An Offer, And Guidance

You reach out and gently brush your hand against a delicate veil of shadows. Your senses suddenly
dull as you feel yourself pulled into the entrancing darkness. As your senses return, you find
yourself beneath a beautiful night sky.
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.

Pulled through the veil, Rhalkyr steps lightly upon the ground within the fulcrux,
taking but a single step forward before he stops, angling his head back to stare upwards. He remains
thus for a span of time that stretches onwards, undisturbed and unmoving, save for the gentle swell
and contraction of his bare chest. His eyes, for once, do not dart and flit about like a maddened
animal, but remain focused and still upon the wondrous expanse of Night, glittering like rain-soaked
leaves catching the light of the stars on a clear evening.

The image of the night sky grows terrifyingly dark as an icy breeze cuts across the lonely hill,
spiralling patterns dancing across the tall grass.

Eventually, Rhalkyr stirs, and pads his way up towards the tree, his predatory gait
loose, his pace languid. As he moves through the swaying strands of grass, he turns his hands so
that his splayed fingers brush against the verdant tips, whispering against the tough skin as he
goes. Coming before the blackthorn, he settles into a cross-legged position, his back resting
against the bough of the tree. Leaning his head back, dark golden hair swaying in the chill breeze,
he lifts his left hand up and over his shoulder to press a palm against the blackthorn's bark, eyes
lidding closed. Raising his right hand, he curls his fingers inward, and begins to tap out a silent,
rhythmic pattern over his heart.

Kneeling humbly, you press your palms together before you and close your eyes momentarily as you
pray devoutly to Nocht, the Silent, "Strand by glimmering, delicate strand, his mindscape is woven
into place - A savage, tangled snarl of primeval jungle. The Night sky is drawn down stiflingly
close, as a chill blanket of richest, blackest velvet. The shadows through pervade the twisted
wilderness are dense as wells of ink, and through them quiescent predators slink soundlessly. A
frigid wind blows sinuously through the boughs and branches of dark silk, soundless even as it stirs
the leaves to gentle swaying in its passage. Softly, then, words come, delivered in a rumble so
quiet as to be little more than the barely perceptible shiver of distant thunder. "Silent One. Have
gift, and question." A spectral claw of sullen orange and burnished bronze, banded in black, unfurls
like the petals of a lethal flower, claws glinting with terrible promise. Bared upon its palm are
two conjoined motes of light - one orange and bright with optimistic effulgence, the other a muted,
forestal green and brown. "Offer, debt. Favour, won. Gurashi, Cheliyi. Swore, on love, for dear one,
and daughter, to uphold. Bound. Yours, if wish it." The two spheres drift upwards in a spiralling
ascent, born upon a chill wind into the fell embrace of the ebon firmament. A rose of purest black
coalesces within the very heart of the jungle, silken petal glittering with cold dew, thorns
glistening sweetly. "Beauteous One, gave task. Discover, origin, of Greev. Believe, Silent One,
knows many, secrets. Ask, direction. Price, for guidance, information. Would not, disappoint Her." A
long pause, and then a more temperate breeze flows through the leaves, carrying upon it the scent of
fresh, light, blossoms, though of an indistinct origin. "Seek, to coax, two flowers, from
Serenwilde. Elexia. Illyria. Would strengthen, Glomdoring, and steal, from Serenwilde, its strength,
and beauty. Advice?" A withdrawing of the presence, allowing true silence to reign unchallenged as
the jungle fades away, leaving in its stead the pure, utter darkness of Night.".

Inhaling a sudden, deep breath, Rhalkyr's eyes flit open, and he lowers his hands
to rest upon his thighs, staring out across the shifting grasses. Blossoms decorate his form with
delicate grace, alighting upon his immense shoulders and hiding from view the rough, wicked barbs of
dark loam. As he shifts, rising to his feet, they flutter from him to spiral downwards, drifting in
a bittersweet dance of shed beauty, pulled only so far in the bestirred currents of air that he
leaves in his wake. Soundlessly, he weaves his way to the veil, and passes once more from view.