Memories

The statue of Lantra, the Lady Mediatrix shines with soothing light as an immaculate stone basin
slowly fills with luminous waters from the Font of Fortitude.

"Drink," a calm, feminine voice echoes through the chamber, "and know of Hope, and that strength
which refuses to be extinguished by despair."

The luminous, sparkling waters bring a calm clarity to your mind as you receive a vision of the Lady
Lantra:
"Thax! That is quite enough!" Meridian thunders, rushing to your side as you scream in pain. Like
all Hamadhi, you were meant to learn the art of warfare and study it alongside the Seconds so that
no more healers would be ambushed in the Elder Wars. When Thax had charged towards you with His
spear, though, the loathing in His eyes was unmistakeable. "You tasked Me with teaching Her," He
sneers, wrenching His blade from your shoulder. "Is She so weak as to be unable to bear the lesson?"
Thax had called you that before, hadn't He? Weak. You cradle your wound, glaring up at Him as anger
courses through you like holy flame. After the other Hamadhi have tended your injuries and you
return, Thax is nowhere to be seen. Instead, it is Hajamin who greets you to spar. Neither of you
speak of the incident, but when He asks you to wield a weapon, without hesitation you claim the
spear. You will master it, as you have mastered all other pain. You swear it.

Avaris's fingers curl upon the basin with such force that they creak in protest,
the chitin grinding against the stone as a baleful, bloody red flares and throbs through each of his
markings, his antennae stiff and trembling.


You think to yourself: Rage, thick and powerful as the swell of mighty currents, a sharp, glinting
light of fury as he revisits the imparted memory, over and over, weaving the sensation into his own.
Only when it is so firmly knitted in his mind as to be inseparable from the fabric of his mind does
he allow himself time to process the thoughts. "The spear? I had not known She used any weapon at
all - I do not recall seeing any iconography depicting such. It is good, that She is strong, in body
as She is in will, and heart."

You think to yourself: "When I grow to the fullness of my potential, She will not need to take up
the spear again. I will be Her weapon."

Avaris's grip upon the rim of the basin eases, as he lets out a slow breath.

You think to yourself: "The other Fonts await."

"Drink," a calm, feminine voice echoes through the chamber, "and know of Faith, and that which
guides a purposeful existence."

As the waters quiet, an immaculate stone basin vanishes in a flash of blessed light, returning once
more to your hands.

You take a long draught of water, hoping to quench your thirst.
The luminous, sparkling waters bring a calm clarity to your mind as you receive a vision of the Lady
Lantra:
You concentrate upon the familiar scent of moss and you chant your healing words before the stone
altar; in response, vines flower over the stone and the domothean crystals pulse with auron
energies. Hajamin winces, but you reassure Him: "It is a shallow wound." Even so, healing one of the
Golden Circle is a task the Firsts entrust to few; to fail here would be to lose that trust. "My
blade hesitated," Hajamin admits, to Himself more than you. "Hunting the wild Half-Formed is... a
task I do not relish." His eyes implore you for penance, for He is not like Shikari, who glorified
in the bloodshed and the slaughter. Your heart breaks for Him. "Not all suffering can be avoided,"
you say gently. "But at least I can spare yours."

Holding the basin within the threefold cup of all his hands but his upper right,
Avaris lifts his free one to brush across the gleaming white of his armoured breast, head lowering.

You think to yourself: "Ah, my good Lady. Such capacity for kindness. Your heart is fit to eclipse
the Sun and stars. You are beyond me, in this."

The statue of Lantra, the Empyreal shines with muted light as an immaculate stone basin slowly fills
with luminous waters from the Font of Wisdom.

"Drink," a calm, feminine voice echoes through the chamber, "and know of Truth, and that which
pursues knowledge with humility."

The luminous, sparkling waters bring a calm clarity to your mind as you receive a vision of the Lady
Lantra:
You can sense Elfenhoala behind your healing mound; the Goddess's pity is cloying, unbearable and
infuriating. "Lantra, I heard what happened to Rhapsody," She whispers, tenderly taking your hands
in Hers. As if Her touch is fire, you shove Her away to resume your work. "You shouldn't be here,"
you say, drawing your veil close. "If you are not of the Hamadhi, leave." A harsh silence falls
between you. The moment Rhapsody's name leaves your lips - the moment you allow Her loss to become
real and tangible - you will be useless. In that moment, you will be broken, and no one will be able
heal you. You have seen grief enough to know this. "You've changed, Lan," Elfenhoala murmurs at
last, withdrawing. You see the pain and concern shining in Her bright eyes but acknowledge neither.
"Yes," you agree softly. "The war changed all of Us." The loss of a friend stings in its own way,
however quietly.

The feathered banners of Avaris's antennae wilt, drooping listlessly to drape back
across his thick ruff, the azure teardrops of his eyes deepening to a sorrowful, rich blue.

You think to yourself: A more complicated tapestry of emotions, this time, a complex array of grief
for a heart not his own, of sorrow - and the thin, razor-fine strands of shining, silvery anger at
those that wounded Her so deeply, that took from the world, from Her, something so precious. As each
layer falls into place, it coalesces into something hard and unyielding, a coldly gleaming surface
of polished argent metal - He would keep such harm, such grief, from Her. She has suffered more than
enough. Better, by far, that he be the one to be wounded in Her stead.

Looking upon the statue of the Empyreal, Avaris studies Her form for a long time,
his expression inscrutable. He takes a single step forward, so that he stands with an arm's reach of
the sculpture - and extends a hand, as if to lay it upon Her shoulder in a gesture of...Comfort?
Solidarity? Companionship? Whatever possible sentiment he intends to convey is lost, however, as his
hand slows, hovering above the cool surface without ever touching. At length, he withdraws, and
lowers his head, before turning.

The statue of Lantra, the White shines with immaculate light as an immaculate stone basin slowly
fills with luminous waters from the Font of Purity.

The luminous, sparkling waters bring a calm clarity to your mind as you receive a vision of the Lady
Lantra:
Mother names you Lantra, and says that you were born to restore that which would be broken in this
world. "Where there is death," She tells you, "there shall always be life, too." She does not ask
you to follow Her, and yet Her song is irresistable, compelling you across the planar sheaths to
witness the birth of thousands upon thousands of Star Gods. Many Elders stay to watch Their siblings
be born, but Their interest fades once Mother leaves Their creche for another; of those who remain,
few watch as intently as you. You Elders who follow Dynara to the far reaches of the world become
kindred spirits, tasked to understand the balance between all things. You call yourselves the
Hamadhi.

Avaris contemplates the memory in silence for a span of time that stretches on in
silence, his faceted eyes lowered to look within the basin, though they are turned within.

You think to yourself: "Kindred spirits..." A memory, withdrawn from the vaults of his mind with
great care, and held before his mind's eye as a pane of artully crafted, stained glass - A card, of
sorts, depicting Her within the Fulcrux, effulgent with Divine radiance as She looks down upon a
kneeling form with a benign, beatific smile - the curve of Her lips small, soft, but not weak. Never
that. "I wonder, beloved Lady, are we kindred spirits, now? Does our anger resonate, the desire for
purity, for the Light? Or do I fool myself as a lovelorn sop does, twisting simple kindness into
grand imaginings to prop up the heart?"

Avaris sets the basin within the awaiting hands of the statue with a depth of
reverence to beggar even the most zealous priest, his touch tender, his head dipped with quiet
respect.

You think to yourself: "I know You a little better, now, my Lady. Every glimpse You grant me of
Yourself is a gift - and I treasure them, one and all. Thank You, from the depths of my heart."