Salt Upon Your Lips

The cold voice of Misericorde sends chills down your spine, "Should you be free, I will be awake for
a time."

Harmony echoes in your mind as you sing to Misericorde Coldwater, Deepwater Guide, "I believe that I
can stand to vacate my post for a time, yes. Where would you be most comfortable meeting?"

The cold voice of Misericorde sends chills down your spine, "Mmm. I have little care so long as we
are not needlessly interrupted during the discussion. Do you have a preference?"

Harmony echoes in your mind as you sing to Misericorde Coldwater, Deepwater Guide, "I find that the
meditation gardens are a pleasant venue for discussion, and I am rarely disturbed there."

The cold voice of Misericorde sends chills down your spine, "Very well."

Footbridge above a reflective pond.
The rippling sound of flowing celestial waters echoes distantly from a healing shrine of Lantra
nearby. This location is flooded with shallow, crystal clear water. A wide stone footbridge arches
over this large pond, providing a path from the central square to the structure behind the
southwestern wall, of which nothing is visible save for a few fleeting glimpses of scarlet fabric
caught in the wind. The pleasant banks of the pond are smooth with the exception of the far
southwestern corner, which is home to several medium-sized trees of varying species, including
cherry, maple, and walnut. These trees lord over the pond, providing a peaceful spot to relax and
meditate. The surface of the pond, being the only isolated one of its kind in the gardens, is as
motionless and flat as glass. Those resting on the far bank are provided a serene vista of the
willow tree, central square, and fountain, all which are reflected in the deep azure hues of the
water's surface. A sea-green kelpie drifts here as though underwater, the air thick with the warm
scent of the sea.
You see exits leading northeast, east, southwest, and northwest.

Misericorde spares a glance for the nearby pond, her expression momentarily amused before it settles
once more. She offers you a sharp salute in greeting in lieu of speaking.

Standing before the pond with his hands clasped beneath the layered cloak of his
folded wings, the glowing, stylised eyes that adorn Avaris's plumage flick towards Misericorde
before the kephera's head turns to her, antennae twitching. He mirrors the salute in turn, the
motion graceful and precise. In a choral harmony of many layered voices, he says, "A pleasure to
meet you, Deepwater Guide. I am Avaris."

Misericorde hums a low noise of approval deep in her throat at the received salute, her fire-bright
gaze holding your as she answers, "And you, Avaris." Her gaze slides away from the kephera to settle
upon the reflection pond as she continues, "Misericorde will suffice, unless you are overly attached
to titles." Clasping her hands behind her back, she cants her head to the side as she muses, "You
have questions for me, I believe?"

The sharp point of Avaris's chin dips down to brush the tips of the gently drifting
tufts of his dense mane as he nods, turning the great, helm-like wedge of his head once more to gaze
down upon the waters before him. "While I am partial to formality, the lack of it does not burn
overmuch." A deep, thrumming vibration of sound shivers forth from his throat, preceding, "I do. I
would have your opinions on the Wyrd, the Taint, the Lady Li-Varili, and our city's attitudes
towards such." A pause, in which he frees a hand to gesture it aside in a smooth arc of gleaming
gold. "In your own time, and in whichever order you prefer, of course."

Misericorde stills as she listens to you speak, her head canting further to the side to catch his
figure out of the corner of her eye. A sharp laugh cuts through the air, her eyes shimmering with
mirth as she answers, "My, my. You don't ask for much, do you?" Though her face remains impassive,
the tentacles atop her head begin their susurrous writhing once more. Slipping her gaze back once
more to the waters she voices, "The Wyrd is little more than the Taint wrought beneath the hands of
Goddesses. Its true properties will always remain. Tainted. Spoilt. Ruinous." Her voice surprisingly
light, she continues, "Neither are natural."

Sheets of rain pelt the rooftops of the city: an orchestra of noises that leaves every shingle,
window, and gutter slick or waterlogged.

You think to yourself: A sharp, powerful sense of relief - "Finally, someone that has eyes to see,
and the willingness to use them."

Misericorde lifts her hand with an impassive expression, her gaze somewhat distant as she muses,
"Much like this rain." Her fingers curl into her palm, allowing the water to seep away and down her
hand.

The spears of burnished, aureate chitin that thrust up through the ringed halos of
his pauldroned shoulders rise in a slight shrug, the angle of Avaris's jaw shifting a few degrees
aside in response to Misericorde's initial words. He remains almost unnaturally still, otherwise,
unperturbed by the rain that pours over him in shining rivulets of reflected light. There is a
distinct pause once an answer is given, wherein a large number of the countless, light-forged eyes
upon his wings study Misericorde intently for a time. "Indeed. The weather, at least, I believe to
be a more readily remedied phenomenon, in comparison to the Taint."

Misericorde drawls in turn, "Yes, that's very true." Unclenching her hand, she lightly flicks her
wrist, sending the remaining droplets only to be replaces anew by the steady trickle of the rain.
Her hand lowers to her side. "Its progenitor ruined a great work wrought with love from the Sculptor
to the Sea-bringer." Her eyes alight once more, not unlike a flame upon the ocean, she states, "Were
She my kith and kin, my judgment would not be kind for Her crass destruction."

The plating of Avaris's immense chest rises as he draws in a slow breath, tilting
the featureless visor of his face up to the ceaseless deluge of droplets that shattered upon his
obdurate chitin. The exhalation that hisses through the invisible seams of his armoured visage is a
prolonged one, heavy with a release of pent up tension, which is reflected in the minute easing of
the lines of his shoulders. "Ah. You have, I think, no idea how pleased I am to hear that."

Though her gaze remains upon the rippling waters before her, Misericorde says, "It is unwise to
release a deranged mind once more upon the Basin. I am sure They will regret the mercies bestowed."
With a snort, she tacks on, "Though my opinion was clearly not consulted for the matter." A low hum
sounds once more from the woman, the shifting mass top her head moving in agitation. She exhales,
the breath passing through the gills at her sides gently ruffling her gown. With a once more level
expression she muses, "But with this destruction we can hope something new can be made from the
remains. A calamity can nonetheless inspire, as painful as it may be."

Misericorde says softly, "And what are we, without hope? Nothing."

Despite the rain that impacts upon their spherical surface, Avaris's azure eyes do
not blink, embedded into the golden chitin like glittering orbs of polished sapphire. The red
swathes of his four antennae undulate in slow, liquid motions as he lowers his head once more,
gazing out across the pond. "My Lady will not regret Her actions. She has acted according to Her
nature, and though I do not agree, I cannot fault Her for doing so." The curved, layered blades of
his crest glinting as he shifts his face slightly towards Misericorde, the kephera asks, "What think
you of Calfuray, and her acceptance into the city?"

Misericorde's expression cracks for the barest of moments, the hint of a sneer curling upon her lip
before it's gone in the blink of an eye, like it was never there at all. "Why wouldn't we open our arms
for one who helped to bring pain to the Sea Spirit? Who helped to ruin the Sculptor's work?" An edge to
her voice, she bites out, "A mad Goddess who holds contempt for all who do not fawn before Her.
A near-Traitor in Her own right." Her heated gaze rises to Avaris' as she falls silent
- the tentacles framing her face seeming little more than a abominable mass of darkness.
"We are filled with chaff. Hollow and worthless."

Misericorde seems to remember herself, her upper lip twitching once more in the barest of movements
before she looking sharply across the pond and away from you.

As Misericorde turns her gaze away from him, so too does Avaris shift his
posture to regard the merian more directly. The dense, sodden mass of his furled wings snaps
abruptly open, the vast span of gently effulgent gold flicking back in a rush of disturbed air that
sends the rain whirling in disarray. The stark luminescence that forms the stylised eyes that adorn
each of his six wings flares, cold and brilliant as he lifts his upper right hand up, clenching it
into a barbed fist of shining, metallic chitin. The calm neutrality of his voice evaporated in his
sudden passion, the chorus of the kephera's voice rings with resonating notes of zealous fervor as
he exclaims, "Yes! That is exactly right! The city is bloated with weakness and moral lassitude.
They embrace what they should destroy, and love what they should revile. It is abominable!"

Misericorde's eyebrow arches sharply at your words, her gaze sliding momentarily to his wings before
once more towards his helmed face. "Yes, it is," she answers levelly, her face an impassive mask
once more. "New Celest has been rudderless since I stepped through the Portal. Disorganized.
Refusing basic help and knowledge. I cannot imagine it changing anytime soon. My attempts are often
futile, and I do not cling to shifting sands." The pitch-dark woman allows her eyes to fall half-lid
as she falls silent. "My harbour is my own making, as I suppose it should be."

Rather than dimming, Avaris's enthusiasm burgeons as he nods in sharp, repeated
motions that set the blades of his crest to flashing in the reflected beam of the distant
lighthouse. "Yes, yes, I have experienced much the same." The edge of his long, plated hand cuts
through the air in a whistling slash as he continues, "I, too, have been ignored - My warnings of
the mad Goddess ignored, time and again. Divine and mortal both." The massive span of his wings
flits back and forth in small, energetic motions as he speaks further, impassioned, but maintaining
a respectful distance from Misericorde all the same. "You are not alone, Misericorde. Together, we
may accomplish change, where alone we could not. ~Hope~."

Misericorde falls utterly still as she listens to you - the susurrations of her tentacles even
ceasing. Turbulent emotions seem to course just beneath the surface of her expression, though
nothing ever quite manifests in full. "And what would we do, Avaris," she asks in a low, even voice
when she finally replies.

All four of Avaris's hands rise above his head as he replies, "Whatever we must!"
Arms lowering, gesticulates turning the palms of his long hands upwards. "Perhaps when two voices
are raised in unison, they will be more inclined to listen. They are weak of will - We are not." The
left pair of hands, the side on which his scabbards glisten black, curl into fists, which slam into
the awaiting flats of their opposite in a sharp, metallic peal of clarion sound. "We will ~make~
Celest what it should be. Whatever it takes, so long as the Light is purified of the shadows that
cling to it, purged of the weakness that infests it."

Misericorde's brilliant eyes silently follow Avaris' hands, each movement tracked with an almost
detached interest. Her gaze then slips away and she instead observes the ripples of the pond before
the pair. "We could," she muses in a soft timbre as she watches concentric circles lapping against
one another, some overtaking others until they dissipate or are disrupted anew. "Yes, we could," she
murmurs again. "I could continue my work. Abandoned as it was. Ripped away much too hastily." Her
expression shifts, something not-quite sorrow passing across her face. The merian turns fully then
to you, her hand extending to his in offering, palm up, as she says softly, "I will add to your
work, and see what may be wrought. Together we might accomplish even a modicum of progress."

The ridged, flared alabaster of Avaris's jaws glistens in the constant downpour as
he nods encouragingly, antennae quivering and twitching in energetic motions. "Yes! I can help you
pick up your old work, and continue it anew." Squeezing the conjoined chitin of his hands as he
gestures towards Misericorde emphatically, he says, "Together. So long as you remain true to the
cause, Misericorde, you shall always have an ally in me. I shall not abandon you, and so too, shall
the word not need be left aside again." Lowering all but his upper right hand, he extends it, his
exuberance dimming a beat as he hesitates - Then gently takes Misericorde's hand within the massive
span of his own, his touch almost absurdly light, as if fearing causing harm. "Together."

Misericorde answers quietly, her voice only just rising above the surrounding storm, "I do not
falter, Avaris - I only turn my attention where it is most practical." True mirth flares in her
expression as you hesitates to take her hand, her own closing around his tightly. Yet holding his
hand, she observes, "I was begot in the deep waters of the sea, Avaris, where no light pierces. You
will not wound me." The pressure from her hand increasing for a moment, she replies fiercely,
"Together," before releasing you.

A glittering of brilliant motes of light washes through the expressionless azure of
Avaris's natural eyes, their warmth suffusing the harmonious choir of his voice. "That would make
you a most unique individual indeed, Misericorde." He returns the pressure briefly, albeit still
well within the bounds of gentleness, and once released, returns his hand to clasp its mate at the
small of his back in a glinting interlocking of polished chitin. "I am most pleased to have met you.
I can only imagine how hard it must have been to be isolated for your Purity of belief, for your
conviction, for so long."

Antennae curving in a broad bow, Avaris's voice is firm as he says, "But no longer.
We shall bend Celest back towards the Light, inch by inch, whether they cheer us or abhor us."

Misericorde allows her hand to fall back to her side, her expression easing back into neutrality
once more. "We are the sculptor and the sculpted. Isolation is a time for reflection on what may be
wrought." She pauses, appearing thoughtful, and then answers in turn, "You are not what I expected.
I am pleased to have met you as well." A fleeting ghost of a smile touches the corner of her lips
before it is gone, her head inclining politely to you. "We will have to speak another time at
length, when able." She pauses, adding in a timbre that she seems surprised at the very notion, "I
look forward to it."

A faint, dry humour threads its way through Avaris's reply. "I am not a sculptor,
nor am I easily sculpted, but I can appreciate isolation and reflection, all the same." His lower
left hand disengages from the bulwark of his joined fingers, drifting down to caress the sparkling
surface of the ampoule that rests against his hip, the silent gesture conveying ineffable affection.
"I will be curious to hear what it is that you expected me to be, when next we meet. I, too, look
forward to it." So saying, he bends at the waist in a deep bow, the motion graceful, elegant despite
his bulk. "Thank you, Misericorde, for the relief you have brought me. Light's blessings upon you."

Misericorde's eyes shine bright and she answers with a quiet, "Blessings of the Deep upon you." She
in turn bows at the waist, the elegant sweep of her arm crossing over her body before she arights
again. "Until next time."