Caohite's Ritual to Mother Night

Caohite hisses sibilantly into the corner of your mind, "Librarian! The garden, please."

Caohite hisses sibilantly into the corner of your mind, "With your group of ducklings."

Reaching out to an ancient archway wreathed in shadow, you offer your hand, leading it in a moment of supplication to the guiding Spirits and signs of the Wyrd. You share Their embrace with an ancient archway wreathed in shadow as the melody, scents, sights and sounds of the Wyrd suffuse you in the bounty of the Dark Heart.

And amidst the glory of the Wyrd, you hear words - not a voice, but knowledge, instilled within your mind as if you yourself had thought it. "Nightmares writhe about the forest, and Mighty Crow fights alone in the skies while his children struggle below." The voice proclaims the shred of prophecy, and you nod your head in understanding.

You say, "Nightmares writhe about the forest, and Mighty Crow fights alone in the skies while his children struggle below."
The fundamental truth of ages-old prophecy thrums within you, and the blurred forest beyond the archway changes: you see now that there is an ancient, crumbling temple that lies beyond it, wreathed in climbing ivy and roses. Smiling to yourself, you step confidently through the archway.

(9 people follow you ether)
Dark forest path before a crumbling temple.
It is warm and quite pleasant. The forest floor here is a chaotic mix of rotting leaves, dead wood and long grasses. Bare tree branches reach out only a few feet above the ground, clutching hands draped in dank, decaying mosses. The ashes and oaks that grow here are rotten and dank, split in many places and spewing mould and fungus from every pore. The huge form of a ruined temple lies before you, wreathed in the perpetual embrace of shadows. Flowering vines climb the ancient stone of the archway that towers here at the end of one branch of the path. Casting darkness all around, a shadow totem thrusts up from the ground, chilling the air. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. A leopard lurks in the shadows, curiously watching anything that moves. A caliginous leopard is languidly grooming herself here, her tail idly flicking back and forth. Snarling and slavering, a massive midnight blue rage worg with a thick black mane waits here. Completely motionless, a slender leothin intently surveys its surroundings.
You see a single exit leading in.

(Movement spam!)

Ancient ravenwood amidst a half-ruined garden.
This corner of the temple is helplessly overgrown with wyrden flora, all manners of shrubs, ferns, vines, mosses and brambles covering every inch of ground. Climbing wyrden rose vines cling to the half-ruined stone walls, permeating the air with their lovely, dark scents. The western wall has been broken through by an ancient ravenwood, the gnarled tree even bursting through the temple roof. Though smaller than its father, the Master Tree, this ravenwood's swarthy bark crawls with shadows, and its clacking, iridescent-mauve leaves sing a wyrden melody as wind whistles through the jagged gaps in the stone it has caused. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. A leopard lurks in the shadows, curiously watching anything that moves. A tenebrous leopard is crouched within nearby shadows, her tail flicking back and forth excitedly. Snarling and slavering, a massive midnight blue rage worg with a thick black mane waits here. A slender leothin sits here motionless, brightening its surroundings with its natural golden bio-luminescence. Dusan, a coruscant wyvern, lurks in the shadows here. Clad in matte black leather, a golden-eyed savage lingers here like a living shadow. Crowvalier Rekath Ryseni is barely visible, his form blending almost seamlessly with his surroundings. He wields a mystic cudgel in his left hand and a golden sickle in his right hand. Draped in the folds of bone-white robes, a tattooed savage idles here with predatory intent. Proselyte Skarde Ysav'rai, the Wyrdfell Claw is barely visible, his form blending almost seamlessly with his surroundings. He wields a protective claw nekai in each hand. Jatius is here. He wields a flame-scorched flail of scarlet-gold brass in each hand. A baleful crow perches here, crimson eyes piercing in their glare. Clad in matte black leather, a golden-eyed savage lingers here like a living shadow. Lady Haruspex Rancoura So'hthae, Ole'noc Caihel stands here, an unnatural silence clinging to her like a shroud. She wields the graceful black-crystal athame of the Silent Umbra in her left hand. Eyes aglow with a fierce, dreadful light, a slithering nagasith broods amid an aura of menace. Disciple of the Tah'vrai, Razhril is here. He wields a crouching spider nekai in each hand. Gurashi An'Ryshe, the Crescendo is here. He wields a wooden lute engraved with spiders in his left hand and a whimsical copper spatula in his right hand. He is surrounded by one reflection of himself.
You see exits leading north and east.

Ethna shifts slightly, her arms overlapping on the top of Gurashi's head as she watches, her chin resting the appendages.

Caohite settles low onto her reptant tail, the skirts of her gown spread in a pool of golden silk around her that just barely reach the simple circle she has drawn in the earth around her, disturbing the flora and fauna that have made their home in the stone.

The woman hums softly to herself, a tuneless and crude melody that weaves around the garden, Caohite's features softened with the loose smile of a dreamer and her golden eyes shining.

There is something strange in the way Caohite holds herself at this moment, her spine too straight, her eyes lackadaisical and unfocused as she prepares her supplies, and her voice oddly echoing. A square of leather is sat in front of her, unrolled to reveal the ivory mortar and pestle that were safely tucked within it.

Next she removes a small bag from within her skirts, placing it alongside the other tools. Her fingers are steady as they carefully empty it, placing the first ingredient into the bowl. "A handful of nightshade berries. Deadly and sanguine." Caohite explains to the nearby ravenwood, pausing her humming to chatter at the ancient tree and those gathered.

Another follows, sprinkled atop it with a gentle hand, "Rose petals, eternal beauty and sharp thorn." More flowers are added, these small and white, "Hemlock, innocent and the death of naivety.". Then another, "Bone, as old as the forest." Caohite carefully spoons the final ingredient in with the others, "And a dollop of honey, to bring sweetness in the bitterness of life."

As the cloak of Mother Night descends upon the forest, shadowflames flicker to life in sconces throughout the ancient temple, casting layered shadows over the stone.

Caohite's hum returns, louder now, little pieces of a wordless working song added to the mix as she begins to pound the mixture together, the pestle clanking against its companion with each grind of her hand.

A moment passes, silent except for Caohite's melody and the sound of her task, until the mixture is smooth, silken, and staining the alabaster surface of the mortar with a darkly crimson amrita. It is thick and sticky, looking more and more like old blood as time passes. A cone of incense is removed from the bag, now empty, and placed in the centre. The congealing liquid coats its bottom half red before it is lit, the hazy smoke spiralling upward into the air.

Proselyte Caohite, Umbrated Ivory exclaims, "Like a beloved child, she holds us. We are safe under her skirts, but we are not spoiled. How beautiful our mother is, how enchanting to gaze upon, to watch her cloak spread through the skies. She is tender and good to us. The pride of her is in us, in our hearts, our minds, our actions, and our words. Our Mother is a kind one!"

The incense has burnt past the pure resin, reaching the red-soaked lower half. The scent changes and the smoke flushes with the roseate dye, a sea of bloodied air surrounding all of you. Caohite continues, her voice darkening.

Proselyte Caohite, Umbrated Ivory says, "But she is also a vicious and cruel one. Our enemies test the lines of her patience, yet they do not know the poisoned kiss that will guide them to the Fates' Garden. They think we are pretty things with fluttering lashes and weak fangs."

Proselyte Caohite, Umbrated Ivory says, "They do not see the creatures that seek prey in the darkness of Night, the hunters, the predators, the shades, and the phantoms. Those who would survive ruthless trials just to gain her knowledge. With the beauty of we star shards, there is a sharpness to our edges."

Shortly, the moments passing with her words, is nothing left now of the incense but the cloud of unnatural smoke, the petrified ravenwood and resin used in its creation leaving behind only darkness in a pool of claret. With the rustle of scales and serpentine flesh, Caohite stands from her place of worship, bringing the bowl with her. She dips her fingers into it and brings them to her lips - the dark kiss leaving a stain on her eventide mouth.

Her taloned fingers offering the mortar like a precious thing to any of you, Proselyte Caohite, Umbrated Ivory says, "She will hold you in her care. Who will accept the blessing of her venin kiss?"

You say, "I would."

With a hopeful smile, Evette raises her hand high in the air.

Muttering in a barely audible whisper, Kyalrhin Ysav'rai says, "I'll accept this venin kiss."

Skarde stands from his previously crouched position. "I would, comrade-in-Night's-Service."

In a bass rumble, Jatius says, "I would."

Gurashi keeps his hands folded together at first, then begins to hear people speak up, mandibles clicking. He looks up curiously at Xenthos, then over at Caohite, canting his head to the side.

Caohite lifts the mortar away from her and outwards towards those who would accept it. "Then take it. As you must take all good things in this life."

Rancoura silently nods to Caohite, hands clasped as her gaze flickers briefly to the ravenwood growing through the Temple's ancient walls.

Eyes widening, Ethna glances down at the top of the Gurashi's head and tightens her grip on the kephera.

Gurashi glances up at Ethna.

Gurashi suddenly raises his hands to Caohite. "Miss Ethna and I will also do the thing." He says quietly, though he stays where he's stood.

Gurashi nods his head at Ethna.

You have emoted: Esei approaches and dips three fingers into the mortar, returning with dark stains across their fingers. They bring their hand to their mouth, eyes fluttering closed as they step back.

You feel a chill upon your lips, an ice-cold kiss as you sense but a fraction of the terrifying, yet glorious, acknowledgement of Mother Night.

Ethna nods her head at Gurashi.

Kyalrhin dips scarred fingers into the substance within the bowl, and brings them up to her lips, lightly smearing it against them.

Soundless steps carry Rancoura forward, her focus solely upon the mortar in Caohite's grasp. Before the Proselyte now, she dips the tips of her slender fingers into the concoction, which shades her pale skin a sanguine red. She raises them towards the crumbling ceiling of the Temple -- a silent gesture to the Night Mother reigning above -- before touching the mixture to her own lips, returning to the gathered with solemnity.

Jatius steps forward next, copying the person before him and dipping a finger into the bowl to smear the compound against his lips before stepping backwards to make room for another.

Evette dips her index finger into the mortar, stirring it slightly as she does. Tracing the outline of her lips, she smiles softly before rejoining the group gathered.

Gurashi sighs at last, cautiously closing the distance between himself and Caohite. He peers into the bowl, watching those gathered, then stoops down low, low enough for Ethna to reach.

Gurashi carefully dips a single finger into the bowl - pulls it out, examines it thoughtfully. For a moment, he looks dumbfounded, then touches it to the end of his beak, mandibles clicking thoughtfully.

A wan smile crossing her lips as her hand lowers from them, Rancoura's lazuline eyes close, her head bowing in internal prayer and contemplation.

The faeling's wings flutter quietly as the kephera leans down. With a nervous expression, Ethna extends her fingers into the mortar and quickly withdraws, brushing her lips with the tips of her digits.

Skarde steps forward, dipping his index and middle digits in the mortar. Bringing them back to his snoot, his gaze locks on the liquid in silent consideration. After a breath, there are words- though nearly silent, as he pressed the fingers to his lips and closes his eyes. He takes several steps backwards, not opening his eyes until he has returned to his previous position.

Gurashi shivers violently.

Razhril steps forward as well, following suit with the others and dipping a few fingers of his right hand into the mortar while offering Caohite a smile. Pressing his fingers to his lips, he steps back into the group.

Proselyte Caohite, Umbrated Ivory says to Xenthos, "Spirit Warden, I know you are not apt to expression. Will you accept the blessing from another?"

Umbral figures shift and stir in every nook and cranny as dark spirits flit from chamber to chamber, revelling in the embrace of the unmarred darkness.

Ethna returns to resting her chin atop Gurashi's head, her face appearing between his antennae as her eyes widen slightly.

Spirit Warden Xenthos An'Ryshe, the Ebon Strategist says to Caohite, "I will."

Gurashi stands up to his full height, taking a step back to be careful and not obscure any views. He looks up at Ethna, lifting a supportive hand.

With a slow nod to Gurashi, Ethna shows her understanding.

Caohite nods once. She shifts the mortar to a single hand, grasping it in long fingers, before dipping hers once more into the sanguine liquid. She turns to Xenthos, having to stretch quite high to reach his mouth before she lightly brushes the kiss over his lips.

A long stretch of devout, peaceful silence passes on when you have finished with your adornment, even the garden's scuttling inhabitants falling quiet for Caohite's moment of hushed prayer. Finally, somewhere deep within the temple, it is broken by the keening of a barghest's call - accompanied by the flash and crackle of a distant storm.

Soft as silk and sweetly toned, Proselyte Caohite, Umbrated Ivory whispers, "Mine Mother."

Proselyte Caohite, Umbrated Ivory whispers, "I am a child, Mother. Young and hopeful, an infant shard who would hold your skirt hem as you guide me through the world."

Proselyte Caohite, Umbrated Ivory whispers, "How we yearn for your beauty."

Proselyte Caohite, Umbrated Ivory whispers, "You wear a gown of hoarfrost light, of diamonds glinting and embroidered constellations."

Proselyte Caohite, Umbrated Ivory whispers, "For the cast of stars within our eyes, and the perfection of your touch on our skin. We embrace you."

As she lifts her gaze, the darkness of the temple begins to creep forward at your feet - fingers of shadow whishing your clothing as they move through the fog of incense. They pause just outside of the circle the Proselyte has drawn around her, writhing like trapped animals eager to break the barrier. Her hands rise into the air as if reaching for the blanket of stars that peek through the ravenwood canopy. The shadows jolt forward, passing through the circle and slinking onward to Caohite.

There is a distinct contrast between the shadows embracing her and the fabric of her gown, the gold growing pale and lifeless under the dark limbs. Caohite's laughter is gleeful and bright, nothing but pure joy found in the sensuous rumble of it. Higher and higher they spiral, pausing briefly to touch upon her necklace, before they seem to swallow her whole, leaving her awash in the obscurity of cimmerian shade.

Umbral figures shift and stir in every nook and cranny as dark spirits flit from chamber to chamber, revelling in the embrace of the unmarred darkness.

They tighten their grip, pressing closer and closer to her scales until they seem to penetrate them, forcing their way into the silk and satin, the flesh and tissue, until Caohite is consumed. The touch of the Mother is felt on your skin while you watch, seeping deeply and effortlessly into your body as shadows writhe and dance around all of you. It is a cool, satiny touch, a caress of chilled mist and loving pleasure, yet there is something entirely relentless to be found within.

You link hands with those in your coven to form a sacred circle.

You lead the coven in a ceremony to bring Mother Night's penumbra of beauty around it.
(Lots of penumbra spam.)

Evette's eyes twinkle enchantingly.

A thrumming melody grazes the edge of your hearing as it fills the temple, a steady, beating rhythm underlying the haunting notes echoing in the dark.

Rancoura closes her eyes and inhales deeply, absorbing the scent of her surroundings.

You let loose a long breath from your lungs, exhaling slowly.

There is a feeling of bliss in the garden, of cocksure confidence, of the knowledge that your beauty is unmatched by any other than Night herself and Those that govern her. Caohite sighs, a rich and contented sound, and she stretches in her newness.

Gurashi opens his eyes, glancing down at his now remarkably shiny carapace. His mandibles click, and he lifts his head, listening to the soft melody drifting throughout the temple peacefully.

Ethna quietly pats the side of the kephera's head, admiring the smoother flesh of her hand.

Sending curlicues of ethereal, shadowy smoke wisping into the air, the shadowflamed sconces set throughout the temple fade until they grow lifeless once more.

Whispers of darkness flutter away from Rancoura's ephemeral-shadow wings as they spread, her indigo-brushed wintry skin made more hale, the obscurity enwreathing her form deepened, darker and more lively as they swirl about her. She looses a soft sigh of pleasure, violet hues cavorting with lazuline within her gaze as her eyes open, shadowfire dancing leisurely within.

Breathy and nectarous, Proselyte Caohite, Umbrated Ivory states, "She is the Glomdoring. We are the Glomdoring."

Skarde stares momentarily about himself, and the others gathered, lingering momenarily upon Rancoura, before shifting his attention back to Caohite.

Proselyte Caohite, Umbrated Ivory says, "And Nothing Matters but Glomdoring."

Evette D'Rose, The Primordial Scourge exclaims, "Glory be to Glomdoring!"

With a deep inhalation, Rancoura offers a single, but slow nod to Caohite in approval, lips parted slightly to whisper her words. "Glory ever be to the Heart of Darkness."

Closing her eyes, Drone Ethna D'Rose, One of Many whispers, "Glory be to Glomdoring."

Muttering in a barely audible whisper, Kyalrhin Ysav'rai says, "Glory be to Glomdoring."

Faintly buzzing, Gurashi An'Ryshe, the Crescendo says, "Glory be to Glomdoring."

Gurashi's eyes light up as he smiles.

Disciple of the Tah'vrai, Razhril says, "Glory be to Glomdoring."

Faintly buzzing, Gurashi An'Ryshe, the Crescendo says to Caohite, "Many thank yous, Miss Caohite."

Voice carried as a whisper from the shadows, Proselyte Skarde Ysav'rai, the Wyrdfell Claw says, "Glory be."

Caohite's smile spreads once more, her eyes glistening with swathes of shadowfire and flushed with happiness. She inclines her meandrous body into a bow, low and respectful, "Of course. May the Hallowed guide you."