Promise Made, Is Promise Kept

The branches tremble slightly as an unnatural silence settles across the library.

You have emoted: Rhalkyr's eyes thin minutely at the sensation carried through the soles of his bare
feet, his toes flexing upon the bark as he lifts his head in a gradual motion, gaze flitting about.

You suddenly hear a voice in your own thoughts - soft and whispering with an eerie emptiness to it,
as if it had been hollowed out. "Did you learn much from Xenthos, little one?" Sounds slowly return
to the branches, but an oppressive feeling lingers, causing them to droop.

You have emoted: All motion in Rhalkyr's hulking form stills utterly, save for the subtle expansion
and contraction of his chest. The lids of his eyes shut slowly as a slow, soft breath hisses forth
from between his unseen lips. Carefully, his right hand moves slowly to hover over his breast, the
loosely curling fingers tapping gently upon the dense muscle in a soundless rhythm.

You think to yourself: "Enough, for now. Can proceed." The silken, shadowed jungle of the mental
landscape grows still at the presence, all sound dying out, all motion ceasing. "Silent One, yes?"

Soft voices murmur from the shadows that cling to the branches in agreement to your question.

You have emoted: The silent drumming of Rhalkyr's fingers continues unabated, the gentle motions
keeping time with the steady beat of his heart.

You think to yourself: A complicated admixture of sentiment at the confirmation, a riotous amalgam
of ferociously thrumming joy, shining pleasure, burning pride, and a tiny, glimmering mote of
relief. Most of all, there is a fathomless well of respect, of adoration. "Gratitude. Received
prayer, take it. Guidance?"
-
Fleeting footsteps echo in the distance growing fainter with each passing moment.
-
The voice continues in your mind, its empty tone gently brushing away other thoughts to assert
itself. "Hmm... Yes. You have big worries for one still a child even by a mortal's view. Did he calm
them? Or do you still fear a weakness has taken root in the Glomdoring?"

You have emoted: Rhalkyr's left hand shifts minutely, resting upon the koi-patterned letter, which
sits again atop the book cradled upon his lap.

You think to yourself: The touch of the voice brings quiescence, a receptive silence in which the
words are afford total concentration. The reply is considered for a time, the words weighed
carefully. "Even young, have eyes. Have mind. Elders, can grow complacent." Another long, thoughtful
silence. "Too passive. Believe the Glomdoring, will languish, without action. Too few. Too lax.
Dangerous lassitude."
-
The scent of wyrden plant life wafts past your nose, carried by a straying breeze.
-
The scent of wyrden plant life wafts past your nose, carried by a straying breeze.
-
The presence of the voice seems to ebb as you consider your response. The lingering shadows twist
along the branches, slowly winding along them like vines as you number your concerns, and as you
finish the presence blooms once more. A soft, whispering voice fills your mind, "And will you use
those eyes, that mind, to correct those flaws you see, little one? No matter the suffering or time
demanded?"

You think to yourself: The response, this time, is immediate, an absolute certainty as deep and
solid as bedrock. "Yes."
-
A nearby tendril of shadow reaches out, snatching your hand and holding it aloft. "Is that a
promise, little one?"
-emote offers no resistance whatsoever to the grasping, atramentous tendril - though the sudden motion
 sends a rippling series of twitches across every inch of his form.
You have emoted: Rhalkyr offers no resistance whatsoever to the grasping, atramentous tendril -
though the sudden motion sends a rippling series of twitches across every inch of his form.
-think Again, that unflinching resolve, a steady and solid conviction. "Yes. Promise this, to You."
You think to yourself: Again, that unflinching resolve, a steady and solid conviction. "Yes. Promise
this, to You."

The tendril twists wildly as the promise is spoken before dissolving into the air like wisps of
smoke, and releasing your hand.

You have emoted: The fingers of the abruptly vacant hand twitch reflexively, as if to close upon
that which is no longer within their grasp. The hand hovers aloft for a time, before Rhalkyr lowers
it to dangle from across his knee.
-
The scent of wyrden plant life wafts past your nose, carried by a straying breeze.
-
"Hmm... I am interested to see what you do, little one." The voice blooms once more in your
thoughts. "And since you have been so fascinating I will offer you both guidance and a warning - Do
seek out Dearest Viravain or one of Hers. Manteekan's as well if they still wake. No child of the
Wyrd grows alone. Seek out those who will help you grow, and make you strong. The weak can only
serve the Wyrd with their corpse. The strong can do much more, and the Wyrd will bless them for it
in turn."

You think to yourself: "Have sought out, Beauteous One, already. Will await Her word, for guidance,
also." A contemplative pause, in which the lambent eyes of hidden, predatory creatures stare out
with a peculiar blend of ravenous intent and reverent regard. "Will do this, Silent One. Will become
strong. Will find, others. Will /make/ others strong." The multitude of nebulous predators lift
their heads as one, baring their throats by the thousands. "Gratitude, for guidance, Silent One. If
desire, anything, inform. Will try, to provide."
-
Though the tone of the whispering voice remains unchanged, there is a tinge of something else
alongside it in your thoughts - disgust? Anger? Sadness? "And a warning to watch out for those who
would try to, in their mind, save you from this long, hard path... Soothing words, false compassion,
unthinking kindness... There are many temptations, little one. Comforts that the Wyrd does not
grant. For now, I only have one desire..."

You have emoted: Rhalkyr's fingers brush unbidden across the letter they rest upon, a minute gesture
that coaxes forth a gentle rasp of callous upon paper.
-
The air stirs violently for a moment, and you sense a presence immediately behind you - some
unspoken command forbidding you from turning back to look. An overwhelming floral scent fills the
air as you feel a set of icy fingers curl around your shoulder. The soft, empty voice whispers, this
time in your ear, "Do not break your promise to Me. I cannot tolerate those who break their
promises..." And with that the presence vanishes, the unrelenting gloom that lingered over the
branches vanishing with it as well.
-
Nocht, the Silent has bestowed His divine truefavour upon you. It will last for 3 months.

You have emoted: Rhalkyr stiffens reflexively, every muscle in his back growing abruptly taut enough
to stand out in sharp relief upon his broad form. The shoulder beneath the chill touch is a clenched
mound of subtly quivering tension, though the youth makes no move whatsoever to so much as twitch
from where he crouches. A slight inhalation of the cloying scent is swiftly followed by a sharp
expulsion of air from his covered nostrils, seeking to dispel the scent.

You have emoted: Gradually, with all the wary, glacial wariness of a cautious cat, Rhalkyr relaxes,
gripping the tome and letter tightly as he slinks forward, turning about on all fours to twist at
the waist, vibrant, feverish green eyes darting about in search of any lingering presence. Finding
none, he settles back onto his haunches, lifting his masked face to bare his throat in a gesture of
silent vulnerability, tapping out a noiseless beat upon his heart. This done, he turns his attention
to the letter, and opens it, whereupon he begins to read.

You think to yourself: "Promise made, is promise kept." As the physical form returns to its previous
state of repose, so too does the inner wilderness of his mind. Predators creep forth, stealthily at
first, then more boldly once the lack of welcomed, intrusive presence is made apparent - and in
short order, the jungle of woven spidersilk is once again in a state of uproarious life and
activity.