Wisdom of the Waves

A sea breeze wafts about you, stirring the branches of the willow and spreading ripples through the
pond. "And do you still seek clarity, Avaris of the Empyreal?"

Avaris stirs, antennae snapping up as he turns his head about, alert, before
settling upon the pond. He bows to it, bending at the waist. "Always, Lady."

You think to yourself: This is the Sculptor, surely.

"Then if you would have My opinion on the Wyrd and New Celest's alliance, hear this: the alliances
of shards are ephemeral as sea foam, and as shifting as the sands upon the shore. Nor is there any
alliance that the City of Light might form that is without risk, for those shards who see clearly
the path to walk, and value the waters as they should be valued come to the city of their own
volition. Any alliance will seek to shape the City of Light in its own image, as the City of Light
seeks to draw its allies to its beacon." The ripples spread more rapidly. "Tell Me, Avaris of the
Empyreal, what do you know of the Wyrd's creation?"

Maintaining the bow with practised ease, Avaris listens with acute attention to the
words, the crimson sweep of his antennae twitching faintly with each. "I know that it was born of
the tainted Gloriana, Lady. That the Lady Isune and...The Thorned One altered it, warping it into
something subtly different."

"It is a new thing, as We see such things. Born from the compassion and artistry of a Goddess of New
Celest." The ripples upon the pond freeze, holding their poses. "And in its creation, it brought Her
such grief that She could not bear to remain among the pantheon of the City of Light."

You think to yourself: A pang of blue sorrow, tinged at the edges with the red, sullen embers of
distant anger. "Ah. The Wyrd has brought much misery upon the world, even without touching it
directly. I mourn for You, good Lady. I hope that Your grief eases, and You find Your way back to
us."

Avaris dips his head in a small nod of acknowledgement, the lustrous ring of fluff
that forms a halo about his neck drifting and stirring in the breeze, gentle as thistledown -
Contrasting with the subtle light that bleeds into the crimson markings upon his wings, the faintest
blush of anger suffusing the "And so, I have little love for the wyrd, or for those who dream of seeing the Inner Sea purpled and
the kelpies bound, much as I have rejoiced in many of the other creations of She once known as the
Wings of Compassion. Whether it is an incomplete work, or simply a failed one, I know not." The
ripples spread once more, almost in a shrug.

You think to yourself: A flash of images, memories - The mangrove, the boggies. The supposed allies,
the Wyrden, aiding the nereids, when it is painfully obvious that that is the wrong course of
action. The toil of aiding the boggies, in turn, and the bittersweet feeling of seeing them freed
and in their natural, beautiful forms - But knowing that it is but a temporary reprieve.

Avaris is silent for a time, the inverted teardrops of his eyes dimming to pools of
deeper blue. "I had imagined that You would not approve of it, Lady, but I did not dare presume. I
do not understand how New Celest can see such blatant acts of corruption and not be repulsed." He
lifts his upper right hand, gesturing out towards the sea with a sharp, stabbing motion of pointed
fingers, heat suffusing his layered voice. "They saw the Wyrden 'allies' working with the nereids,
and did nothing. I told them of this, and they did nothing. I do not /understand/, Lady. Why do they
allow themselves to be beguiled by such overt corruption?"

You think to yourself: Frustration burgeons, the deep currents of his anger stirring waves of
displeasure

A beat, then the ripples of the pond shift, flowing into the face of the Awakener Keltari. Watery
tendrils of kelp rise to meet the lowered branches of willow, before the image dissolves into
patternless, endless ripples anew. "For reasons as many as the sands upon the shore, and from a
shared history of fighting against other corruptions." The ripples shift, presenting a beguiling
portrait of a Goddess whose hair glints gold. "It is not easy to see past shared history. Is it that
you think the alliance itself is to Celest's detriment? Or simply that it has been allowed to creep
so closely into the hearts of some of the city?"

The sullen crimson light that flows through Avaris's markings throbs and ebbs with
a slow, pulsing rhythm as he considers his response. When he speaks, it is in the manner of a man
carefully choosing his words, though with the distinct impression that he is struggling to keep a
perfect rein upon his anger. "I think that any proximity to the Wyrd is a danger in and of itself,
Lady. It is an insidious and corruptive force, and in a way, far more dangerous because of that,
than the unabashed and pompous evil of Magnagora. It is poisoned honey, and anything but a temporary
alliance risks the Light being infected." Lowering his hands, he clasps them together, held below
his bent waist. "I realise the tactical advantages. We cannot stand alone - but they are not so
singularly potent that we /must/ ally with them. There are other options, that I believe are less
grotesquely abhorrent."

Avaris exhales a slow breath, the sound oddly vibrating. "It has taken root in the
hearts of the citizens, and slathered its muck across their hearts. They have allowed their minds to
grow dull and insensate to the sickly sweet aroma of rot, mistaking it for the perfume of roses.
They are failing, Lady. We should sever this alliance and purge the sickness wherever we can, and
seek alliances elsewhere. So I believe."

The pond churns suddenly, and the salt of the breeze takes on a bitter flavour. "The Enchantress
would be most insulted to hear that Her insidiousness pales besides a creation of the Aesthete's. If
that is the future you wish to shape, be sure you understand the past. For you will never redirect
the current if you have no understanding of its source. The City of Light has allied with fire and
chaos, with forest and tree, even with tainted earth before. Those alliances fell for reasons. My
counsel is this, learn them."

You think to yourself: Coiling revulsion squirms through his stomach at the knowledge that they had
once allied with the Taint - That must have been a dark time indeed, to warrant such a grim
necessity. As for insulting the Enchantress, well. He has met the nereids. He did not think highly
of Her, or Her ways.

Avaris bows lower, his torso dipping past the horizontal. "Yes, Lady. I will do
this. I thank You for Your advice, and Your forbearance for my ignorance. Might I do aught for You,
to show appreciation?"

The waters calm, and a faint sense of amusement emanates from the pond. "Create something. A poem,
perhaps, or a shield, if that is more to your taste. Should you seek inspiration, I encourage those
of My following to experience the plays or works of their fellows. Niralahi's play, for instance. Or
Farvu's works."

You think to yourself: An internal grimace. "More poems. Whatever can be said about You, Even
Bladed, You have a knack of directing people to skills they are in dire need of." Gratitude, offered
up to the Goddess of Justice, and a faint sigh of resignation. Poetry. So be it. There were warrior
poets, were there not?

The sanguine feathers of Avaris's antennae curl inward briefly, before slowly
relaxing as he dips his head in a small, faintly reluctant nod. "Yes, Lady. I will...Write You a
poem, if You will be patient with me. I judge it best to wait until after I have been instructed by
the Muse, if I am to pen you anything other than awkward drivel. I shall watch the play, and seek
out the works You mention, as well. Thank You."

You think to yourself: "Not that it will be any less awkward, or less drivel - But it might be
dressed up in fancier language, at least."

Carakhan, Sculptor of Waves has bestowed Her divine truefavour upon you. It will last for 3 months.

"I look forward to the results of your labours." The voice murmurs, then the breeze, and the
presence, fade away, leaving only the pond and the willow tree.

Avaris dips his head in one final nod of acknowledgement, before he levers himself
up from his bow, rolling his shoulders slowly. He breathes a long, slow sigh, the exhalation heavy
with resignation, faint exasperation, and a mild dread. "Poetry," he mutters to himself, shaking his
head in disbelief.