The First Strand

You carefully watch your footing and shimmy down from the treetops.

Arcane Library.
The shadowy outline of a twisted forest casts a dark gloom here. The smell of incense and candle
-smoke is engrained into the very being of this room. A tall table stands in the centre of the room,
a thick oak slab covered in melted wax and ink stains. Papers are rolled up on its surface, many in
the process of being written. All around the walls stand tall bookcases, filled to the brim with
ancient books and scrolls. A small window provides the only light, shining down onto the wooden
floorboards through glass panes covered in dusty spider-webs. A library catalogue rests here on a
pedestal. A library catalogue rests here on a pedestal. A wicker rocking chair sits comfortably
here. A low, wine-red velvet couch stands here, its elegant frame fitted with plush, pillowy
cushions. You may use the LIBRARY commands here.
You see exits leading east (open door) and in.

The canopy bends and twists, as if making way for something yet unseen. A flicker of the darkness,
and then She stands before you. "Tell Me what you wished to hear from Me, child," the Goddess
utters.

Arcane Library.
The shadowy outline of a twisted forest casts a dark gloom here. A library catalogue rests here on a
pedestal. A wicker rocking chair sits comfortably here. A low, wine-red velvet couch stands here,
its elegant frame fitted with plush, pillowy cushions. Viravain, Lady of the Thorns hovers here,
shrouded within an ambiance of unnatural darkness. She wields a wickedly curved scythe with both
hands. You may use the LIBRARY commands here.
You see exits leading east (open door) and in.

Slowly, the shadows that hug Lady Viravain's figure stretch outwards, filling the room with their
umbral filaments, like vines stretching in every direction. She steps forward, Her feet not touching
the ground, and then the corners of Her lips twist into a terrible smile.

In the midst of reaching to the shelf for a book, Rhalkyr freezes in place, the
muscles of his back twitching in a cascade of ripples that sends the painted stripes adorning his
skin to writhing sinuously. Immediately, he goes to tilt back his head, baring his throat, but
hitches in the act as his vividly green eyes flit to Viravain, and stick fast. A faint, somewhat
strangled sound shudders from his throat, before he manages to tear his gaze away.

Rhalkyr lifts a hand to tap his fingers upon his breast, rapping a staccato rhythm
over his heart. "Beauteous One. Guidance, on the Glomdoring. Would make, stronger. More, alive.
Feel, it is quiet. Somnolent."

You think to yourself: The inner landscape of his mind, the sprawling jungle of woven spidersilk and
nebulous shadow, goes berserk at the appearance of the Divine. A cacophony of animalistic sounds of
every form erupts in a detonation of rapturous joy, accompanying a confused, writhing tangle of
feelings that bite and rage for dominance. Desire, love, reverence, awe, wonderment, pride and a
thousand other riotously intense emotions, melding and clashing in a maelstrom of thought.

Stepping lightly forward again, Viravain glides in a slow arc around you. As She moves, Her
footfalls cease, allowing instead for Her figure to move through the air like a feather on the wind.
"You speak of the Glomdoring as if you do not know who I am," She replies, the terrible, feral smile
still etched across Her face. "Do you find Me to be somnolent? Tired?"

Viravain drops Her scythe to the ground, holding fast to the bottom of the shaft so that the blade
drags along behind Her. "Or do you mean to ask Me how you can help My garden to grow?"

The nearly unnatural stillness of Rhalkyr's form melts away as swiftly as frost
coating the bough of a tree before the radiance of a terrible dawn, his head twisting about to keep
Viravain within range of his vision. Despite this, he makes no move towards Her, though his fingers
twitch and shiver in Viravain's direction in continuous, minute spasms. "No. Violent, with life,
Beauteous One." A further lift of the chin, to bare a greater expanse of bronze skin. "Refer, to
mortals. Wish only, to help. Anything, for You. For, the Glomdoring."

You think to yourself: The pounding of his heart thunders in his chest like the brutal beat of a
vast drum, a rapid rhythm that is alive with adrenaline as blood surges through his veins. A
feverish commingling of reactions flares and bursts with each word gifted from Divine lips, though
strangely, despite the danger he is very much aware of, there is not even a drop of fear.

Viravain's expression softens so that it's unreadable. She slows Her arc and then stops altogether,
and then She leans heavily on the scythe, Her head tilted. "I see," She replies, Her voice pleasant
and nearly mortal in its timbre -- low, coming directly from Her mouth. "And you sought My counsel
on how to improve upon My already perfect creation?"

Tilting Her head further, not unlike a crow, Viravain continues, "Mm? Is this what I am to
understand from your prayer?" This time, Her voice drifts toward you from everywhere at once, as if
the sound were echoing toward you from along the strands of a web.

A tiny, downward jerk of his head accompanies the immediate, unhesitating response
of, "Yes. Always, improving. Change." Rhalkyr's voice is deep, a grinding, ripping thing, more akin
to the slow, torturous rending of a great tree than a normal voice. The shine of his eyes is a thing
alight with joy, of such an intensity as to brush sensuously at the borders of madness.

Viravain replies, Her expression still yet unreadable, "And you wish for Me to tell you how to do
this?"

A very slight thinning of Rhalkyr's eyes meets this question, a subtle shading of
wariness colouring the vibrant green. "Wish, to tell, how /You/, would have, it done." He gestures at
himself with his left hand, the motion deliberately slow, as if mindful of provoking a violent
reaction. "Tool, for garden."

Viravain lifts Her scythe into both hands and then steps toward you. When She is so close Her body
nearly touches yours, She whispers, Her voice coming from Her mouth, "Be ever the spider, Rhalkyr."
The tip of Her scythe lands against your shoulder, blade touching your neck. "Never the fly."

Viravain allows the blade to dig itself deep enough to draw blood before continuing, "Your first
task for Me will be to discover the origins of the Greev. I trust that will not be a problem for
someone as clever as you." She withdraws Her scythe and smiles Her terrible smile again. "After all -
- you to help the Glomdoring, you sought out its Creator. Surely one as bold as yourself can do
anything, mmm?"

Viravain reaches out to tenderly cup your cheek in Her hand.

Coiling sinuously about Her petite frame, stygian shadows cloak Viravain in an unnatural darkness
and evanesce into the aether, leaving behind only the faintest scent of roses.

Viravain, Lady of the Thorns has bestowed Her divine truefavour upon you. It will last for 5 months.

The proximity sends the fingers of his left hand to flexing in slow, quivering
curls of powerful digits, Rhalkyr forearm trembling as he stares at Viravain - a low, quiet rumble
shuddering forth from his chest, upon which he still beats a rhythm with his right hand.
Unperturbed, it seems, by the blade that kisses his throat, he listens in rapt silence, staring,
always staring. The touch elicits a lidding closed of his eyes as he leans instinctly into the hand,
despite the barrier of the mask that separates Divine flesh from mortal - Though once the Divine
vanishes, his eyes snap open again, flitting rapidly about, searching, seeking - finding nothing. To
the air, he says one simple word, the single syllable infused with an unshakable certainty. "Yes."

[[Likely entirely unrelated, but it was too cool not to include!]]

A living darkness wraps itself around the Glomdoring Forest like a cocoon of power falling from the
sky just above it. "I am pleased, My Forest," emanates the beautiful voice of the Summer Song. "Bear
My favour well." The cocoon swells and then shimmers with pale shadowfire before collapsing inward,
filling the canopy with a creeping lambency.-