A Young One's Prayer

Illyria pauses outside the Fulcrux, arms full of materials, and takes a deep breath.

You think to yourself: What if He hates it?

Illyria shifts her weight, shuffling the stacked bowls and sack of items to a more comfortable position.

You reach out and gently brush your hand against a delicate veil of shadows. Your senses suddenly dull as you feel yourself pulled into the entrancing darkness. As your senses return, you find yourself beneath a beautiful night sky.

Burdened with bowls and bags, Illyria silently makes her way up the hill. The nervous tension that gripped her outside the veil drains away under the silent serenity of the muted night sky, and a soft smile curves her lips. Reaching the shrine atop the hill, the faeling places a small figuring atop it in offering before kneeling beneath the blackthorn tree. Ribbon of midnight black is pulled from the bag and then stretched out upon the grass in a seven-pointed star, weighted down at each tip by a wooden bowl and candle. She places a measure of shadow essence into each bowl, laying an item before each one, then lights the candles one by one. Kneeling in the center of the star, she closes her eyes and takes a long breath in, pulling the icy breeze into her lungs.

You offer up a blank figurine to Nocht, the Silent.

The long inhale is held in her chest for several long seconds, then very slowly let free to disturb the fall of blackthorn petals past her lips. Eyes still closed, Illyria ducks her head and whispers so softly as to be nearly inaudible even in the stillness of the Fulcrux, her wings tucked tightly to her back. "Lord of Silence, shrouded One, father of the Night." The words are paced and cadenced, a slow and methodical invocation. "Shelterer of quiet souls from harsh unyielding light."

Illyria continues nearly inaudibly, "To Your ears I whisper now a quiet supplication. Under blackthorn tree I bow to shape my soul's foundation."

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

Illyria opens her eyes and lifts her chin, leaning forward to the star tip closest to the blackthorn tree. There, she picks up the piece of onyx waiting by the bowl. Halfway polished and half rough-hewn, the odd stone is clutched briefly in her hand before she places it carefully into the bowl of shadow essence. Leaning back on her heels, she closes her eyes once more. "Burn away the chaff and dross, bathe my soul in darkest night. Forge me into sharpest blade to cut away all trace of light."

Illyria whispers in a voice nearly swept away by the wind, "Take the weakness from my soul and bury it beneath the trees. Pure and dark, as beautiful as blackthorn petals on the breeze."

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.

Illyria leans forward and pinches the flame of the first candle, snuffing it out with her fingers. Turning slightly, she focuses on the next point of the star. Picking up the glittering black rose that lies there, she lets her fingers run fondly over the petals before it, too, is placed into its bowl. Smiling faintly, she sits back on her heels and dips her head again, breathing the next words. "Veil my face in inky shrouds, take my eyes as offerings, all the better for to see the beauty of the Night's dark wings."

Illyria continues, hushed and reverent, "Let me be a lovely lure to tempt them to spread wyrden seeds, cloaked in silence that obscures a midnight rose of blackest deeds."

The second candle, too, is quietly snuffed as Illyria pays no mind to singed fingertips. She turns to the right again, picking up the athame that lies in front of the bowl. Here, she pauses, biting her lower lip. After a moment, she exhales and holds her hand over the bowl, cutting free a sizeable chunk of flesh from the meaty portion of her outer palm to fall into the bowl. A sound something like a stepped-on kitten manages to escape her lips unbidden, and her cheeks flush with shame. Letting the blood run freely to mingle with the shadow essence, she whispers in a determinedly steady voice, "Show me what to slice away and what to seek in turn. For my heart a greater prize- the chance to grow and learn."

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

Illyria swallows, then continues softly, hand shaking slightly. "Guide my hands to trade my life to help the Wyrd grow stronger. Bring our foes to grief and strife and cast Night's shadows longer."

With the segment completed, Illyria very carefully snuffs out the candle with a drop of thick blood and sits back. She takes a length of ebon ribbon from just by her knee and tightly binds her hand, layer by layer until the bleeding is subdued. Exhaling, the faeling tucks her hair away behind her ears and rotates again, reaching for the crow's feather that sits before the next bowl. Placing the atramentous pinion into the shadow essence, she closes her eyes again. "Wrap me close beneath a cloak of unrelenting void, bolster shade within my soul and see the light destroyed."

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.

Illyria pauses to savor the feel of soft petals across her face before continuing nearly inaudibly, "Shadows hide and guide my way along the path I tread; keep the doubting words away, let silence reign instead."

This candle too is pinched out, another uncertain and flickering light removed from the beautiful gloom of the hilltop. Illyria turns again, retrieving a handful of blackthorn petals from the ground and casting them into the next bowl with a quiet smile. Yet again, she leans back on her heels, head bowing in worship as the words are barely whispered. "Wisdom lies in whispers soft or saying none at all. Help me know when best to speak to guide foes to their fall."

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

Illyria whispers, continuing, "Let them lean in for to hear the words that leave my tongue. Power to strike love or fear, a trap that may be sprung."

With practiced ease now, Illyria extinguishes the candle. Turning yet again, she faces the sixth point and picks up the twilight blue rose that lies there. This rose receives none of the reverence or appreciation the other enjoyed, placed summarily into the bowl. With a serene face, she resumes the whispered prayer. "Clear my eyes to see the way through dimness and deceit. Help me weave that selfsame web to knock them from their feet."

Illyria softly whispers, "Veiling truth in shades of grey with sweet manipulation, each opponent falling prey to lies and defamation."

Segment complete, Illyria pinches the flame into extinction and turns to the final point with its last, flickering light. She pauses for a few long moments, taking the time to look up into the darkness of the night with its veiled stars. The caress of icy wind on her cheek sends an unbidden wave of goosebumps down her arm and she blinks, focusing on the ritual once more with a smile. She picks up the figurine that lays before the bowl- put together from lumpy pieces and fired into a graceful humanoid whole, the odd amalgamation of various colored clays is placed into the seventh bowl. "All these things I pray of You, to help me be Your tool. Woven into stronger whole, a dark and glittering jewel."

Slowly, lyrically, Illyria whispers, "I am one of many now, a drone inside the hive. Silent One, to you I vow, to help Glomdoring thrive."

As the last words are whisked away into the wind, Illyria falls silent, reaching out to extinguish the final candle. Sitting once more in the peaceful darkness of the Fulcrux, she meditates silently.

After quietly meditating on each tenet for some time, Illyria lifts her head and looks out over the landscape with thoughtful eyes. She waits a minute longer, then carefully collects each bowl, pouring the shadow essence within onto the roots of the blackthorn tree respectfully. With the area returned to its former pristine state, she stands quietly to her feet and lifts off lightly into the air to fly up into the image of Mother Night.

You think to yourself: I hope...

You think to yourself: I hope I don't disappoint Him.