Prayer to Li-Varili

Waterlogged in a narrow cavern.
Sloshing underfoot, standing water floods the cavern floor, fed by an unending trickle that weeps
down the sheer stone surrounding this lonely mountain recess. Diffuse, haunting prasine mists linger
with strange luminescence just above the stagnant pool, coiling longingly toward a curtain of
fireweed blossoms draped over the farthest wall. A faint breeze whistles from some indeterminate
source, tracing over dappled blue pectolite that ripples in veins where it crests over duller rock
in silky patches of erosion. Despite the constant stir, a briny stench hangs in the air,
accompanying a pervasive clamminess that clings and chills.
You see exits leading east and through a tangled curtain of fireweed blossoms.

You step into the sanguine pool and approach the curtain of fireweed, gingerly parting a stalk woven
with flame-red blossoms aside. The tangles ensnare your hand and set your skin aflame with numerous
stings but it is too late to withdraw. The curtain is drawing you inwards, consuming you within its
dark and lush depths. Momentary darkness gives way to light as you are cast out into a sultry
lagoon, your body covered in crimson moisture.

The Fulcrux of Li-varili.
A comforting feeling of privacy pervades the area. Captivatingly aquamarine shallows rest in
preternatural stillness, secluded amidst this sultry, tropical lagoon. Beneath the water's crystal
surface, visible roots stand unburied and upright, arching into mangroves like cages for the sinuous
shadows intermittently threading between their aquatic bars. These spindly trees both shelter and
protect the intimate space beneath their lushly snarled canopies, their boughs dripping with woven
veils of tender fireweed blossoms, petals wafting a grassy scent into the saltwater air. As the
forest finds purchase on sandy soil about the perimeter, its trunks cluster more thickly together,
forbidding exploration with treacherous footing - and forging a dark, claustrophobic prison out of
its labyrinthine overgrowth. A coarse island shrine rises from the centre of the shallow pool,
bromeliads bursting about it in glorious adoration of the Lady of the Lagoons. Drizzled with
hazelnut syrup, a small layered tiramisu cake lies on a plate here. Doubled over upon itself,
elegant great robes lie here. A painting of Sins of the Fly has been thrown on the ground here.
You see a single exit leading through a tangled curtain of fireweed blossoms.

A small island rises from the lagoon's glassy waters, nearly flush with its otherwise unbroken
surface. No visible path leads toward its centre; instead, bromeliads crowd out the way with
sublime, rubescent splendour, their vibrant bracts stained as though with blushes - or spilt blood.
Vying for prominence, they stretch toward a pale shrine that interrupts their plush and untamed
garden at its very heart. There, several blocks of rough coquina stack atop one another to form the
altar, broken seashells encrusted in the fossilised debris, menacing wandering fingertips where they
jut amid those discs which have survived the churning of other waters and their waves. Sunk into the
uppermost slab, a black glass bowl withfluted edges makes a shallow basin for offerings.

Suddenly disturbing the waters, a menacing shadow vanishes deeper into the gloomy shade of
mangroves.

Freeing himself from the grasping tendrils of the fireweed curtain, Avaris jerks
his wings up and away from the last strands that trail down along his feathers with languorous
sensuality, marring the pristine plumage with streaks of red - Many of which fall from the stylised,
eye-like markings that adorn his wings, giving the unsettling impression that they are weeping
blood. The kephera's myriad eyes track across the lagoon, his manner wary, his posture vigilant.
With each abrupt motion that stirs the still waters, his armoured fingers stray towards the blades
that hang scabbarded from his hips - but the pointed, golden tips never quite reach the lacquered
surfaces. Wading through the obfuscating shallows, the huge figure is as out of place as a visitor
from another world, so mismatched is his aureate, angelic mien. His inexorable march brings him to
the shores of the lone island, the fringes of which he steps upon, so that he studies the shrine at
length, expressionless.

Kneeling humbly, you press your palms together before you and close your eyes momentarily as you
pray devoutly to Li-varili, Lady of the Lagoons, "[Wary silence precedes a guarded presence making
itself known - Armed with the polite, distant manner of a dignitary sent to negotiate on
unfavourable ground.] "Lady Li-Varili. I expect that You have been inundated with a great many
voices already, and while I am reluctant to add my own to that aggravating clamouring for Your
attention, I feel that I must. I am Avaris. I request an audience with You, should You deign to
grant it. I desire nothing of You, save for an exchange of words. If You are amenable to such, I
shall be waking regularly for a few months, after this one. Until next we meet."".