Softly Shadowed

[In a subdued, elegant calligraphy, each stroke even and measured as if
written in an unhurried and thoughtful manner.]

Humble Avaris, Avower of the Archons,

We have not formally met, but my inquiries have placed a name to the
memories I have of you. My name is Illyria, and I am one of the young
citizens of the Glomdoring commune. Most recently, we encountered one
another at the Awaking of that poor, hideously tortured Goddess,
Li-varili. I have not, by and large, left the commune other than to
answer the summons of the Basin such as in that case there. Friendships
do not come easily, as I would prefer to keep my own company in the
comfort and concealment of the shadows, reading and learning and
listening to the world around me.

However, I have been urged to seek self-improvement in several ways, and
to further my understanding of both our allies and enemies and just why
each is what it is. As such, I am reaching out to you, whom I remember
to be someone of intelligence and tempered impulses, a protector, and
kind. You offered to shelter me with your wing- do you remember? I was
warned once by Auspice Esei that you hate anyone of the forest, and to
keep my distance. From my subsequent observations of you, however, I
think that you are not the type to hate anything universally, and not
without a very good reason. I have not given any such reason, and so I
wish to extend a hand with a polite invitation.

Would you care to take tea with me? I do not know nearly as much as I
should of the city of Celest, or the Light, or its honored Ladies. I
would very much like to learn of them from you, if you were willing.
What is more, I would like to get to know you better.

I understand if you do not wish to do so. We are strangers, after all.

Still, I will hold out a hope to change that.

Inquisitively yours,
Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell



[The penmanship of this letter is so precisely placed upon the page that
it seems more the work of machine than mortal hand. Each letter is
simple, formed of perfectly straight lines and gentle curves, each crisp
and elegant in its cleanliness.]

Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell,

I recall you from our previous meetings, yes. You are often in the
company of the Auspice that you speak of.

Have you, indeed? Betterment of the self is a worthy goal, if a
difficult one. I wish you success upon the path of improvement. May it
lead you to brighter places. As for the matter of offering my wing as
shield, yes, I remember that as well. I may tolerate the corruption of
the Wyrden for now, but I am not prone to letting their younger,
potentially salvageable members be slaughtered out of hand.

There seems to be an unusual degree of people seeking me out to learn of
things that a great many others know far better than I. I wonder why
that is. As for your invitation, I will accept, though I can promise you
neither a wealth of knowledge, nor scintillating conversation. I lack
your apparent artistry with words. Inform me of a time and place of your
choosing.

Light's blessings be upon you,
Avaris, Faithful of Devotion


The soft voice of Illyria tickles your ear, "It is pleasant and surprising to hear from you so
quickly. I am startled to hear that you find my words artful- that is new. I simply speak my heart.
I do not know of others seeking you out, nor do I know anything of what knowledge you may hold. I
simply wish to speak, I suppose. As for a place.. hm. I am loathe to be interrupted by others when
speaking, as it so often derails conversations fully by those too blind or self-important to
contribute meaningfully or depart. Would a manse be out of line to suggest? Mine has many lovely
places to sit and speak. I will bring the tea."


You tell Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell, "I have been noted to be punctual and prompt.
I do not believe in making people wait. I agree upon a desire not to be interrupted. I am amenable
to meeting within your territory, so long as you are not offended that I will not partake of the
tea. I do not consume that which has been touched by the Wyrd, even lightly."

The soft voice of Illyria tickles your ear, "[A touch of uncertainty, tinted with hurt quickly
hidden] Oh.. well, alright. No tea, though. It truly was to be just tea, though. Bought from the
Aetherplex. Not.. twisted."

The soft voice of Illyria tickles your ear, "Perhaps if you bring the tea, then?"

You tell Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell, "[A low, resonant sound, a thrumming sigh.] I
do not aim to upset. I am very prone to doing so unintentionally, and so I must apologise. If you
wish, I can bring tea."

The soft voice of Illyria tickles your ear, "[A gentle touch of reassurance] Do not apologize. You
speak your heart. There is nothing wrong with that. [A short pause, reflective] I do not often speak
at length, and because of that, my throat becomes rather raw when doing so. Warm drinks help, and it
feels rude to not share when one partakes in company. That is all."

You tell Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell, "I have secured, against all odds, two cups
from which to drink tea. I wonder, at times, how people do not die of thirst. How might I access
your manse?"

Illyria steps out of the Aetherplex Chamber, trailing sparkling motes of light.

She is a nimble shadowcaster faeling demigoddess of sylph descent, ethereally built and far taller
than most faelings, a statuesque five feet in height. Her refined complexion is a milky kawhe in
hue, darkened by smudged kohl around her eyes. In stark contrast to the tan, a generous smattering
of pale white freckles dapples her cheeks and shoulders, and a multitude of ridged, pale scars cover
her palms, wrists, and forearms. Smooth, dark brown antlers arc up from her head, each tine
sharpened to a deadly point and inlaid with gold runes in an ominous promise of danger that belies
the softness of her features. A wavy fall of gold-touched rose pink hair is caught up in a loose,
tumbling tail that keeps the majority of the voluminous tresses from her face, interwoven with
aureate charms of wyrden flowers. Catlike, almond shaped eyes of a matching rose hold slit pupils,
framed by thick lashes below dark and carefully shaped eyebrows. With a delicate nose and plush
lips, her face is lovely and alluring in its dainty structure, but the brightness of her eyes
suggests a constant careful observation and calculation of the world around her. Six wings of
ephemeral shadows and roiling black storm clouds trail behind her, flickering now and then with
flashes of eldritch mauve lightning. Tattooed on her hands is an illustration of a seven-pointed
star. Shadows cling adoringly to her, reluctant to surrender their grasp on one with the truefavour
of Nocht, the Silent.

A mane of pale pink hair frames her head, teased and blown out to create outrageous body and volume.
Her pink tresses fall nearly to her waist, at once shaggy and meticulously styled for precise
effect.
She is wearing:
Ebon Prayer Beads of the Silent Lord muffled with pink silk ribbons
a glittering, arm-wrapping spiral bracelet of stygian crystal
a hallowed brooch of the Silent, pinned to the shroud
a ravenwood stud through her lower lip
a silky cloak of woven starlit night embroidered with prayers
an azure-limned triquetra ring of the eternal Night
an intricate, ribbon-wrapped gown of a lady of Night
a phantasmal shroud of shadows, draped over her shoulders
an ebon necklace bound with a shadowfire gem.


Illyria curtseys gracefully before you.

In a hushed, melodic murmur, Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell says, "Good morning,
Avaris. Early though it may be."

Avaris inclines his head towards Illyria politely. "Good morning to you as well,
Reader."

In a hushed, melodic murmur, Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell says, "If you would follow
me..?"

Within a blackthorn grove.
Underneath a starry sky without a moon, a dense, extensive grove of large blackthorns surrounds a
small clearing. Tall and strong, their branches are adorned with obsidian ribbons holding silver
charms that sway silently in the breeze, too far from each other to touch and chime. Always
blooming, the white star-shaped blossoms on the boughs send down swirling showers of tiny petals.
The subtle sick-sweetness of wyrden flora wafts on the cool breeze, the spiked mauve undergrowth
healthy and thick. Underfoot, a thick loamy soil is rich and dark, fertilized by the continual decay
of fallen leaves and half-eaten prey. Deep purple ivy creeps up and around the blackened tree trunks
and arching branches, their veins and flowers soft-lit with pale bioluminescence, accenting the
darkling beauty of the grove. Strange blossoms cluster along both ground and tree bark, glowing in
eerie pastels. Quiet reigns in the perpetual night, broken only by the soft whispers of the wind and
the muted sounds of furtive creatures creeping through the trees. The darkness of night looms here.
Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell is here. You see a sign here instructing you to use the
PORTAL command to enter the aetherplex system.
You see exits leading north (open door), south, and west.

The arcing, bladed talons of Avaris's immense feet sink into the loam as he steps
within the manse, antennae recoiling faintly at the scent of wyrden flora. The light-forged eyes
that illuminate his wings flick and roam about as they subject the area to a careful scrutiny, with
several remaining fixed vigilantly upon Illyria. He says not a word, simply lifting his upper right
hand to flick a blackthorn blossom from where it rests lightly upon the dense ruff of his mane.

You think to yourself: Wariness, but of the calm, watchful variety, a soldier scanning a new
environs for potential threats. "Subtler, but still present. I wonder, do manses reflect their
creators, as the realms of the Divine do?"

As their forms coalesce within the blackthorn grove, Illyria tilts her head back with closed eyes,
feeling the cool breeze on her face as a faint smile touches her lips. Turning to you, the faeling
looks well up to meet your eyes and nods slightly toward the west, a motion for you him to follow.
Drifting lightly onward, the tips of her toes only brushing the soil as she half-floats along in a
weightless stride, she weaves a path through the dense grove of blackthorns, lightly touching a
bioluminescent flower now and then as she passes. "There is better seating this way," she says over
her shoulder, her voice soft but easily audible in the stillness of the woods.

A starlit amphitheatre of wyrden splendour.
To the west of the grove, a trail of soft obsidian sand twists through thinning blackthorns and down
an increasingly steep hill of dark green-black grass and decaying leaves. The eternal night shrouds
the area in a comforting veil of shadows, punctuated by dim stars that twinkle like shifting, smoky
diamonds. Halfway down the hill, the slope transitions into terraced seating in an intimate
semicircle around a raised stage. The sides of the oval-shaped platform are lined with ravenwood
planks carved with an intricate sprawling panorama of the Glomdoring landscape, from mountainous
borders to forest and fen. Draping veils of ivy in muted mauve and intense violet form curtains and
a backdrop for the stage, each leave veined with black in lacy patterns. Pale, eerie bioluminescent
moss and blossoms carpet the stage with a gentle glow, illuminating the activities upon it. The
darkness of night looms here. Adorned with simple drapes, a sturdy wooden stage rests here, tempting
the would-be thespian. Reader Illyria, Listener of the Silent Knell is here.

As the woods thin and a trail of soft obsidian sand appears underfoot, the trees part to either side
to allow easier passage. Illyria follows it a ways, until the the blackthorns give way to a steep,
terraced hillside before an intricately carved stage. She makes her way down the path with an easy
grace, stopping at the first terrace and waiting for you. "Will this suit?" she inquires quietly.

The muted impact of each of Avaris's heavy footfalls is accompanied by the crunch
and whisper of ebon sand as the dense plates of his chitinous feet compact it, leaving a trail of
odd tracks in his wake - Three indentations in front, a long, flattened plane, and two further holes
where the talons of his heels stabbed into the sand. As he follows Illyria along the trail, he
alternately ducks or lifts his armoured arms to push the blackthorns from his path, wings folded in
tight against his back. Emerging upon the cusp of the woods, he pauses, looking upon the seating and
the stage without expression upon his visored face. "I see no reason that it would not."

With a nod of acceptance, Illyria moves farther into the terrace, rounding it halfway before
selecting a spot at random and sinking down onto the thick green-black grass in a swirl of shadows
and aphotic silk. Tucking her legs modestly to one side, the statuesque faeling folds her hand
lightly onto her lap. With a hint of a frown, she tilts her head and studies you. "I will not ask
you to be at ease with me, and I see that you are not. But.. I admit that I find myself perplexed by
the guardedness. Have I done aught to threaten you?" Her voice is gently and genuinely curious, as
if working through a puzzle. She pauses for a long moment, as a smile dispels the slight line on her
brow. "Of equal interest.. what sort of tea have you acquired?"

Avaris (The kephera makes no move to follow Illyria at first, maintaining his
position as he watches her wend Illyria's way further in, his hands secured at the small of his
back. Once Illyria is settled, he proceeds along precisely the same path, taking care to place his
feet where every third or fourth one of Illyria's set lightly upon the ground. Once before her, he
folds himself down into a cross-legged position, hands resting upon his thighs as he regards the
faeling for a moment, before replying, almost mild in his polite tone, "Not that I am aware of, but
I know Who you serve, and from whence you presently hail. That is sufficient to have me on my
guard." At the second query, he reaches up beneath the feathered layers of his wings, head tilted at
an angle as he concentrates on retrieving something. As he does so, he replies, "It is a tea that
reminds me of my Lady. You may find it pleasant." So saying, he carefully extracts two cups and sets
them before him, then a modest flask, from which he decants a stream of tea that glitters like
liquid starlight. Once this is done, he straightens, setting the flask to one side, and waits for
Illyria to select a cup.

Illyria watches the towering, gleaming figure of the kephara paladin come closer, a quiet and
sincere little half-smile on her face, pleased to have company beneath the shadowed stars. The smile
does not fade much with the reply, though her quirked brows and curious eyes reflect a wave of
puzzlement at it. "I serve Lord Nocht," she agrees, her tone bemused, "and am from the Glomdoring.
Yes. But... why does that put you on guard? Are we not allied?" With a little tilt of her head, the
faeling regards you with a thoughtful expression that is distracted by the presenting of the tea and
transformed into one of unabashed delight. She leans forward, placing a hand down to brace herself,
and lifts the other toward the cups, wavering between the two for a few seconds. Catching sight of
the roses on the latter cup, her eyes light, and she picks it up, settling backward once more as she
wraps both hands around it. "What sort of tea is it?" she asks, a subdued but genuine enthusiasm for
the topic seeping into her voice.

Once more, Avaris elects not to respond immediately, opting instead to sit and
watch Illyria's moment of indecision, the layered edges of his jaw tilting up a shade as he studies
the pleasantly delighted faeling. The smaller of his right-side antennae, the outermost, flicks up
and twists in a strange gesture as Illyria chooses the rose-stitched cup, and it is only once
Illyria_she has resumed Illyria's position that he extends a massive, clawed hand down to pluck the
remaining cup up in a delicate cage of aureate chitin. He places it upon the flat of his lower left
hand's palm with a gentle clink, and lifts a single shoulder in a modest shrug. "I do not know. It
does not, I believe, have a particular name. It is simply labeled as dreamy liquid starlight tea in
the places of business in which I have purchased it." Brushing the edge of his index finger along
the rim of the cup, a ringing tone emanates from the contact, so faint as to be near inaudible. "An
interesting question. Allow me to answer with one of my own. Why should someone from New Celest be
on guard, in regards to the Silent One, and the Wyrden Forest?"

"Dreamy liquid starlight..." Illyria muses softly, her eyes closing in involuntary bliss as she
inhales the scents of the lively tea, fruity and a bit spicy as she inhales. "Oh, a white tea,"
comes the approving note, both hands lifting the cup to her lips with a serene and unhurried grace.
She sips it slowly, savoring the complex and ambrosial interactions of fruit and flower even as she
raises her gaze to study you with curiosity that becomes reflective speculation at the question.
Letting the flavors of the tea linger on her tongue as she considers, the cup settling into her lap,
the shadow-wreathed faeling hums softly. "I guess," she finally answers, meeting your eyes openly,
her voice frank and laced with a pensive undertone as her mind turns the question over carefully,
"that it depends what someone is afraid of."

A calming, warm breeze swirls around Illyria as the fragrant scent of roses suffuses the area around
her.

With a great deal of care, Avaris brings the comically small cup to the smooth,
curving planes of his chitinous face - Which form seams, and split apart just enough to open a
sliver of darkness, which contains hints of a great many sharp and gleaming elements. Deftly, he
tips the cup so that a frugal stream of the tea pours precisely between the crevice, which seals
shut as he lowers the cup to his palm once more. A very faint glimmering of minute motes of light
briefly surface within the azure, solid depths of his seven natural eyes, each of which reflects
Illyria in miniature, cast in sea and starlight. "Fear." He tastes the words with much the same
thoughtful air that the faeling sampled the tea, gently rotating his hand in tiny dips that sets the
sidereal fluid within his cup to swirling serenely. "What most should fear. A warping or destruction
of the values, places, and people that are held dear."

Contemplating the answer with care, understanding alights in Illyria's eyes, and she nods slowly, a
thoughtful sound humming in her throat. The cup rises again, and she sips it slowly, the tips of her
fingers tracing the subtle rise of painted cross-stitched roses along its surface as she holds it
within her hands. As the cool breeze sweeps up the hill, stirring loose tendrils of dusk-touched
pink hair and tugging at the shadowy lines of her skirts and shroud, she watches you with alert,
speculative eyes. "I see, I think," the petite demigoddess muses, little crackles of lightning
flickering in a gentle mauve within the roiling clouds of her wings. "Tell me... when a village is
abandoned and nature reclaims it, is nature evil to have done so? Aside from the care taken to tend
their lands, should the villagers have hated the land around them, knowing one day it would thrive
and feed from their absence?" Shaking her head slightly, she gives you a faint smile. "The Wyrd is
inevitable, yes. It will be the last thing in this world, I believe, having survived things that
destroyed all the rest. But it is not malicious, Avaris. Simply a force of survival. It is not
hunting you, nor is that eventual consumption an imminent threat. I do not aim to subvert, consume,
or any of those things. Simply to talk. Perhaps even make a friend, in time."

Avaris (The massive, golden kephera is so still while Illyria speaks that he seems
closer to a statue that a living thing, forged from unfeeling metal beaten into the depiction of
some hybrid denizen of Celestia melded with a predatory insect. The stillness is undisturbed, as is
his silence, even after the faeling finishes her quiet speech, so long so, indeed, that it appears
that he may not respond at all. With a whisper of feathers, he shifts slightly, setting his cup
carefully to one side, then leaning forward slowly, studying Illyria intently, his face immobile,
innately expressionless. When he speaks, the chorus of voices that harmonise to form his own,
resonating words is quiet, a soft hymn raised up to an absent Divine. "Do you think me a very stupid
creature, Reader? Or is it that you have been so wholly twisted by the Wyrd that you believe this
with all of your heart?"

Illyria tilts her head, frowning slightly. "I do not think you stupid at all," she disagrees.
"Though I am at a clear disadvantage here, as you are clearly coming with preconceptions that I am
unaware of. I do not know what you think, that you think you must guard against me, but I suppose...
if you must, you must." Looking down at the ground, regret passes through her eyes, the cloudstuff
and shadow of her wings thinning and dispersing to an insubstantial shade of their former robust
presence. Her voice is a bit roughened, and she takes another sip of the tea to soothe it, then sets
the cup down fully in favor of folding her hands in her lap once more. With a softer voice, she
ventures, "Well.. is there anything you would find inoffensive as a topic of conversation? I truly
did just wish to learn more of you, and your city." From her tone, she seems braced for a negative.

You think to yourself: A sharpening of already keen wariness at this reaction - Is she so subtle and
dangerous that she can act the misguided maiden so convincingly, or has she, in truth, been shrouded
in corruptive shadow for so long that she can no longer see what is true? Troubling.

Scrutinising Illyria for a long moment, the stylised eyes of his wings thinning
slightly, Avaris eventually makes a low, humming sound, and sits straight once again. "I am willing
to speak on most matters, so long as you are prepared for me to be disapproving of those you may
hold dear. I not disguise my intent, for I am very poor at it." Lifting a hand, he turns it to
Illyria, palm-upwards, in polite invitation. "Ask what you wish to. I shall answer as I judge best,
and ask in return. Does that suit you?"

Surprised at the assent, Illyria looks up, regarding you a bit warily for a few moment before
exhaling softly and nodding. "As I said before.. I do not begrudge you to speak your heart, as I
speak mine. It is refreshing, in truth, as so many swath their intentions in layers of misdirection
and sweet smiles," she muses, frowning slightly. With a shake of her head that sends the gentle
bioluminescence of the flora glinting off the golden charms woven into it, the faeling exhales,
gathering the scraps of her smile and offering it tentatively once more. "Well.. I've only been one
time, and then straight to and through the Pool. Is it true that you have a playground there? And
friendly cats that just roam about, for anyone to pet? And..." she pauses, her eyes deeply and
sincerely wistful for a moment. "Pegasi. Tell me of pegasi."

"Yes," Avaris replies flatly, returning Illyria's gaze directly, "They do." Folding
his hands together into a rigid lattice of glinting edges and smooth plates of burnished gold, he
inclines his head by was of confirmation. "I have heard of the playground, but have never visited.
You may wish to inquire of some of the others, for I know nothing of it, other than the fact there
are swings, and a slide." Neutrally, he lifts his spiked, ringed shoulders in a small shrug. "They
are friendly enough, as far as cats go, to those of Celest. I do not know how they react to
outsiders. Perhaps they are more aloof." At the question of pegasi, the curved sweep of his bladed
crest tips aside, catching the faint light as it draws a caress of bioluminescent light along the
glinting edges. "I know very little of them. They are native to Celestia, and citizens may request a
foal to take care of. I, myself, have one in my service. You have seen him, I believe, upon the
astral plane."

Unbothered by the flat tone in which the answers are given, Illyria leans forward with bright eyes
to listen, nodding at points. The dark cloudbanks of her wings thicken slightly as the faeling perks
up at the talk of pegasi. "I have," she confirms, naked admiration painting her voice. "He is
astonishing. A work of beautiful, bellicose art." Glancing up the hill and into the distance, as if
looking at something just out of sight there, she adds in tone of blended humor and regret, "I grew
wings on my horse.. but it is not the same, as lovely as she may be. They have this certain...
something, about them. Is that because of Celestia? I went there, once." She pauses, reclaiming her
hold on the rose-patterned tea cup for another sip. "The Supernals were very.... well, very much
like you. Except Raziela. She's lovely." Blinking, a touch of rosy pink floods her cheeks. "Which
isn't to say you aren't lovely too! Just not so very... huggable."

At the open appreciation of his pegasus, one of Avaris's antennae curls in a manner
strikingly remniscent of an arched brow. In a faintly dry tone of voice, he assures Illyria, "I will
pass along the compliment. I am sure that he will enjoy having an admirer." Several of the solid
lines of light which comprise the kephera's aetheric eyes shift, following Illyria's gaze, though he
himself does not so much as twitch in that direction. "It is. They are born within the Light, and it
infuses them. If you wish to have a pegasus, you must be of the Light also. What did you think of
Holy Celestia?" At the comparison to the Supernals, his head drifts gradually aside, until it is
canted at a quizzical angle, antennae twisted into a wavering, questioning quarter of sanguine
lines. "The Supernals are not like me at all, save for the wings, perhaps, and that we are of the
Light. I am as to the Supernals as a streak of paint upon a rock is to a masterwork of artistry."
Freeing his lower left hand, he waves Illyria's embarrassment away, unperturbed. "I am well aware of
my disposition, and unsuitability for affection. Lady Raziela is, indeed, a very loving and lovable
being." Restoring the angle of his head to balance once more, he asks, politely, "What did you think
of the other Supernals? I am curious to hear your opinion on Lord Japhiel, in particular."

Following the aethric glow and shifting patterns of the kephera's expressions and wings, Illyria
purses her lips lightly. "It was... cold and harsh, to me," she admits quietly. "Very little of
nature in it, save for Raziela's meadows. And they may not be like you, but you are very like them
in manner. It is not intended as insult or compliment, simply observation and memory." Her brows
turn down as she attempts to remember, her fingers lifting to twist absently in the atramentous
shroud as she thinks. "Lord Japhiel... which of them is he? I did not really have the opportunity to
get their names. Still, I can answer generally. All of them were some degree of unyielding and
chill. A couple made me deeply uncomfortable, especially the one with all those lovely books that
one could not read, and his implacable eyes.." Drawing her cloak a bit closer, the faeling shakes
her head lightly, offering an apologetic smile at her inability to answer the question with
specifics. A thought strikes her, and a quizzical light sparks in her eyes. "What is the Light,
exactly? Aside from just... bright. What does it mean to be 'of the Light'?"

You have emoted: The seven, inhuman eyes that are studded into Avaris's metallic face remain fixed
upon Illyria throughout - Though there is not discernible, visual cue as to their focus, the weight
of their regard is difficult to miss. "I expect it was. Holy Celestia is not like the mortal city of
New Celest. If you are pure, and good, it will be a warm and joyous place, filled with love,
courage, wisdom and loyalty. If not..." He trails off, turning a hand in a tilting motion to
indicate Illyria to illustrate his point. "Lord Japhiel is the One with the books, yes. Do you know
why He made you so uncomfortable?" At the query of the Light, he breathes a soft, faintly amused
sound, which shivers in the air, bright and clear, before fading away. "An oft asked question, of
late. First, your estimation of it, so that I may have a proper foundation upon which to build."

Illyria tilts her head, meeting your gaze levelly, though sadness touches her face. "You expected it
was like that for me... because I am neither pure nor good, to you." Her eyes fall away, making an
intent examination of the blades of grass before her. "So swiftly you judge me, before you even know
me. What made me uncomfortable were the high mountains, open spaces without cover, unrelenting
brightness. Shadows are not impure, Avaris, nor is one unpure to be made uncomfortable by their
absence, any more than a nocturnal creature is to be uncomfortable at being awake at noon." She
exhales, laying one hand atop the other and contemplating the question in light of the other
information imparted. "He made me uncomfortable for his bleakness and austerity, the promise of
knowledge in the books but held out of reach, his unyielding eyes. I expect very few would be fully
comfortable in his presence." She studies you a long moment, then shakes her head. "Again, I know
nothing of others and their questions. And I have no estimation of it at all. That is precisely what
I have been looking to find out in the first place."

You have emoted: In a melodic layering of many voices of varying pitch and tone, Avaris's reply is
neither gentle nor filled with rancour - It is even, smooth, and calm. "You are not pure, because
you are soiled by the Wyrd. I do not know whether you are good or not, but I do not believe one can
be truly good, when their heart and eyes are so occluded." Tilting his head fractionally, he
observes, "You compare the Wyrd often to something natural, yet there is little natural that seeks
to overwhelm all else, to infect and supplant." Regarding the faeling impassively for a time, the
seraphic kephera simply dips a hand aside. "I find Lord Japhiel's presence to be most comforting. He
is wise, clear of sight, and possesses keen judgement. I admire Him greatly." At the admission of
ignorance, he once more utters a quiet, thrumming sound of thought, replacing his errant hand as he
contemplates his answer. "The Light is a cosmic force. It is aspected power, alive and surging with
inherent Divinity. It cleanses, purifies, sears, and illuminates. It is a balm to those that hold it
close in their hearts, and bane to the corrupt, and the wicked."

You have emoted: Avaris dips his head towards Illyria, tone neutrally polite as he inquires, "And
the Wyrd?"

Illyria listens, her face settling into neutrality, choosing to reply to the return question first.
"Nothing natural about something that seeks to overwhelm all else? That is the most natural thing of
all. Left unattended, even the Serenwilde will consume civilization brick by brick. By the terms of
this dichotomy, those of Celest are all pure and good and right. I have seen that to be false,
Avaris. People are people, wherever they are. Good and bad, evil and righteous. Their surroundings
flavor them, but do not define them." She leans forward, her eyes intent, hands gathering fistfuls
of dark silk within them. "Corrupt and wicked. What things do you think are inherent in the Wyrd
that are corrupt and wicked? It is a transformative force- it wiped the lifelessness and Taint away
from the Gloriana, and brought renewal. Is it because the form that renewal takes is ugly to you?"
Her words are calm, but delivered with a quiet fervency. "Crows are creatures of lovely, iridescent
feathers and unsightly carrion alike. They are not inherently evil, though one may be disgusted by
their diet. Beetles and spiders, decay and regrowth... these things often offput people whose
definition of beauty and goodness are things bright and delicate. But they are not wicked. It is
very easy to decry something as a whole, to slap labels on it." The faeling sits back once more, a
brow lifting at the uninvited entry of the leothin and its delivery, but she makes no comment on it.
"The light is a balm, then, or should be," she says softly. "I see. And that is how your Divines see
it too?"

You have emoted: Avaris sits, and listens, as unmoving as a rock thrust up from a darkling sea.
Illyria's impassioned words flow around him, the soft susurration of insistent waves breaking upon
an immovable spire of stone. He does not react at all to Illyria's increased proximity as she leans
forward, simply watching with an air of tranquil, cool patience. Once Illyria subsides, he exhales
quietly, studying Illyria with a peculiar, detached interest. "The Wyrd is a sickness, Reader. It is
gangrenous flesh that has taken an existing disease and mutated via putrefaction. It did not wipe
anything away - It simply altered it into a different strain. Its greatest feat is in the corrupting
of the senses of those it takes ahold of, so that they see their pallor as the flush of health." His
reply is, in contrast to Illyria's quiet fervor, entirely calm, smooth and cool as the surface of a
still pool. "I do not speak for the Ladies of New Celest. What does it matter to you how They see
it?"

Illyria tilts her head and studies you, her eyes thoughtful. "A sickness implies that it weakens
what it changes. It does not- it strengthens. Scars are stronger than the skin around them,
unsightly though others may find them. I am curious to know what you have formed this conviction
based off of. Just because something holds different values and standards does not make it wrong.
Unless... you believe it does, and you seek to remake the entire Basin in Celest's image, erasing
and changing. And in that case.. how different is it, truly?" With a last penetrating look, she lets
the topic drop with a soft sigh, her eyes lingering on the teacup as she lifts a hand to rub her the
smooth curve of her throat ruefully. "It matters because they are the souls of the City. The Divines
of a place are its lifeblood, the pulse within its body. People come and go, and They remain,
generally. What They feel on a matter is an important gauge of the long-term course of it."

A number of the smaller eyes that rest within the upper reaches of Avaris's wings
travel down to study the myriad scars that mar the smooth skin of Illyria's hands, wrists and
forearms, their lambent regard faintly sorrowful. His reply is quiet, but is not touched by the
tinge of sadness that is expressed via the light-forged markings. "A wounding never makes the
wounded stronger. That is something told to ensure those who have been hurt are proud enough to
stand up and be hurt once more." His own teacup neglected, if perhaps not forgotten, beside him, the
kephera makes no move to take it back up, instead keeping his hands folded across the hollow of his
crossed legs. "The Divine are not constant. They change, They die, They move to other places within
the Basin. They do, however, have an influence upon the mortal populace." A glance from the wing-
born eyes, shifting towards the shroud she wears, then up to Illyria's face. "Some more so than
others. Your Divine has had a rough time of it lately, has he not?"

Illyria's eyes follow the regard of the markings down to her arms, criss-crossed with the leavings
of ritual gashes. Her own expression is an odd contrast to your at the sight- no sorrow touches her
eyes, but rather pride that pairs with a soft smile. "Respectfully," she says quietly, "I disagree.
Pain teaches. Wounds can have a purpose. Change can strengthen." Her legs still tucked daintily to
the side, ankles crossed lightly beneath the draping folds of silk, she shifts her weight to lean
upon one arm. A dip of her chin concedes the correction about the Divines, but her eyes sharpen at
the inquiry. "He has been wronged and betrayed on many occasions, yes," she says, curiosity staining
her voice at the shift in the topic, her eyes alighting on the prayer beads. "Which is yours? Whom
do you follow?"

A very minute shake of Avaris's head meets Illyria's response, the dense, lustrous
fluff of his mane stirring in the rose-scented breeze. "You prove my point, Reader." Letting the
matter drop, he utters a resonating sound that descends in pitch briefly, the shivering tone hanging
in the air even as he begins to speak one again. "So very recently, as well. It is interesting that
He has not learned from His earlier occasions, is it not?" At the query, his upper right antenna
flicks down towards the ampoule that depends from his hip, via a fine, silver chain that is threaded
through the aureate chitin. "You do not recognise the symbols? I admit to some disappointment, if
so. You seem sharper than that."

Illyria lifts her chin, frowning at the string of barbs. "As I said. I do not know anything of your
city nor its Divines. From the water... I might guess Carakhan, though that does not suit you well,
from what little I have read. I would have guessed Terentia for you, but she does not seem the type
to have that as a symbol. Lantra, perhaps, but She is a hamadhi, and seems unlikely to have
attracted your attention. Which is to say, of all of these assumptions, either one or many is wrong.
No matter how sharp one may be, no one knows everything, and I -am- trying to remedy this gap in
knowledge." Lifting the cup, the faeling swirls the cold tea around, visibly determining whether or
not to take another sip of it.

Once again belaying from responding immediately, Avaris instead notes Illyria's
conundrum, and lifts his upper right hand free to tap the back of his bladed knuckle against the
flask that waits at his side, the contact creating a bright, metallic 'ting'. "If you wish for a
fresh cup, merely ask." There is a distinct hardening of his tone, cool and flat as a blade in the
hand. "I have been polite enough to refer to your Lord with His title. Return the favour, or this
conversation is over." He extracts his lower, left hand, which drifts down to brush lovingly along
the curved glass of the ampoule, his words warming with soft, rapturous voices joined in praise and
devotion. "I serve my Lady, the Empyreal."

Avaris tilts his head aside slightly, his antennae curling curiously. "You know of
Her, I imagine, considering that those of your ilk are close to Cheliyi." Mildly, as if discussing a
matter of only casual interest, he remarks, "Indeed, one was inquiring of a member of my Lady's
Order about Her, and a very particular topic, just recently. What do you make of that?"

The cup is forgotten as the kephera's tone shifts, and Illyria looks up, frowning. "There is no need
for hostility," she murmurs. "No disrespect was intended, and I apologize." The bemusement on her
face reflects in her voice, tinging it and drawing out each word minutely. "Lady Lantra, then. I
would not have guessed that, of you. And as for Cheliyi, all I know of her is that she was the one
who encouraged me to seek out Glomdoring when I was in Serenwilde, and felt the call of the Silent
One. We have had only peripheral contact since." A hint of weariness finds its way to her voice.
"And for the third time, now, I've no idea of what other people may be asking of other people. So I
make nothing of it. Perhaps the same people urging me to get to know our allies better urged someone
else. It would be pointless to speculate on something so vague."

You think to yourself: A growing sense of disquiet as the information about Cheliyi is turned over
and examined with great care, old concerns strengthened with new vigour. It is put aside, for now,
to focus upon the task at hand.

Whether Illyria's reaction to his admonition perturbs Avaris at all is unclear, so
smooth and immobile is the alien visage with which he regards Illyria steadily. "That was not
hostility. I was simply being firm. I do not tolerate the slightest disrespect towards my Lady, from
any source," explains, his voice cool and measured. "It seems odd, that you know so little of her,
when you seem to share a companion in kind. Are you not close to the Auspice?" A minute lift of his
shoulders brings the sharp, cold gleam of his spiked halo up a fraction. "So you do not know why
Evette Stormcrow was inquiring after the Lady of the Lagoons, or the possibility that She may be
healed?"

Illyria tips her head in acknowledgement of the first. "The Auspice does not confide in me, nor do
they share their affairs, nor do they bring me to meet with anyone they speak with. I care for them,
and likewise. It is not the closeness of boon companions, and I am content for it not to be." An
eyebrow raises, genuine surprise on her face. "Ah, now that we raise specifics, speculation becomes
more fruitful. I would imagine that she was inquiring about it because the topic has come up of how
a healed would-be Traitor might harm the Basin with the Eye of Dynara in the pursuit of vengeance,
and the Lady Lantra is one well know for such healing. It is logical. And Evette is a commune
leader, one that may take such affairs on herself to pursue." She shrugs her shoulders, equally
minutely.

Avaris watches Illyria closely for a long moment, then utters a quiet sound of
indistinct intent. "Are you so content to not be close with all, or simply the Auspice?" At the
explanation, he lifts the plated fingers of his right hand in a small, waving gesture. "Are those of
the Wyrd so uncertain as to their ability to either thwart Her, or endure such an event? Do your
Divine not possess confidence in Their ability to withstand Her, backed by the...Puissance of the
Wyrd They so adore?"

Letting her fingers curl in the dark grasses, feeling the texture of the lush foliage under her
fingertips, Illyria lets the questions roll over her, unperturbed. "To the first? That is my own
business, respectfully, and has no bearing here on this matter." Plucking a tiny, lambent blossom
and twirling it in her fingers, the faeling regards you with a faint frown. "As to the others, each
one of those is a loaded question, and steeped in disdain. I find them to be disingenuous. I cannot
speak for anyone other than myself, to give you clarity on their thoughts and motives, or Theirs.
For myself, I would say that part of the Wyrd's.... 'puissance'... is its adaptability, and that
includes the help of allies when needed."

"Disingenuous." Avaris repeats flatly, his back straightening so that he sits with
rigid shoulders, his antennae quivering faintly with indignation. "I do not lie or deceive. I have
told you that I am poor with words, and yet you imbue my questions with falsity, while you dodge and
weave about them and give me no answer at all." The quiet rasp of chitin scraping lightly across
gleaming carapace emanates from his thigh as he draws his hands in together at his abdomen. "Do you
believe that my Lady is an ally of the Wyrd, then?"

                                                                                                .
Illyria closes her eyes, shaking her head. "What I meant is that you seemed to be asking them with a
predetermined answer already set in your mind, which makes the asking of those questions..
insincere. Not a lie or deception. Simply insincere in their intent, and worded rather
unpleasantly." She opens her eyes and frowns. "Which questions have I not answered, Avaris? Ask, and
if it is something I have the authority to speak on, I will do so plainly." She exhales and touches
her temple, a frown lingering on her lips. "You continue to ascribe more knowledge to me than I
possess. It would be presumptuous of me to believe or disbelieve that without knowing. Though..."
her voice quiets, and she whispers softly, "if you are a reflection of your Lady, I suppose the
answer is no."

Avaris lifts his shoulders once more in a slow shrug. "I also told you that you
would be unlikely to be fond of what I said. I wear my distaste for the Wyrd openly. As for my
questions, they were sincere. I do not know your Divine as well as one that dwells within Their
domain. Perhaps They do believe they can stand against Her without aid. Elders are often more
confident, perhaps, than They should be." Flicking aside the last statement with a sharp blurring of
golden claws, he responds with a blunt, "I am not. You will find that I am quite different from the
majority of Her Order."

Catching the corner of her bottom lip in her teeth and nibbling at it, Illyria nods slowly. "I do
not intend to dodge your questions. Sincerely. I am simply strongly reluctant to speak for others,
or on matters in which I am uncertain or unfamiliar," she says apologetically. With a deep frown,
she shakes her head. "Between my guild task to get to know other allies, the urging to learn more,
and my positive impression of you, I came to learn generally, not to probe specifically. But if we
are turned to this topic? From all I'm since read about the Eye of Dynara, it is not something that
any Divine in the Basin would wish to stand alone against, or wish to be in the hands of a Divine
bent on vengeance against the world. What if She turns it on the Seals? On a populace? A whole city?
I think it would be a mistake to heal Her, and give Her back the power She needs." The faeling pulls
her cloak around her, tilting her head back to look up into the sky. "Not that my thoughts on the
matter are of any import."

You have emoted: Rather than address Illyria's words on the Eye, Avaris tilts his head at her,
studying the quiet faeling for a time. "Why would they be of no import?"

Illyria looks down and frowns. "I am no one of importance, and therefore my thoughts on any given
matter are of little import. Once follows the other," she says simply.

Avaris fixes Illyria with an odd look, his head angled aside, antennae bending in
strange, sharp twists. "Why do you believe that you are of no importance? You are young, and yet you
are named repeatedly in the events involving your home. Do they trample upon your self worth so
thoroughly, that you are made to believe such?"

Staring at the kephera with a somewhat blank look, startled, Illyria shakes her head slowly. "Being
present for something does not indicate one's significance in the matter. I am there, whenever
needed, but not in any position of prominence. I make no decisions, lead no forays, simply... watch.
And listen. And sometimes crack cyphers." The last is added with a ghost of a smile. "But if I was
not there, for any of those, I do not believe their outcomes would have been different. And that
means not important. It does not bother me, Avaris. As you said.. I am young."

Returning the stare with a faintly nonplussed air in kind, the eyes that are
visible within the golden expanse of Avaris's wings squint at Illyria as if attempting to discern
Illyria's sincerity. "Did you not participate in the rituals in the recent conflict between your
Lord and the Bloom of Serenity?"

Illyria nods readily. "Yes. I was there. And as I said, it made little difference one way or the
other." She seems even more bewildered than you, a faint line creasing between her brows. "I would
not have thought you would care about the self-worth of a Glomdoring youngling," she says.

Avaris lifts the index finger of his right, upper hand, tapping it upon the curved
expanse of his plated thigh in a slow, measured beat, staring still. "You fought, did you not, in
your way? You were present, which in itself is a boon to one's allies. Even the quietest, most
unassuming individual can be a source of strength and reassurance for others. More so, if they act.
A single touch can turn the tide, whether the one that shifts the balance can see it or not." At the
comment, he shrugs, the spiked ring of his pauldrons drifting briefly into the lustrous white of his
ruff. "Salvation comes in two basic forms. I, for all my reputation for wrath, prefer the least
destructive as a first option."

Illyria watches you with enigmatic eyes, thoughtful and still. "Salvation?" she repeats quietly, her
voice quiet and light as petals on the breeze. "What, if I may ask, would that look like to you?"

Again, Avaris's gaze travels down to the scars that Illyria bears with such pride,
the hue of his natural eyes dulling to something darker, subdued. "For you? Not having to endure
scarring, or taking pride in it. You would be at home, I feel, among the anchoresses of my Lady's
realm. Quiet, dignified, regal. At peace. Recognised as a valued person, for who you are, and what
you have done. You have a soothing manner about you - You could do much good to ease the suffering
of others, or in guiding the young."

You think to yourself: An series of images, carefully constructed from shards of memory and vibrant,
colourful panes of raw imagination, in a vast array of striking hues. The quiet faeling, as she sits
before him, but altered - Shrouded in mist and starlight, rather than shadow and lambent flora. The
scars, still visible, but faded, a faint smile suggested behind the veil she wears, a sense of
satisfaction, of contentment, of self-worth radiating gently from her. Another image, of this
fictional Illyria at the side of someone in pain, providing succour with soft, soothing words and a
calming hand upon the brow, argent light emanating from the contact. Her, again, in the company of
others, cheered by her presence, offering sincere words of encouragement, of acknowledgement. In
all, that faint sense of purpose, of benign will.

Illyria's eyes flit between the pale ridges along her arms and you, a quiet astonishment in her
expression at the sincerity of the well-thought reply. She exhales softly, a small smile slipping
onto her lips as she regards the aureate planes of the kephera's face. "I am honored that you wish
such things for me. But I am happy where I am. I have purpose, a Lord to whom I am devoted, and
love. It is enough." Rising smoothly to her feet, she holds out her hand reflexively to help you up,
then lets it fall back to herself in mild amusement and embarrassment as she realizes the absurdity
of the gesture. "I must rest for a time. Thank you for the tea, and for the talk," she says
sincerely.

Despite the inherent lack of expression that Avaris's face is restricted by, there
is no missing the distinct air of faint disappointment and commingled sorrow that meets Illyria's
reply - Though he does not seem at all surprised, simply nodding. "You have moved before. Perhaps
there is hope that your path to the Light is simply a winding one, as so many others' has been."
Ascending with a stately elegance, he inclines his head towards Illyria in a courteous gesture.
"Thank you, as well."

Quietly, Illyria leads back through the woods, stopping at the ripple in aetherspace that indicates
a portal outward. "Be well, then, Avaris," she says softly.

Once again leaving a miniature path of destruction upon the sand in his wake,
Avaris follows Illyria through the blackthorn copses, dipping his head to her in a polite nod.
"Light's blessings upon you, Reader."