about so rapidly they seem never to rest. Turning his masked face up, he regards the dark sky above him in mute appreciation, attention flitting from one dull star to the next. He remains thus for a prolonged period of time, still as a statue cast in bronze, with only the feverish gleam of his ceaselessly roaming eyes betraying his animated nature.

You think to yourself: Within the confines of his mind, a vast and tangled jungle of primal glory - made distinct from that which might be found in the real of reality by the manner in which the flora is spun from gossamer strands of subtly hued spidersilk. The wild expanse is almost quiet, save for a constant background chorus of animalistic chittering, muted growls, and the susurration of creatures moving through the woven undergrowth. The sky that hangs above it grows darker, heavier, drawing down until it seems almost as if one could reach up to brush their fingertips across the veil of midnight.

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "We do." She answers, unflinchingly beneath your examination. "And, I have found, that She is always watching. It is possible She may be listening even now!" Then, however, there is a pause as she mulls over your second question. Finally, she says, "I know Her well, I would say, among mortals. She has raised me from when I was quivering and weak, and drew out the strength that was within. I've come to know much of Her, but I know that there is much more to learn yet." There is wonder in her voice as she says. "She has been through so much. I know enough to know that I haven't heard but a fraction of all that She has seen in Her many years."

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, ""Mmrm." The sound is like distant, rolling thunder, a deep and shuddering sounds of contemplation. "Always, something watching. Unused, to eyes of a Divine. She listens to all? Or stalks Her flock, to keep safe, from hungering jaws?" If the notion of a potential Divine eavesdropper perturbs him, there is no sign of it, for his words maintain their lax, curious quality." Much praise, for Goddess. Speak of Her, as the Glomdoring, of Lady Viravain. Would hear, someday, tale of meeting. Why, Lady Myeras-Silvermoon, such interest, from Her?"

Padding forward soundlessly, Rhalkyr moves towards the shrine, the long grass whispering against him with each ascending step he takes upon the hill. Coming to a halt before the shrine, he crouches down to rest upon his haunches, forearms draped across his knees, hands dangling loose. Tilting his head back, expression obfuscated by the predatory mask he wears, the huge figure regards the blackthorn tree with interest, feverishly bright gaze tracking over every inch of bark and twisting branch. Lifting his right hand, he taps at the broad expanse of his chest, loosely curled fingers beating upon his heart in a noiseless, staccato rhythm.

Kneeling humbly, you press your palms together before you and close your eyes momentarily as you pray devoutly to Nocht, the Silent, ""Silent One." The voice of the supplicant is a torn and rough thing, deep and ragged as the tortured splintering of a mighty bough twisting, breaking beneath immense pressure. Despite this, the sense of the mind behind it is deceptively complex, an intricate wilderness of tangled vine and branch woven from glimmering webs of spidersilk, cast in the deep shadow of a sky dense with textured darkness." Request guidance. Would know, what You wish, to strengthen Forest. Concerned. Are too few. Sedentary." A sense of zealous, fierce passion, a brief flare of intensity that is swiftly replaced by a sense of still watchfulness, as something stalking from the shadows." Am young. Weak. Will grow. Will do, as You wish. Asking, also, Lady of Thorns."".

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "I would be honoured to tell you of how I came to Her, sometime." She readily replies. However, at the mention of the Lady of Thorns, something flickers across the aetherways. It fades quickly, like a cloud passing before the moon in its fullness. Tension, resolution, defiance. When she next speaks, her tone is light once more, "When I first came to Her, I was uncertain of many things. I knew not who I was, not truly, I spent time being blown this way and that by life as if by a tempest's gale." Another pause, brief. Her pace does not hasten this time, and a wistful fondness clings to her words. "When I was not Hers, She took me in, gave me instruction. She did not tell me who to be, but She helped me find myself. And now, I am whole. I am new, yet old, for I am who I always was but did not know. And I am strong. For this, and Her generosities, and so many other great deeds..." Her voice trails off. "I think what draws me closer still is realizing that this painting, like She has done for me, is part of who She is. This glorious, and beautiful painting She does." Another pause. "I hope to be able to aid others, as She has me."

His communion complete, Rhalkyr lowers his hand and in the same, fluid motion, rises and twists about to make his way back down the hill, stalking through the grasses as naturally as any pathway. Without so much as a single glance backwards or hesitant step, he approaches the exit, and departs.

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "I would be honoured to tell you of how I came to Her, sometime." She readily replies. However, at the mention of the Lady of Thorns, something flickers across the aetherways. It fades quickly, like a cloud passing before the moon in its fullness. Tension, resolution, defiance. When she next speaks, her tone is light once more, "When I first came to Her, I was uncertain of many things. I knew not who I was, not truly, I spent time being blown this way and that by life as if by a tempest's gale." Another pause, brief. Her pace does not hasten this time, and a wistful fondness clings to her words. "When I was not Hers, She took me in, gave me instruction. She did not tell me who to be, but She helped me find myself. And now, I am whole. I am new, yet old, for I am who I always was but did not know. And I am strong. For this, and Her generosities, and so many other great deeds..." Her voice trails off. "I think what draws me closer still is realizing that this painting, like She has done for me, is part of who She is. This glorious, and beautiful painting She does." Another pause. "I hope to be able to aid others, as She has me."

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, "The shift snatches the attention of lambent, intensely green eyes as surely as the shadow of a passing bird, tracking the sensation unerringly. What reaction there is, is as difficult to discern as the stripes upon a tiger's flank when dappled in the obscuring shadow of a sheltering canopy at night, the slivers of argent moonlight revealing only glimpses of black barbs and sullen orange - along with the faint sense of intensified, acute attention, as sharp as the curve of an ivory claw. "Would enjoy, the hearing of it. A fine tale, to weave." In a casually speculative manner, he continues." Shaped much, by Her subtle hand. Clever gardener, knows to coax, to nudge. Makes for fine flower, though. Am curious. What shape, the maybe-Elexia, if had sprouted, in another garden?"

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, ""Had I been Another's," she starts, but with a perceptible shift in tone. Were she as open as a book before, it was as if the tome had been suddenly closed. Guarded. "Then I would not be truly myself." She declines to elaborate, instead asking, "Your own Divine, those of the Dark Wood." Her words regain some measure of their earlier liveliness, but no longer blithe. "What do you think of Them?"

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, "The wary drawing down of shutters elicits only a further relaxing in the man's mental presence, as unruffled as a cat lounging in the sunlight. His reply is mild, the words almost drowsy in their delivery. "Think, perhaps, that maybe-Elexia, would say same, of you." An unhurried consideration of the question, a sliver of saturated green regarding something small darting about nearby. "Not mine. Gods, of Summer Forest, belong to none. Know little of Them. Have not spoken. Not heard. Not seen. Only stories.""

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "Perhaps she might. I did, after all, once belong to Another. There are as many perspectives as there are shards," she chimes, wary but unshrinking. "But while many perspectives can bear fragments of Truth, they are not equally so." With scarcely a pause, she remarks, "I have met the Elders of the Summer Forest. And, I have met with some of Their own, on occasion. Yes, a different perspective, to be sure. I believe these matters can be weighed by the fruit they bring.""


You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, ""Many perspectives, give false impressions. Fail to grasp, truth, unless eyes see, from correct vantage. Tale of Vine, and Blind Men." A brief focusing of intent, as attention falls more fully upon you." Another? Thought you, of Blossom's garden, only." A long, rippling sound of mingled contemplation and luxuriation." What weight, judge you, this fruit, in your hand?"

The Fulcrux of Viravain.
A comforting feeling of privacy pervades the area. Thick, lacy filaments of glistening web
cling tightly to the surfaces of the walls. Jagged rocks of many sizes cover the ground,
these too covered in the same delicate strands as the walls and low hanging ceiling. The
faint babbling of a small stream echoes through the chamber as the sweet, hypnotic scent
of roses lingers in the air. Settled within the branches of an ancient and skeletal tree
roosts a murder of crows, their voices harsh and deafening as their caws peal through the
air. A cracked mirror floats in the air. Black roses glitter from the stems of this thorny
bush. A painting of From Clouds to Shadows has been thrown on the ground here, the frame
bound by silver webbing. A painting of Sins of the Fly has been thrown on the ground here,
the frame bound by silver webbing.

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "With the Other, I saw a poor yield of meager offerings. Not spoilt, but wanting. But now?" There is a sense of satisfaction. "Full. And every work of my hand, every expression I have woven bears testament." Then, her own curiosity returns, as if she were listening with full attentiveness. There is no judgment in her voice, nor disapproval as she asks, "What do you make of your tah'vrai?"

Stepping through the crazed surface of the mirror, Rhalkyr moves with purpose, stalking towards the crow-laden tree with predatory intent as he weaves about the cruel teeth of rock, unerringly avoiding disturbing so much as a single gossamer strand. The sole sound as he approaches is a light sniffing as he samples the intoxicating scent of the roses, his head tilting aside as he flicks a glance at the barbed, black bush. His focus flits back to the tree as he approaches, whereupon his flows down onto his haunches, staring fixedly at the bough before him. Ignoring the raucous chattering and its source both, he is silent for a long time, and very still. Eventually, he gradually leverages his right hand up to tap his fingers upon his breast in a short, staccato rhythm.

Kneeling humbly, you press your palms together before you and close your eyes momentarily as you pray devoutly to Viravain, Lady of the Thorns, ""Beauteous One." The voice upon which the prayer is borne is as an animal's snarl, contorted into the rough shape of recognisable words, and ill-fitting in their civility. The rhythm of the speech is jagged and halting, with frequent pauses between words, and those of multiple syllables are bitten apart so that they are strung together only by thin strands of sinew and pacing. The mind from which they jerk forth is, upon first brush, perfectly suited to such a brutish vocalisation. A primeval jungle, a tangle of twisted branches and snaring vines, cast deep in shadow beneath a sky rich with Night. Upon deeper examination, however, each curling root and fluttering leaf is spun from finest gossamer, the spider-silk suffused with hues to trick the eye into seeing that which is not truly real. Throughout, unseen creatures bound and creep by turns, each fairly thrumming with predatory hunger - until they grow perfectly still, and a perfect hush falls across the mental landscape. "Would ask You, for guidance. Say this, with love, with reverence." The truth of the words is made apparent by the brief drawing back of silken vines, an unveiled glimpse into a feverish passion that goes far beyond the merely devout." Am concerned. The Forest, sluggish. Qui-esc-ent. Often, few wake. Less act. Would stir, to growth. Would see Forest, painfully alive. Will do, Your will. If cannot do, now, will grow strong. Grant knowledge, Blackpetal."".

Grunting, the ragged sound difficult to discern the intent of, Rhalkyr rises lithely and turns, padding his way to the mirror, and exits.

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, ""Wanting." The word is said slowly, more smoothly than the other mangled, bitten-off attempts at communicating - almost as if he is tasting it, rolling it about the tongue. "How? Did not nourish? Was not, to taste?" A flicker of something that might be amusement. "Full. Do not always, eat for /fullness/. Tart, not for fullness. For pleasure. Savour. Tasteless morsels, can gorge upon. Can still lack, in nourishment." A shifting of attention, a pulse of curiosity, like a summer breeze rustling dry leaves. "In what way? Multifarious.""

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "I speak of the harvest, and I've not met a shard who prefers the meager harvest to the full one. A curious sentiment, wouldn't you say? The more hale the plant, the better its yield." Her answer is simple and matter-of-fact. "Do you find merit in dwelling among the sickly trees and their shriveled produce, over seeking greener and fresher climes?""

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, ""Met those, who prefer lean meat, to fatty, I think. Healthy flesh, from strife, from action. Less coddling the animal, better its meat." A low, slow sound like the gradual tearing of dry tree-flesh, but rhythmic, pulsing. Laughter, after a fashion. "Trees, are strong. Strength, over delicate form." Again, that quiet sense of amusement. "Is not the Glomdoring, that has borne bitter fruit.""

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "But of course, Nature does not coddle. And this is why the health of the plant, or the animal, is of such import. Why a full harvest portends a long life, and scant branches are an ill omen," Again, her tone is pragmatic. "Strength is needful, and not exclusive with beauty. But strength is not unlike perspective. There is true strength, and there is not. In terms of mere brute force, after all, are not the greatest the Soulless? And yet, all of their might is ultimately to nothing. They would eat, and never be full, and would leave nothing in their passing." Again, the curiosity returns to her tone. "Do you believe this sort of might to be truth?"

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, ""Speak of harvests, and Nature. Is not of Nature, to harvest. Requires coddling, husbandry. Yoking. Wild trees thrive, without." While not quite so lax as before, the voice is nonetheless calm, measured in is peculiar cadence. "Strength, is many things. Muscle and claw, fang. Unity of purpose. Loyalty. Knowledge. Passion. Intelligence. What, to you, is strength, Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon?""

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "A harvest requires not a farm. When they are in season, I strive after the fruit-bearing trees of the Wood. Though tended by no hand, how ripe and wonderful their fruits! And so, I harvest them, as they are, and am fully satisfied." She considers your list with interest, and then answers you with but one phrase. "The Way of the Blossom." There is a faithful certainty in her tone. "My time to return to my meditations for this Moon grows nigh, but I have found this talk quite interesting. It reminds me of another of your Wood, and the discussions we have shared." There is a light chuckle - almost fond. "Perhaps we may continue this talk when we next sense each other's presence in the Basin, Rhalkyr of the Summer Wood.""

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, ""Have enjoyed, this exchange. More bite, to you, than expected." Rather than a complaint, there is a sense of genuine pleasure at the thought, and unmistakable approval. "Look forward, to hearing of this other. Of Blossom Way." A beat, and then, he adds. "And reply to letter. Would know, if enjoyed gifts. Hunt well, Lady.""

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "When I next return from my meditations, I shall be sure to answer your letter with one of my own! Go with Winter's blessings, Rhalkyr."