A Steadying Hand

Rhalkyr pads over to the torn lip of the pool and sinks down onto his haunches,
balancing his great weight upon the balls of his feet. Crossing his forearms atop his knees, he sets
his chin upon the thick, corded muscle and stares at the pool, as if by sheer determination alone,
he can see through the murk, to the secrets within.

Starry shadows herald Dusan, the coruscant as he deposits a banana cream pie into your hands before
dissolving into mist again.

Rhalkyr turns the pie around and around in his hands for a time, gazing at the
delicacy unhappily for a time, before setting it aside. He returns his attention to the pool, and
resumes staring.

Rhalkyr leans forward to such an extent that his position would be precarious, were
it not for the ease with which he keeps his balance, toes digging into the loam for added purchase.
Disengaging his right hand, he lowers it to the lip of the rent and brushes his calloused fingertips
along the wounded edge, touch as soft as a lover's.

[[Some time later, naturally as I went briefly AFK to go eat ;_; ]]

A soft voice bubbles up from the sap and blood of the pool, its words lingering in the air, "Still
contemplating on your task, little one?"

Stirring from his reverie, Rhalkyr's eyes refocus upon the pool, his fingers
pressing into the dirt reflexively. A slight sidewards dip of his head, as his eyes slide aside.
"Yes. Always. Like scrabbling, against cliff."

The whispering voice rises and falls with the churning of the pool, "And what truths have you
uncovered?"

A monstrous shoulder rises and falls, the motion slight, a desultory twitch of
uncertainty. Rhalkyr lifts his right hand to hover by his temple, fingers sketching a loose, erratic
circle. "Fragments, only. Mostly, theories. All, uncertain." He lapses into silence for a time,
before speaking once more, subdued. "Entity, from vision. Weaver. Xenthos, suspects, is Grand
Librarian. Seems, important. Think, task, was set, to uncover something, other, than origin, of
Greev."

You think to yourself: What truths? Only that he is not what he thought he was.

You think to yourself: The Weaver - Whatever it is - seeks understanding. That feels important, in
ways he cannot place. Why, would 'they' see only the Greev? Will it inhabit the Greev's physical
form, manifest as something similar? Will it be as a monstrous spider? Why would the Wyrd not permit
it to exist? Who are the /two/ of them? So many, many questions, and so few answers.

"Quite the task dearest Viravain has handed you, little one... I'm anxious to see what truths you
uncover." the voice grows softer, dissolving into dozens of whispering voices that murmur their own
indecipherable questions from within the pool's depths.

You have emoted: Rhalkyr's left forearm curls about his knees, a slow and sinuous coiling that
squeezes tight, sending tendons jutting out and thick muscle to squirming beneath the surface of
striped, bronze skin. Staring at the jagged edge of the wounded earth with hunted eyes, his voice is
soft, hoarse as the rasp of rusted metal drawn upon flesh. "Anxious. Yes. Will, try. Will...Try. Do
not, know, why, task given, to..." He hunches down suddenly, the muscles of his shoulder swelling as
he tenses, his right hand grasping weakly at nothing at all. "One, like, Rhalkyr."

The voices coalesce again into a single whispering question, "Hmm... Do you feel it should not have
been?"

You think to yourself: Anxious. /Anxious/. An expression of intent curiosity, a phrase of little
importance? Or was this matter truly so important that even a Divine was made anxious? Words.
Always, words, and their possible meanings, their intent, how measure the delivery.

Rhalkyr is a long time in responding, staring, unseeing, at the precipice of the
pool. Eventually, in an even more halting, broken cadence than is usual, he struggles his way
through, "Have, faith, in...In..Her. Her, design. Her Web. Know that...She...Would not, err. Just,
do not...Understand." He looks up, suddenly, anguished confusion, doubt, and a thousand other ill
emotions clawing to escape from behind his eyes. "Feel, unworthy. Of task. Of, Her." Hushed, now,
the whisper of a child, terrified of being overheard, "Afraid, of...Disappointing, Her. Being, bad,
child."

A single arm rises up out the pool, dark with blood and sap, its fingers point at you before making
a beckoning motion, whispering voices urging you to draw closer.

Despite the self-doubt that emanates from him in a nearly palpable miasma, there is
not even a flicker of hesitation as Rhalkyr falls forward, shifting from his seated position to
slink forward, moving in a peculiar, quadrupedal method of locomotion. At the very lip of the pool,
he leans out, so far that it seems he might tip forward at the slightest change in weight or
footing, and reaches out a hand to hover by the arm, fingers outstretched, waiting.

You think to yourself: Will he be devoured by the pool, after all? Unfit for the task, but
sufficient to be a meal for the forest? He would dive in, gladdened, that he could serve his beloved
home at all - and not be a failure, not unworthy. Anything, for the forest. For Them.

As you draw closer several more arms rise out the shadowy pool, grasping towards you. One curls its
finger around your wrist, another placed flat over your heart while the final hand reaches towards
your face, fingers brushing against t he underside of your mask, careful not to disturb it much. You
feel the stickiness of sap and dried blood as the disembodied hand cups your cheek. A soft voice
whispers, "What is this, little one? Just months ago I remember a young one so certain he would
shake all of the Glomdoring awake."

The soft hiss of air escapes from Rhalkyr's mask, a sighing breath that comes
perilously close to the trembling beginning of a sob. He leans into the touch of congealing blood,
of viscous sap, as if it were the benediction of a saint, or the tender, loving hand of a most
beloved parent. His eyes lid closed, squeezing tight, as lips shiver with suppressed feeling. When
he speaks, it is a voice that is barely a whisper, the faint, ragged sound laced through with shame,
with sorrow, with apology. "Am...Not. Do not, feel...Enough. Am...Stupid. Slow. Not. Not, good.
Child." A strangled sound, a piteous mockery of a laugh, wet with unshed tears. "Not, strong enough,
to shake, anything."

The arm at your wrist slips down to encircle your hand, pulling you forward until your balance is
compromised, supported mostly by the shadowy hand there and at your chest. "Hmm... And is that all
you will ever be, little one? If you truly believe so we could feed you to the Wyrd now. It would
almost certainly be quick..." the voice whispers as the arms sink down several inches back into the
pool below.

You think to yourself: The temptation is strong, the pull of it as subtle and potent as gravity. It
would be quick - Not that he cared whether he suffered, if it was for the Glomdoring. It would free
the way for a better child, a smarter, cleverer, more able child, would it not? And it would not be
a miserable, wasting death, cast out from Her garden, banished from His shadows. Was it not better,
to make his death mean something? To feed his miserable corpse to the Wyrd?

Still, no resistance is offered. Even the most minute, reflexive urge to draw back
is crushed beneath the weight of absolute, implicit trust as Rhalkyr stares down into the pool, into
an end. A way to be useful, with certainty. His eyes are hollow, ashen things, the feverish fire
that burned unending in their glittering, violent green rendered cool, lifeless.

You think to yourself: /Was/ it all that he would ever be? The young grew, did they not? A seed is
never a seed, forever. It grows, pushes its way through the soil, the compacted earth that strives
to deny it the sweet sunlight it needs, forcing its way through the soil with time, with
determination. Even though all it can sense is the cool, black embrace of the unfeeling earth, it
strives. It does not give up, does not grow weak, pitiable. Why, then, should he? Was he not a seed,
of Her garden? Was this task not just the hard, cold earth that sought to keep him from Her warmth,
Her approval? From His?

You think to yourself: No. /No. NO./ He would not go easily, slinking into nothingness like a beaten
cur.

A twitch, a stirring of the vast form, suspended so easily over the pool as
something kindles to life once more in Rhalkyr's eyes - A spark, a glimmer of fury, of passion.

Several other hands rise up from the pool in response to your unspoken answer, easily lifting you up
before gently depositing on the ground at the pool's edge leaving streaks of blood and sap behind.

Rhalkyr's weight comes to rest on the balls of his feet, bending at the knee as he
adjusts to the return of solid ground beneath him. He makes no move to disturb the streaks that
smear his form, instead lifting his chin back, and up, baring the full expanse of his throat. His
right hand rises, fingers furled into loose claws as they begin to beat a steady, silent rhythm upon
his heart. He says nothing, but there is a glitter in his eyes, as of those months ago, a ravenous,
blazing gleam of passionate, predatory intent.

The arms sink back into the pool slowly, rejoining the bubbling mass as a soft voice echoes around
the heart, "Be wary of indulging in self doubt and loathing, little one. While powerful tools of
transformation, they can just as easily bring about stagnation if you cannot struggle lose of their
bonds. If you truly wish to avoid dearest Viravain's wrath, then remember that."

You think to yourself: While the mist does not clear, within the woven jungle that is his mind, it
loses that slick, oily weight. The insidious, caustic slime of shame, doubt, of weakness is not
gone, not completely, but it is much diminished, swept roughly aside, as blood from the eyes in the
midst of battle. A distraction, a wound to be tended to after. The would-be tiger, that lumpen,
child's approximation of a feline beast, grows more defined, sharper and cleaner in detail. The
drunkenly wavering lines of its stripes smooth out, flowing like barbs of atramentous paint. It
stares, still, at the image of the Greev, of the phantom Weaver - but the eyes are different, now.
Hungrier. Harder. Angrier.

 Rhalkyr dips his head down a fraction, by way of acknowledgement.

"Hunt well..." the voice whispers as it dissolves into the sounds of the Dark Forest.

You think to yourself: "Yes, Silent One. Will, do this." A pause, and then a flush of embarrassment.
"Beg, forgiveness, for speaking. Did not, know." At the farewell, the flush recedes, leaving a
renewed, firm sense of purpose in its wake. "Will. Gratitude, Silent One."