The air around you grows thick with the conflicting scents of anise and cayenne, emerging from
particles of black sand that shift through the air with the return of the Shofet of Abyssal Scale's
attention to the First World once more.

(Veiled): You say, "Brightest greetings, Neither-Lord-Nor-Lady!"

(Veiled): Mysrai says, "Beloved."

These faithful of the Divine Order of Mysrai, the Shofet of Abyssal Scales are online:
Mysrai, the Shofet of Abyssal Scales
Beloved Nirsaad, Zeebin al-Saaoud the Rekindled Sage (Outer Circle)
There is 1 mortal in your Circle (and below) on this Plane and 0 on other Planes.

(Veiled): You say, "Just me at present, Shofet. How may I serve?"

(Veiled): Mysrai says, "A shame."

(Veiled): You say, "I have been called worse, Most Beloved, I am not too discomfitted. May I perform
some service for You?"

(Veiled): Mysrai says, "I had hoped to see Mine, eager and ready to test their Wills and Truth
against each other; to advance further in My teachings rather than languish in squalor and sloth."

(Veiled): You say, "I cannot speak for anyone, Most Belove, but I have seen Your Prism's ongoing
duty of Ivory, and found a great deal of love and brightness growing alongside Tonatiuh."

Jewels of the Desert Sands.
Throughout the location, small dancing flames flicker and spark. Artisan of the Gems, Misinga Xeeth
holds a gem stone in her hands, appraising it with a magnifying glass.
You see a single exit leading west (open door).

(Veiled): Mysrai says, "A journey worth taking, each step to be treasured, surely. Yet there comes a
time when the Beloved must see if the journey of a thousand steps has progressed beyond its
entrance, that you may know growth."

(Veiled): You say, "For my part, I continue to embrace my truth, writing, remembering, and sharing
in too many secrets for my own good. I may not be whetting my faith against Mu, but I have spent a
very long time reflecting on who I was, who I am, and what was lost."

(Veiled): You say, "You may be pleased to know that I finally understand one lesson You and Yours
have attempted to instill in me for the better part of a century. It is time to bloom."

Reality buckles and warps as though some great form is smashing down upon the ground, only ceasing
when a storm of chaos energy begins to rage and Mysrai steps from its depths.

You kneel before Mysrai and touch your head to the ground in worship.

You say, "Brightest greetings, Neither-Lord-Nor-Lady."

Silvery cracks spread through the aether like the spiderwebbing crack of breaking glass as the
Shofet looks about with a vague disinterest, black sand falling from the torn space between
realities.

Rapping one claw against his brazier, you say, "I have been gathering new esteem to fill Your Cup,
Shofet."

As They place a paw delicately on the side of a glass case, inspecting the jewels within, Mysrai,
the Shofet of Abyssal Scales says, "You say you have learned a lesson. What lesson would that be?"

Artisan of the Gems, Misinga Xeeth gulps slightly, taking a few steps away from Mysrai and eying the
glass case They rest Their paw against with worry.

Spreading his claws wide as he begins to explain, you say, "I have found my Will, through all the
trials and threshing that we need not speak of, and it is Indigo."

Their voice echoing from all around you in a thousand modulating tones, Mysrai, the Shofet of
Abyssal Scales says, "You believe. Yet it may not be My Will that the paths of Indigo or Saffron
return to My Beloved when so few are able to grasp those of Scarlet, Ivory, and Voidcopper. Even the
Ebon, renewed by My presence, is something that many grossly misunderstand."

Artisan of the Gems, Misinga Xeeth quietly squeaks at the onslaught of voices, backing up and making
a vague gesture towards the jewels as she mumbles something about just 'asking for help if you need
it'.

Nodding, you say, "By Your instruction, I kept the heart of gold safe and secret, so that one final
piece of Saffron might be polished and pure again. But... I was a hoary old lizard, and I kept it
all hoarded tight. I kept Your secrets and Your books, and I kept my own counsel in all things, and
I did not share Indigo or Saffron with a soul. Your Will was that Indigo and Saffron sleep in Ivory,
so that the war and hurt and heartbreak they engendered do not trouble the unprepared."

Artisan of the Gems, Misinga Xeeth polishes a glittering jewel.

Mysrai slowly turns Their heavy gaze towards you, allowing it to linger there until discomfort can
set in; the primordial urge to scream and run settling heavy in your gut as the air grows thicker
with black sand. "Perhaps you did not hear Me?"

You tilt your head curiously at Mysrai.

You think to yourself: Oh dear. I thought I was answering Their question. Perhaps I was rambling too
far afield?

"I have said repeatedly that My Will is that those who seek to be known as Beloved return to the
basics." The ground shakes heavily beneath Mysrai's feet as They turn and step closer to you, Their
void-spun eyes twirling and exploding new constellations in a riotous display. The urge to scream
and flee grows ever stronger, your heart racing in your chest as They come within arm's reach. The
Jackal's Staff glitters unnervingly as a shaft of light through the window strikes it in the storm
around Them. "Yet in My respect for the station of those who have served Me tiredlessly in the past,
I have offered you chances to make it your own decision. Need I be blunt as My kin, and offer you
pointed direction?"

Artisan of the Gems, Misinga Xeeth becomes overwhelmed by it all and faints.

Taking a shaking breath, and bowing his head, you say, "According the the orthodox belief, the
Indigo and Saffron sleep within Your Ivory. My path, therefore, is down that bright road."

"You would place what is orthodox above My Will, present and true, spoken to You by My own mouth?"
The air between you and Mysrai crackles with scarlet lightning as Their eyes narrow ever-so-
slightly.

Shaking his head, you say, "I love You, and I serve You, Shofet. I am not refusing You. You have
said that the paths of Indigo and Saffron fall beneath the Ivory."

You say, "Hence, my work falls upon the Ivory Path, or perhaps the Voidcopper; it may be more sedate
than the passions of some, but it burns just as hot."

You think to yourself: Hmm... Perhaps my revelation has not come at an opportune time.

Mysrai begins to wield the Jackal's staff in Their left hand.

Mysrai reaches out and grabs the Jackal's Staff, twirling it into Their hand in an easy motion
before lunging forward and ascending upon a dust devil of black sand, lodging the blade deep into
the left side of your gut; well away from anything vital. The shock of the cold steel sends cold,
shivering jolts down your spine as They press Their weight into the weapon slowly and bare Their
fangs in a loud whisper that brings the heat of the desert wind to bear against your skin. "You seek
ever more, obsession clouding your mind, My Zeebin. I have been patient. I have been kind. But no
more. You will learn as though you were but a fledgling, come to gawk and grovel before Me for the
first time, or you will remain distant from My heart." They lean forward once more, and the blade
jolts deeper; sending a wash of ecstatic torture through your body as the blade reemerges from your
back.

Frowning, clutching at his side as if trying to ascertain if the blood and pain is real, you say,
"So be it, Most Beloved. It will not be the first time I have done so at Your instruction. You will
find my Will holds firm."

You have emoted: Zeebin sinks to a knee, blood pooling beneath him.

Mysrai leaves the blade in place before twisting it to the side, and the blood that surges forward
is real, spilling across your hands and your knee from your worsened position. They look down upon
you, and quietly state, "You will abandon dreams of Saffron. Of Indigo. Lock them within the
archives of your mind away from even your own touch, until such time as it is My Will they be
released upon the world again." They press Their paw against the heel of the Staff and Their voice
is perfectly clear in its ferocity as They ask a single word dripping with the malice of a starved
hunter, cornering a rabbit, "Understood?"

Looking up at You, blooded and pained, you say, "The colours run, Most Beloved. I am I, no more than
that."

Artisan of the Gems, Misinga Xeeth rises groggily, aroused from her fainting spell only to see the
sight of you bloodied and the angered Mysrai and drop back to the ground limply.

A hissing noise, calling forth the sussurant rustling of desert sand on a night wind, escapes
Mysrai's mouth as They jerk the staff upward; and you feel several ribs crack as They slice cruelly
through your intestines and cause blood to spill out at an increased rate. Surely, you have lost too
much by now, yet perhaps it is Their will that you continue to suffer, for you continue to bleed and
the dark haze of unconsciousness is kept far from your mind. Once more, the primal fear nestles in
your stomach - or what is left of it - as They hiss, "Do. You. Understand?"

You think to yourself: How can I... close the doors?

You think to yourself: I tried last time, when the Delusion broke two Paths. I threw myself at
Scarlet, and then Ivory.

You think to yourself: I am I. I do not know how to be anything other than me. I have tried.

You have emoted: Zeebin bleeds, conflicting thoughts clear on his face as he struggles with the
decision.

Mysrai's cruel, statuesque faces stares down in an unforgiving manner, occasionally jerking the
Staff to the side or upwards, reinvigorating the pain and causing your mind to blank for a few
seconds as They wait your answer. "It is simple, once-Sage." Their voice is unfeeling, cold, and
fills the air with Ebon shadows that dance in oilslick patterns around Them, visible even beyond the
sand. "You will, or you will not. You understand, or you do not. Do." Twist. "You." Slide.
"Understand?" Another thrust, and you feel the blade impact with the ground behind and below you,
effectively pinning you to the spot as you bleed over the Staff and dirty the floor.

You think to yourself: Both times, I found myself upon Indigo sands. I could not escape it. I am I.
My Will is in inks and remembering and inspiration and celebration.

With a pained cry, you say, "I cannot do as You ask, Shofet. I have run from the Indigo so many
times, and down every Scarlet, Voidcopper and Ivory path, I find it again. There is no colour, and
no path."

Anguished, you say, "The Indigo is nothing but a perspective, of precious, forgotten things, of
inspiration, of wishes and wanting, of things that hurt the heart to carry. By any other name, I am
I. I cannot be anything other than myself."

You say, "Dress me in red and make me dance down the Scarlet path, and I will still be me. My feet
will find blue inks and I cannot stop them."

Mysrai reaches out and grabs your chin with a paw, the silken leather of Their paw-pads coated with
your blood as They smear it against your face with the motion, turning your face towards Their own.
"Such a revelation is obvious to all those who walk the path. Yet to see the journey's end, one must
begin their steps anew. This is My Will. You will, or you will not. Such is My Will known."

Mysrai jerks the stack backwards, wrenching it from you and freeing a torrent of blood and life
essence that quickly begins to settle in the simple, obvious fact: you are dying. Worse yet, the
link to the Shofet in your chest begins to throttle, still there but reduced to but a flicker of
what it once was. They turn away from you, and walk into the sand, leaving you alone in cold
indifference. Yet, perhaps there is still some love left for you, for not even a few moments later,
does a tell-tale whirring fill the air.

Silvery cracks splinter their way across the sky, scarlet hieroglyphs heralding the dance of chaotic
copper-hued lightning through the aether. A powerful thrum invokes a deep dread in your stomach, and
then reality repairs itself as the Will of the Shofet is made known.
Scarlet hieroglyphs manifest about you, and a primordial fear nestles in your gut as you feel the
infinite gaze of Mysrai upon you. The urge to run is instinctual, but before you can begin to do so,
a bladed staff bursts through a silvery crack in the aether and impales itself deep in your gut.
Copper-hued lightning wreaths about your body, and in a terrible moment of excruciating agony, you

You have been slain by Mysrai.

Your life essence slowly drains away as you move closer and closer to oblivion.

Spasms of acute pain suddenly wrack your body, twisting your insides in vicious knots. Your flesh
rips painfully apart, revealing mounds of disgusting, disease-ridden maggots which burst from your
skin as the world seems to grow larger and larger. The mocking laughter of Mysrai, the Shofet of
Abyssal Scales rings in your ears as your transformation into a filthy maggot is complete.
Your race is now that of Maggot.

Vision darkening, you say, "I do not know where to find Tsakali, Most Beloved. I have been
performing my service in writing and knowing."

Your blood continues to coat the ground, shining like dark rubies among the other jewels as it
surrounds the crater of impact where the Staff had been lodged.

Slipping away, you say, "So be it, Neither-Lord-Nor-Lady. I will persist. I obey You."