Opening Offer

Message #114 sent by Illyria (received: 2021/06/28 13:53:13)
   Greetings, Avaris. I had wondered.. would you care to sit with me a while and talk again? No
topics of places and politics, simply of you and of I. I would like to get to know you better, and
if you share the desire, it would be a pleasant thing, I think, to speak once more. You could pick
the spot this time, or I could bring you to my very favorite place- one that brings a balm to the
hurts of my soul.

You tell Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell, "[Subdued and quiet, numbed in the manner of
a man still reeling from some grave blow.] A balm would be...Appropriate."

The soft voice of Illyria tickles your ear, "[Gentle surprise at both the swiftness of the reply and
the mien in which it is delivered, but rather than any sensation of probing, there is an instinctual
one of soothing, like the cool touch of a calm hand on a fevered forehead.] Would you care to
teleport to me?"

Clarion bells ring out, infusing you with stern, steadfast duty. With a deliberate, clear mind, you
bring Illyria's visage to the forefront of your concentration.

The stern clamour consumes you as you stride determinedly forwards.
A glade of shifting shadows.
Arms of white smoke unfurl lazily, carrying away the sweet aroma of herbs from a healing shrine of
Shikari nearby. Here a natural circle of trees grow strong and proud overhead, their interwoven
branches a web before the sky above. A curious phosphorescent moss creeps up the trunks and low
branches of these trees, and the ground as well is speckled with tiny luminescent mushrooms,
pinpoints of soft white light reminiscent of wildflowers in any other copse. The dull bluish green
glow cast by the fungus is joined by the heavy seeping shadow which accompanies any amount of light.
The spindly shadows creep and shift across the ground, swaying and shuddering with the branches
above, dipping at intervals into deeper pools of coal black, brushing across the ground and tree
trunks. In the centre of the glade a large round orb of stone has been placed, the cold grey surface
under the perpetual caress of shadow. Casting darkness all around, a shadow totem thrusts up from
the ground, chilling the air. A rowan sapling clings tenaciously to the ground here. Trailing
swirling eddies of flower petals, the evanescent form of a nimble dream phoenix lingers here, wings
made of lissome shadows cascading behind her. Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell is riding
on a crepuscular dream phoenix with wings made of lissome shadows. She wields an athame dagger in
her right hand.
You see a single exit leading southwest.

His immense weight causing the large, cruel curves of his talons to sink into the
earth as he steps onto the soil, Avaris's pale antennae swivel about with a weary alertness as he
takes in his surroundings. As pale as something adapted to dwell in the stygian depths of some lost
cave system, and with the dull light of his eye markings muted to a faint glow, the wan kephera
looks almost suited to the environment as he stands, cool and remote - But visibly wearied. The
burnished gleam of his shining carapace has been tarnished, no longer lustrous, the pallor reflected
in the hue of his wings, which for all the world look like a layered cloak of dead, pale leaves. He
says nothing.

Sitting beside the stone orb, surrounded by the gentle luminescence of tiny pastel mushrooms, the
sound of bells raises Illyria's eyes from the puddle of fabric in her lap to you as you enters from
the aether. She lays both cloth and needle down onto her legs, the dark silk blending into the
aphotic folds and swathing shadows. The soft smile on her face wanes somewhat as she takes in the
kephera's changed appearance, replaced by an unalloyed concern. "Avaris," she greets quietly, her
catlike pupils thinning as her eyes trail over the faded lines of the formerly lustrous and aureate
paladin. Not questioning, the faeling simply reaches out to a spot beside her on the cool, loamy
soil. The sweet scent of healing herbs wafts through the clearing, lofted by an unhurried breeze
that stirs the feathery shadows of her shroud and sends curling eddies through her cloudy wings.

You think to yourself: His mind is cold and sharp, keen blades of light drawn in on themselves
protectively - But they are faded, and flickering. From within, a severely muted pang of heartache,
of loss, and a longing so potent as to bring a titan to their knees.

A slight, courteous dip of Avaris's great, insectoid head is his sole reply to
Illyria's greeting, the washed out azure of his eyes somehow seeming shallower, without the depth of
their former hue. His footfalls are not gentle, and they are far from silent as they beat upon the
ground like mauls of chitin, tearing up the earth in his wake as he makes his way over to the
indicated spot. Still, he says nothing, offering Illyria only silence as he lowers himself to sit.
Not, this time, with legs crossed, but with one drawn up in an arch, and the other stretched out
before him, limp and lifeless.

The faeling's head turns to follow the progress of the subdued kephera across the clearing, looking
well up even when you is fully seated. The fingers of one of Illyria's hands twirl a bit of silk
around her fingers, feeling the texture of the half-embroidered hem as she studies you with faint
consternation. The searing brightness of the disfavoring light that limns you pales the ground
around him with its brilliance for a short distance, save where it butts up against the tender,
adoring shadows that caress the faeling and is repelled. After several long moments, her delicate
hands move once more, a gleaming silver needle moving in and out of the tenebrous gossamer in tiny,
neat stitches. Softly, she begins to hum, a nearly inaudible melody, haunting and wistful. With a
little flip of fabric, the other end of the scarf is tossed to sprawl lightly over your outstretched
leg, and she studies the extended length. "Mm.." she whispers. "Needs more flowers on this end, I
think."

The mellifluous quality of the faeling's soft humming washes over Avaris ,soft and
soothing as cool, dark waters upon scorched flesh. His antennae flicks towards the scarf as it lands
across his leg, followed by the bleached blue of his sevenfold gaze as he studies it for a time. His
lower right hand lifts, drifting over to brush the flat of his chitinous palm across the silk, his
touch as light as a whisper. When he speaks, it is not quite a murmur, but barely so - Quiet as a
thief in a church, and lacking in any of its former music, discordant and dissonant. "Roses, I take
it."

Glancing up, a ghost of a smile touches Illyria's eyes at the comment, fading away just as swiftly
as it came. She picks up her end and lifts it up closer to your gaze, to better see the tiny,
intricate embroidered violet flowers. "Belladonna," she corrects, her voice a hushed and lightly melodic
murmur. "A lovely flower, with a poor reputation. Mishandled, it is deadly- but such is the case for
any medicine. And nightshade can be a powerful medicine indeed." Laying the lacy end of the scarf
back into her lap, she begins to stitch another minute star-shaped blossom, a soft laugh falling
free. "I just find them pretty." Pausing and reaching over, she adjusts and straightens the other
end with a hand, tilting her head to study the result, then resuming her soft humming.

The proffered end of the garment is given due inspection as Avaris shifts the angle
of his head enough to study it with the three eyes that stud the left side of his visor, antennae
drifting aside in the breeze. In a hollow, distant tone, he echoes, "Mishandled. Indeed." Clearing
his throat in a rasping vibration of sound, he faces forward once more, motionless as a ruined
sculpture, a statue of a paladin reclaimed by the patient grasp of nature. "Yes. They are pretty."

The healing incense mingles with the dainty floral scent of roses as the calming breeze picks up
again, twisting the branches of the treetops and sending the deep shadows dancing joyously over the
clearing, defying the stark brightness around the kephera and draping cool shade throughout. In the
silence, the whisper of silk and thread mingles with the gentle humming for some time. Eventually,
when Illyria stops to study her progress, however, she shifts her gaze back up to you, soft and
sincere concern in her voice as she murmurs, "You are wounded, paladin." Tentatively, laying the
needle into her lap, she outstretches her hand and lays it lightly along the surface of one of your
near arms.

You think to yourself: "Wounded? Yes. I am that."

The paladin does not react at all to the revelrous cavorting of the shadows within
the glade, though whether that is because Avaris is indifferent to them or if he simply does not
notice is unclear. The touch elicits an immediate reaction, though it is a slow one, as his head
turns gradually down to stare at the small, feminine hand upon the hard plating of his arm, a
strange aspect to the regard. He does not seek to remove Illyria's touch, as he lifts his gaze once
more, his chin dipping in a tiny nod of affirmation. In a detached, almost conversational manner, he
asks, "Do you notice anything missing, Reader?"

Letting her hand fall away to tuck back into her hand, Illyria turns partway, taking a more careful
look through the near-painful lambency of the disfavor. A frown creases her brow lightly as her eyes
roam lightly over the tarnished form once more, but when the absences are noted, genuine sorrow
floods her gaze. "Oh, Avaris..." she breathes, her voice breaking slightly. A thousand words come
and go on her tongue, unspoken, halted before leaping from the cliff of her just-parted lips. She
speaks no meaningless reassurances, makes no accusations, requests no clarifications. Rather, the
faeling simply sits a bit closer, her nearer leg a bare centimeter away, taking a bit of the edge of
harshness of the light away with the comforting shade of her presence, and simply listens, waiting
for whatever you may choose to impart- or not.

The fracturing note of empathy, or sympathy, or perhaps pity - Whichever it is, it
causes Avaris to draw in upon himself, the armoured planes of his carapace shifting as he hunches
his shoulder instinctively. His lower left hand twitches in a truncated, spasmodic motion, a
habitual gesture cut brutally short, its path to the pierced hole of his hip's chitinous plates
terminated as he flattens his palm down onto his thigh with a sharp snap. He makes no effort to draw
away from Illyria, but nor does he strive to close the gap between them, instead clasping his hands
very deliberately together atop his outstretched leg. "I no longer have Her light within my heart. I
am..." He struggles visibly, antennae writhing as he inhales slowly, steadying himself - Though his
voice wavers even so. "It is very dark."

The serenity of the glade is unbroken, calm and peaceful, the thick canopy filtering the morning sun
to a gentle, shady ambiance. Illyria watches you compose himself with aching eyes. Leaning to the
side, she gently plucks up a delicate mushroom, its blue-green luminance understated but readily
visible in the shadows of the dense trees. "There are all sorts of light in the world, Avaris," the
faeling whispers, leaning forward to place it atop your plated knee, where the muted inner light is
drowned by the harshness of the Divine one. "Some of the most beautiful ones can only be seen in the
dark. Find those lights, and navigate by them." She lapses back into silence, picking up the end of
the scarf and studying it. With a sound of contemplation, she lifts the violet thread to her lips
and nips it with her teeth, severing the end and freeing it from the needle.

The mushroom is grasped between the deadly points of Avaris's immense fingers, the
faded gold forming a cage about the soft fungus in a delicate fashion as he lifts it up to inspect
it. Studying it for a time, its gentle light eclipses by the pervasive, overwhelming fury of the
stark, sidereal luminescence that emanates from him, he remarks, in a quiet, empty voice, "It is a
very feeble light."

With a minute shake of her head, Illyria watches the mushroom lift upward. "Gentle, yes. Feeble, no.
It is an inner light, and will not be quenched. If you crush it between your fingers, it will still
glow. No lack of air will starve it, no water quench it. It does not sear the eyes, but it does not
need to." The faeling's fingers find another of the ethereal fungi that pepper the glade like
wildflowers, plucking it up and twirling it lightly in front of her eyes as she studies the delicate
vane and its elegant cap, like a graceful and lambent bell. "It is a different sort of beautiful,
and a quiet sort of strong. And in the darkest hours, when any other light would blind and
disorient, they guide." Gathering the dark silks into her lap, she hums a soft sound to herself,
consideration played out in melody. "When one first steps away from a fire, they will not see such
lights as these. So, too, are your eyes still dazed. But when you adjust... you will find things
such as these to orient yourself."

Avaris's gaze remains focused upon the mushroom as Illyria's gentle words wind
about him, quiet as tendrils of dark ivy coiling about an ailing oak. With a glacial, inexorable
curling of the fingers that grip the mushroom, he forms a fist, the slow application of pressure
almost mechanical in nature. He stares at the fungus as it is squeezed with a clinical lack of
passion, the soft glow of its innards forced out between the seams of his chitin. "Is that what you
did?"

With a little tilt of her head as she watches the slow destruction of the mushroom, Illyria
considers the question, framing it in the context of her words. "Is that how I guided myself, you
mean?" Within her own fingers, she lightly crushes her own fungus to a soft, lightly glowing blue-
green paste. Taking a scoop of it onto her fingertips, she swipes a narrow stripe of it across each
cheekbone, then down the sides of her neck, and finally to her hand, drawing patterns upon the back
of it as she turns the inquiry over in her mind. "I guided myself from a place where I was miserable
to one where I have found love, family, and purpose using those small signs, the soft glow of
meaning, yes. But equally, those shining harsh, well-meaning spotlights of overbearing exuberance or
unyielding judgment seared my flesh and pushed me into the comfort of the shadows, as one seeking
relief from a burn. And they never see the harm they cause, in their zeal and conviction that their
brightness is the only right way to be." She exhales softly. "I hope for your sake you find those
small, soothing lights that guide you to a place or state that brings you happiness, whatever and
wherever that may be. And that those who wield their joy like a blade do not cut you down at the
knees while you heal from this wound."

Watching Illyria's self-anointment with the remains of the lambent fungus, Avaris
lifts the slick paste of his own up for inspection, considering it for a time. With a minute sound
of negation, he lowers it to one side, striving to wipe the pulped mushroom from the armour of his
fingers, to little avail. When his hand comes away from the vegetation, a coating of the eerie glow
clings to him still, slicking the faded chitin with a gentle light that is flooded out, bleached by
the harsh glare of Divine displeasure. "Happiness. Where do you think that is, for me?"

As Father Sun dips closer to the horizon, the shifting shadows within the glade grow longer and
longer, dark tendrils reaching out. ((<-- Nocht purple))

You think to yourself: The existing sense of closed-off, weary guardedness intensifies, mental
defenses drawing in tighter still at the burgeoning of the shadows. "It is just shadows. Nothing
more."

With thoughtful eyes, the shadow-wreathed faeling looks up to the sky, where the last crepuscular
brushstrokes give way to the depth of night. Leaning over, she reaches into a pouch leaned against
the stone orb and retrieves an oddly quiescent shred of shadowy essence. With utmost care, Illyria
stretches and spread it in her hands, pushing it down and into the cloth of the scarf. She climbs to
her feet and loops the scarf over your shoulders, the shade dimming the harshness of the light where
it touched, cool and soothing. "Happiness for you..." she muses, her eyes lifting to study the
glade, softening tenderly as the night blossoms fully. "You're a protector, Avaris. It's somewhere
you have something to safeguard. There are many places that might be."

The fine material of this exquisitely sewn scarf is dyed a deep,
gossamer black reminiscent of the cloak of the Night Spirit herself.
Thinner than the average scarf, the garment is decorated with skilfully
embroidered nightshade blooms along its entire length, each flower
spanning the scarf's width. Each blossom is depicted in a rich violet,
the edges of which have been expertly blended into the dark background
as though the flowers were slowly emerging from the darkness, lessening
what might have been a stark and offensive contrast of coloration. The
fringes of the scarf are adorned with a lace trimming, providing an
elegant touch to this comely article.

The faded paladin watches the manipulation of the shadow essence with a strange,
morbid fascination, Avaris's hands twitching in the direction opposite the substance, so placid as
it is subjected to Illyria's gentle ministrations. He does not resist as Illyria drapes the umbral
garment about his spiked shoulders, the silken fabric flowing into place between the thrusting,
spired halos of his pauldrons like ink. A clawed hand rises to touch the scarf tentatively, the
gesture uncertain. Lifting it between forefinger and thumb, he rubs it between the dense chitin of
his digits, as if testing the texture. "A protector? What have I protected, Illyria? Nothing. I had
dreamed, all my life, of being Her knight." A soft, bitter laugh, echoing oddly with the discordant
resonance of his voice. "A child playing with silly daydreams."

The shadows suddenly tremble, rising up from the forest floor like tendrils of smoke. "It is never
'just shadows', child. I am always watching" a disembodied voice whispers, its tone empty and
echoing. The rising shadow-smoke seeks out Avaris, slowly encircling his bulky frame in appraisal.
"Your prayer to Me sounded so confident, and yet here you are in the Glomdoring looking quite
defeated and cursing your dreams. Curious..."

You think to yourself: A shining spear of alarm, bright and terribly brittle, shatters against the
unfeeling walls of cold inevitability, leaving shards of numbed, flickering feeling in its wake.

Even standing, the tips of Illyria's antlers hardly come even to the seated paladin's eyes. She
looks up and into them, beginning to answer, then glances over her shoulder and falls silent,
turning to stand alongside you with a head tilted to catch the words. The faeling blinks at the
mention of a prayer, looking over her shoulder and up at the kephera, mutely questioning even as her
fingers reflexively flex toward the draw of the shadows that aris.

At the stirring of the shadows, Avaris stiffens, the bleached, bone-white curves of
his antennae snapping up as he shifts into a stance that provides a better foundation for sudden
movement - Drawing his foot back and leaning his weight forward, his right hand, coated yet in
fungal slime, splayed upon the ground at his side. The approach of the umbral smoke sends his lower
left hand question for his hip, the fingers grasping briefly at empty air, and faltering, before the
hand falls away, limp. In a cool, composed tone, all glittering edges, sharp and brittle as frozen
glass, he replies, "I am confident in what I said to You."

The tendrils of shadow swirl around Illyria next, beckoned by something unheard - they weave their
way around and over her, forming a twisting arbor of darkness. "And greetings to you, My little one.
Your... guest believes he has something that I want. I cannot help but wonder for it appears he's
paid a heavy price for it already." The echoing voice trails off into a riot of incomprehensible
whispers before a single voice murmurs from the branches once more. "I know the cruelty of your Lady
well, child, but tell Me.. Why has She cursed you? And what do you have that you think I would
want?"

With a quiet contentment at the brush of the living shadows all but radiating from the faeling,
Illyria turns partway to face you, open curiosity melding with renewed concern, though the direction
of the latter is less clear than it had initially been. She folds her hands lightly atop one another
and lets them lie in front of her, her eyes vividly alert as she listens and observing, waiting with
equal attention for dismissal or call to action as the curling breeze rustles the treetops around
them.

There is a flat quality to the faded azure of Avaris's seven natural eyes, lacking
in luster or apparent depth as he regards the shadows, his demeanour remote, cold as the ashes of a
dead star. As the shadows wend about Illyria, wrapping about the faeling in an embrace a mocking
juxtaposition to the harsh, searing light that limns the sharp angles of his own form. Rising, his
motions lacking in smoothness or grace, he pushes himself to stand, towering like a monstrous suit
of abandoned armour, a hollowed out beacon with no light of guidance burning within. "I was too
eager to prove my love for Her." His reply is curt, and does not invite further discussion on the
topic. To the latter question, however, he tilts his head in Illyria's direction, though he does not
look upon her - Even the dull, stylised eyes of his wings are focused entirely upon the living
shadows. "You trust Your darkling child enough to speak of such things before her?"

You think to yourself: A painful, searing flash of hot envy at the silent contentment that emanates
from the faeling at her Divine's presence, at that loving proximity.

The whispering voice can be heard in the swaying of the branches, "You think you hold something I
would wish to hide from Mine? Even more curious, child... I hope you will not disappoint."

Avaris's reply is level and almost without inflection. "I have a habit of doing
precisely that. We shall see if the trend can be broken."

The trees surrounding you tremble as their branches droop towards Avaris, as if in anticipation.

Illyria simply waits, utterly silent save for the whisper of silk and feather as the breeze tugs
upon her garb. Her own eyes are fixed on you, weighing and wondering.

Unyielding before the shivering, eager attention of the trees, Avaris makes no move
to produce any item at all, his jaw tilting up at a defiant angle. "I am not simply going to hand it
to You. I will have a price from You, in exchange."

Illyria's eyes narrow slightly as she studies the tarnished paladin, and she takes a minute step
backward, frowning slightly.

"Ah. It must have been your manners that caused your Lady to cast you out. She was always so...
particular." the voice whispers, a hint of disinterest creeping into its empty tone. "You come to My
forest broken and battered and try to dictate the terms of a bargain without demonstrating you have
anything of value? You stray dangerous close to offense, mortal. Ponder upon yet another failure,
and how you may avoid it in the future..." and with that, the divine presence seems to withdraw - a
faint brightness returning to the glade.

You think to yourself: "And hold out a prize, so that it might be snatched away? No. I do not think
so, Silent One."

The resumption of muted illumination pales in the cold, burning glare of white
light that Avaris endures, bleaching the subtle shades of their inherent hue and rendering the
vegetation about him wan. In contrast to the sickly pallor of the kephera himself, however, even
these seem riotous with verdant life, as he stands, back rigid. After a time, without turning to
face her, he addresses the faeling, stating flatly. "You withdraw."

Very dryly, Illyria shakes her head once. "It is very difficult to see all of you at once, as you
are very tall. I step back, so that I may peer contemplatively at your face better." Still, the
faeling's faint frown does not fade away fully. "When we spoke, you referenced the events of the 9th
of Dvarsh, and betrayals. You -knew- of what happened there. What makes you think He would may any
sort of bargain without even knowing what He was bargaining for, especially in light of that?" Her
voice is quizzical, as if trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle.

You have emoted: The manner in which Avaris lowers his gaze to face Illyria is as gradual as the
rolling of a cold droplet of rain along a sloped branch, his visored visage unreadable as he studies
Illyria. "You evade me yet again. I see you, Illyria. Do not think I do not." He lifts his hand,
gesturing towards himself with a negligent wave of inward-curling claws. "I am not a Divine. He has
no reason to balk at a compact with me. What harm could I possibly inflict with any price I
extracted from Him?"

Illyria exhales, touching her fingers to her forehead to rub the base of one antler. "I do not evade
you with intent, Avaris. But you are not stupid. There are things one may ask of a God that would do
immense harm. Things that would empower His enemies, things that would undermine Him. It would be
stupid to agree without knowing. Merchants do not sell bread for undisclosed payments, why should a
Divine trade unknown favors? My Lord is cautious, as He should be."

The angle of Avaris's ridged, sharp jawline shifts as he tilts his wedge shaped
head, studying Illyria quietly. The layered voices with which he speaks are cold, clear, and
deliberate. "I will have my price from Him, Illyria. It has cost me all that I loved to acquire
this, and I will have my recompense."

Illyria leans forward, her eyes intent. "He did not say He would not pay. He said you had not
demonstrated you had anything of value. All I am saying is that there is absolutely no baseline of
trust to work with here, under which you might be able to veil your hand. If you wish to deal with
him, you must lay your cards on the table."

The laughter that bubbles up from Avaris's chest is slow, the thick welling of tar
as it seeps between the cracks of stone, black and mirthless. "Veils. I do not deal in veils,
Illyria. He will not lay His cards on the table, as you phrase it. Do you really think He will
just...Give me a fair price in exchange, without some fight? No. I think He will try to get what He
wants by paying as little as possible."

Raising a brow, the faeling lifts her hand and tangled the tenebrous edges of the shadowed shroud in
her fingers, twirling them lightly. "Why not name your price," Illyria suggests sensibly, "and He
will decide if He wishes to make that exchange, that what you offer is worth it? If there is
something specific you desire and will accept nothing else, it rather simplifies things."

Silence drapes Avaris like the tenebrous scarf that winds about his shoulders as he
considers this for a time, antennae shifting and flowing with subtle, sinuous motion. "I do not know
if He has anything of equal worth to give me. That puts the power too much in His hands, and He has
advantages enough as it is." A whisper-thin thread of amusement touches his words, dry as a desert
at sundown. "Forgive me if I am wary of your advice, when it is clear that you would have matters be
in His favour, rather than mine."

Illyria shakes her head minutely, the charms swaying with the motion. "You want this to be a risk
-free exchange, and you don't even know if if can be." Exasperation touches her tone, mild but
present. "If you do not even know if He can grant your desires, what is the point of dangling the
bait? Why not find out?" She exhales, then softly ventures, "So how would -you- wish this to go,
ideally? Walk me through it."

Avaris passes a long, plated hand through the air in a dismissive arc. "Not risk
free. Merely minimised as much as it can be. No interaction with a Divine is free of risk. I know
this better than most." Regarding Illyria reservedly for a time, he lifts his left shoulder in a
modest shrug. "The purpose of bait is to see what bites, Illyria. That is precisely what I am doing.
I do not know what the waters contain, for they are dark and murky, but I know there is something of
value in there." At the last question, he breathes a faint, vibrating sound of amusement, shaking
his head minutely. "No, I do not think so. I shall see how it proceeds."

Avaris lifts his chin, indicating the forest at large. "Will you teach me of why
you dwell in this place, next we meet?"

Illyria simply lifts her hands, then lets them fall. "As you wish. But do not be surprised if what
bites if something that takes off a limb. Some waters are unwise to poke your legs into, especially
with meat attached to them." Turning to look around at the dense trees and shifting shadows, the
white pinpoints of bioluminescence speckling the dark between them like constellations, she nods. "I
will," the faeling says quietly. "I hope, for your sake, you know what you're doing, Avaris."

An indifferent rise and fall of his shoulders, his immobile face impassive as a
stone wall, Avaris's voice unconcerned as he replies, "I have been bitten before, and swallowed
whole. Yours is not the first Divine I have come away from bloodied and broken, and He will not be
the last." At the acquiescence of his request, he nods, stepping back as he unfurls the vast expanse
of his wings, forming an immense screen of feathers that are as pale and lifeless as dead leaves.
"There is no hope in this, Illyria. Only will." With this, he erupts from the ground in a detonation
of displaced air, whipping the wind into a brief gale as he surges through the thick canopy above in
a cacophony of snapping branches, leaving a flurry of forest detritus and fallen plumage in his
wake.