balance of things: Nocht

You find yourself engulfed in a swirl of scintillating lights, drawn to your Patron's Master Shrine.
The Fulcrux of Nocht.
The image of a beautiful nighttime sky has been stretched across the fulcrux. Dim stars struggle futilely to compete with the terrifying beauty of Mother Night. The ethereal image wavers on occasion, the sky rippling like water in a pond. A lonely hill covered in tall grass leads up to a single shrine. Behind the shrine stands a large blackthorn tree. The tree is taller than most of its kind, extending upwards rather than outwards. Delicate blossoms shower down from its branches, creating a flurry of white petals and filling the air with the pungent scent of wyrden foliage. A complex series of stones orbit around a stygian orb here. A rippling image of a beautiful night sky has been magically wrapped around the fulcrux here. Reverently laid before the shrine in a sheath of starlight and shadow, the Sidereal Mantle of Ailustris emanates Divine power here. A blackthorn bottle is here.
You see a single exit leading through an image of the night sky.

You give the master shrine of Nocht a respectful bow, one hand clasped over your heart.

You offer up The Silver Brazier of Divine Devotion to Nocht, the Silent.

You close your eyes and inhale deeply, absorbing the scent of your surroundings.

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

As if time with your exhaled breath, blackthorn petals swirl around you, carried by the chilling breeze.

You have emoted: Esei's long, goat-like ears twitch gently, their eyes turning to gaze up at the blackthorn tree.

The image above churns violently as a hollow voice whispers, "Good evening, My little one"

Echoed by a soft, adumbrated melody, you say, "Greetings, my Lord. I hope You are well...?"

The image of the night sky grows terrifyingly dark as an icy breeze cuts across the lonely hill, spiralling patterns dancing across the tall grass.

The image above churns violently as a hollow voice whispers, "I survive, little one. As does another of My Cousins as I've noticed..."

You have emoted: Esei gives a solemn nod, their hands clasping behind their back. "I have heard tale of Her return - Lady Malmydia, the Chirurgeon..."

Quietly, you ask, "If I may ask... is there something about Her in particular that interests You?"

The image of the night sky grows terrifyingly dark as an icy breeze cuts across the lonely hill, spiralling patterns dancing across the tall grass.

The blackthorn shudders, sending showers of white petals across the fulcrux as a soft voice whispers, "Only in the return of another one of Us can always tilt the... balance of things. It seems Drocilla has already beckoned Her off to the city."

A light wind whips the cloying scent of roses and congealed blood into your senses, reminding you fondly of home.

You have emoted: Esei's ears bob as they consider the words, then once more after they mull. "...ah... would She have been well within the Wyrd?" they guess, curiosity evident.

The perception of time momentarily slows to a fraction as Atropos snips stray strands and frayed threads upon the Tapestry of Fate, each cut bringing a distant scream. Time rushes forward as the memory fades, yet you retain the knowledge that your fate in Lusternia is far from meeting its end.

You feel an icy breath brush across your cheek as a hushed voice says, "What do you think, little one?"

You have emoted: Tilting their head, Esei ponders once more. "I cannot claim to have met Her, nor do I know much of Her character," they offer, voice soft. "So I could not say, exactly. But, I suppose there is always... potential."

The blackthorn shudders, sending showers of white petals across the fulcrux as a soft voice whispers, "Hmm. Perhaps... I hear concerned whispers from the shadows. Disgust and revulsion. Her reputation precedes Her even after these many, many years."

You tilt your head and listen intently.

After a moment, you ask, "Do the whispers also..." they pause, as if searching for a word, before settling on, "concern You, my Lord?"

It is now the 24th of Avechary, 615 years after the Coming of Estarra.
There are 24 days until the New Moon
You reach out and embrace your hidden heritage of a changeling, and slowly transform into a faeling.
Your race is now that of Faeling.

The image above churns violently as a hollow voice whispers, "Hardly. I am always listening, little one. To the Glomdoring and the wider Basin."

You nod solemnly.

Lilting in an atramentous, ethereal voice, you say, "I... did have a question for You, if You would be willing."

The image above churns violently as a hollow voice whispers, "Certainly. Speak it."

You think to yourself: ** suddenly a flurry, like feathers or petals drifting through the air - so many, which to ask, which to ask... **.

After a moment, you say, "When the Circles of Elders were first proposed... how did You feel about it? I understand there was... conflict around it."

The image of the night sky grows terrifyingly dark as an icy breeze cuts across the lonely hill, spiralling patterns dancing across the tall grass.

The wind shakes the branches of the blackthorn, the creaking noise like a dry, mirthless laughter.

You feel an icy breath brush across your cheek as a hushed voice says, "Conflict is a gentle way to put it, My little one."

The blackthorn shudders, sending showers of white petals across the fulcrux as a soft voice whispers, "I will answer your question, Esei, but first I am curious... How do you imagine I felt about it?"

You have emoted: Esei bows their head in response to the first statement, perhaps in agreement. Then they frown slightly, catching a falling petal to twirl it lightly in their fingers. "I know Divine emotions are... greater than anything I will be able to comprehend," they say, almost a sigh.

Lilting in an atramentous, ethereal voice, you say, "But..."

With a deepened frown, you say, "Perhaps... disappointment? Anger? Or perhaps a strange sort of sad? Maybe none of those, or all of them."

The image above wavers and ripples gently as a cold breeze howls through the fulcrux.

Shadows swirl around your arm as the Fingerblade of dha'Wyrden-cree digs itself more painfully into your finger.

The boughs of the large blackthorn moan loudly as they shake, sending a new shower of petals cascading across the fulcrux.

The image above churns violently as a hollow voice whispers, "The Circles were flawed. Taking a single, innate talent or interest and trying to chain an Elder to it. Our history is full of those would not fit neatly into the singular categories Zvoltz created. I sympathized with Mysrai and Theirs."

You nod your head slowly in understanding.

You feel an icy breath brush across your cheek as a hushed voice says, "But I must turn My attentions elsewhere for the moment. Be well, My little one."

Lilting in an atramentous, ethereal voice, you say, "Be well, my Lord."

You give the master shrine of Nocht a respectful bow, one hand clasped over your heart.

You stand before the wavering image of the night sky, your arms spread wide. In an instant, shadowy tendrils shoot out and wrap around as they forcibly drag you into the image. All fades to black before you are suddenly hurled into a dark cavern.