3. The Countenance of Lady Aspera Chillwind...

The Countenance of Lady Aspera Chillwind...


  • Day 2.

    Auril's breath grows ever more accute, her wan fingers even now lilt their freezing jig across my skin. It is the touch of home. I still recall how I used to stand upon the battlements of the tower, reaching out to touch a falling snowflake, the wind whipping it around me. There is a homeliness in the cold it seems. Too long have I known the verdant lands of the south, where warmer pastures stretch out in gluttonous green swathes. In the distance, mountains rise, crowned in their glory by bright raimant of ivory and silver.

    This day I did pass through a great wood. The trees stood silent. Ranked about the path like a hundred warriors, bearly swaying in the breeze. There was silence here, few birds nor beasts lingered. The only breath was that of the wind, sibilant and distant amid the shelter of those frozen bows. Yet I was not alone, for I did hear the crack, a splinter of a branch. Drawing from the energies flickering through my veins, I garbed myself in shadow and strode forward. The path ahead turned sharply, and as I passed it, my eyes were met by a most foul thing. Slumped, grunting and gurgling amid a sickly fire sat five beasts. Their name, at first escaping me, I later uncovered to be 'hobgoblins'. Goblinoids remain a blight of which the world would do well to be scourged.

    Their bodies lie in the dry silence of the forest now.

    So I passed under the final gateway of the sylvan maze, and found myself standing before a track wandering into higher lands. I draw my robe closer, the winter wolf lining soft and warm against my skin. The air about me remains tangibly cold, not freeing, yet the wind has gained a bite it was without before. Yet the fires within me buble, and a thousand thoughts and memories move in my mind. Too long have I planned this trip. Too long have a waited for the moment, the time to move to see what has passed before. Errant hope rises in me that I will find some fragment of information, some feeling that will lead me to uncover the Gem of life, or the tome, or anything that was. I find a need within myself grow. Something in my chest yearns for its touch, its feeling, its power.

    Divinations of Narfell revealed that some essence of it remains there, but wherefore I cannot say. In the past, we will find the path to he future. I hope it is right.

    Tomorrow I move into the foothills. Tor Thanan grows closer.


  • Day 1.

    Dawn crept over the horizon, its syrupy beams melting across the surface of the water like a gilt mirror. The walls of the city tumbled away into the distance, the only evidence of its existence the coiling of roads towards it like a hundred wan serpents, the sun flecking the sandstone cobbles gold. Peltarch is passed, and the north rises before me – deep, dark and chill. And yet, I feel its pull. I write this, the first page of my journal. The page, on first inspection blank, seems to me scrawled with a thousand memories and pasts and thoughts and dreams.

    I return to Tor Thanan.

    I travel in solitude, without guard or defender at my side. I had pondered ordering Anelad to join me, to stand with me upon the nadir of our fallen pinnacle. Yet I could not countenance it. I could not yet let eyes see my fallen majesty. Affairs were set in order – I informed Senator Ashald of my absence from affairs of state and placed my secretary in charge of my estate until my return. If I return.

    Were it possible, I should rather have employed a trans-dimensional portal to transport me from my place of current residence to the remains of the city. However, upon investigation, this proved impossible owing to my own lack of specific study in this field and the apparent lack of competent practioners within the city walls. I toyed with the prospect of requesting the aid of Chaelvin; however, I did not want that half breed poking around in matters best left to those of a purer strain of thought. Like all wizards, he lusts for the power of others. He cannot have it.

    Thus I must proceed to the site by mine own energies. Silence. Few beats reside here. I have sense no danger in the immediate vicinity, so I have drawn camp for the evening. The bandits of the south hold no sway as I proceed north, yet I cannot escape the sense of shadow looming. I dream of thunderclouds roiling in the heavens. They are the colour of blood. Eyes other than mine own examine my progress. I shall proceed with all due alacrity, and with all due stealth.

    Until tomorrow.


  • Politics, I have often heard it said, as like a game of chess. Each piece has its own skills, its own moves. Black and white mirrored perfectly in balance, arranged as if to war amid their battlefield of ebony and ivory. There are casaulties in this war, yet its rules can never change.

    While the king stands, the Queen rules supreme.

    Peltarch is the board of play, and I find it most fitting indeed. Senator Ashald. A most kind, most worthy gentleman of course. It is clear, however, that his political progress, his career would swiftly collapse had he not me here to guide his every footsteps. The way he looks at me, it is clear that with his eyes, his human eyes, he undresses me, imagining in his base conciousness any number of things. The thought of it is enough to drive me to wretched extremes, yet I will premit it.

    So long as he finds me alluring, I will suffer his gaze, for with it, I know that a part of him is stolen away. The Queen will always be supreme. Policy I have guided him - ones that the Senate could not, in all faith deny the usefulness of. And in this useful policy, I do for Senator Ashald a great service, for with it, his position as Senator, responsible, sensible is born.

    As yet, as abhorant as it may be, I require his influence to sanctify my own. I need to build him, to craft him in the image of my choosing. Yet the sculptor is somewhat beholden to his stone, and I cannot help but wonder at the true mettle of this human. He spoke of links with a group. He said that none who sit on the Senate now are of it save for he.

    This will have to be watched closely for should they gain overmuch, I may find myself in a position most costly. Watch thy friends. Watch thy colleagues. For my own position, I will not cut with Rath, and in time, once my position on the Senate is realised, he may prove a useful ally.

    However, in this moment I will concentrate for I cannot afford to suffer a slip. Soon, we shall see the Ministry of Magic become a reality, and from it, I will have the power to see that those who would oppose me fall into death and destruction.

    However, enough of my musings, for the future is yet murky, and much is yet to do.

    My thoughts continue to turn to M'releril.

    In the silence, the pain he caused me has dried up, my hopes that we could be together, unto forever, have too fallen cold as the leaves of Autumn. I no longer trust to hope, for hope has no part of me. Yet my mind, Shar forgive me, continues to turn to that night.

    That night when we both stripped away that which is mortal and embraced and slept in quiet harmony. Coolness of my skin, melted by the warmth of his, my hands moving across his firm and elegant form tenderly.

    I still recall the frantic beating of my heart as we embraced closely. The sweet softness of his lips against mine. It was as the blooming of lilies in spring. An explosion of errant joy within me. His hands, his arms.

    I have sipped of the forbidden chalice of desire, and I cannot help but want more. Something within wishes to take M'releril in my arms and give myself to him with all the fury of the tempest and ignite the flames that simmer within him. I wish to rip his garments from him and give in to the feelings which rock through my entire body at the mere thought of him. I wish to touch every part of him and allow him to touch every part of me…

    Almost every part...

    Yet is not love like a game of chess also? In passion is it not the lady who is in the power.

    Her father was right. The queen does always rule surpreme. Always.


  • ((This is a poem I am rather fond of, the poet who wrote it however has currently fled my mind…I am sure it will return.))

    _Out of the night that covers me,
    Black as the pit from pole to pole,
    I thank whatever gods may be
    For my unconquerable soul.

    In the fell clutches of circumstance,
    I have not winced nor cried aloud.
    Under the blugeonings of chance,
    My head is bloodied but unbowed.

    Beyond this place of wrath and tears,
    Looms but the horror of the shade,
    And yet the menace of the years,
    Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

    It matters not how strait the gate,
    How charged with punishments the scroll,
    I am the master of my fate,
    I am the captain of my soul._


  • The ring glimmered in the flickering radiance of the candle. Catching like hope upon its multi-faceted face, the light flowed through the emerald, casting its beams, like the shoots of spring, about the room. Aspera glanced down at it, her eyes mirrored in its hue. Distracted from the text she held in her willowy fingers, she allowed herself a moment of simple pleasure. Of simple reminiscence.

    Reaching down, she polished the face of her ring, with curious focus cleansing it of perceived dust where no dust lingered. It was pristine, glorious, perfect in its creation. With a critical eye she examined her jewel, nodding contentedly that her item was as it should be, and returned her attentions to the words sprawling before her. Looking down, they seemed to blur, to mutate and flux in her vision. Blinking forcefully, she opened her eyes to see the same, frowning in quiet consternation that her concentration should fail so.

    A whisper drew her attention, the faint movements of the curtains as they lilted in the breeze. It was warm, faintly dank bringing with it the unpleasant greasiness of the city far below. Outside was quiet, save for the barking of an idle hound or the clatter as the guardsmen went about their patrols. The sky was dark, not black, yet an almost grey colour. The sun had long sunk beneath the horizon, its syrupy rays dripping away with it, yet the horrible memory of its warmth still remained. It hung in the air like a foul stench and was as unappealing as such an odour might be. Aspera shuddered slightly as she felt the trickle of sweat down her spine. Her browns knit, shattering her ivory mask for a moment. With hands, slender, she articulated her will unto the Weave and it was so, a blanket of coolness flowing over her, banishing the foul humidity of the dusk.

    Striding to the window, she drew the curtains closed and returned to her desk. The room was bathed in darkness, save for the errant flickering of the candle, its tongues flowing in an almost elegant dance. Taking to her seat once more, Aspera threw the book closed. She could look at it no more this night. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and allowed herself a moment of serenity. She had few enough of these in these days. Crossing her arms, she felt something inside her robes. With an inquisitive hand, she reached inside and withdrew a vial. Holding it to the light, the glass reflected green as the ring had done, though its contents were unmistakable. As the flame’s radiance touched it, the room exploded in a luminosity of crimson. All about her, the room seemed to drip with scarlet light, incarnadined in hideous clarity.

    This was the blood of the paladin. Of Alannia Diams. The asp. The fallen fool. Aspera let a rare smile play upon her lips as she tilted the blood in the light. This was the essence of that which she called foe. This was what M’releril loved. This. Now, she held it in her hand. Now it was hers. Toying with it for a final moment, Aspera moved to place it in her drawer.

    As if guided by divine hand, the candle flame lashed out. A tongue of fire thought to wound her, turn her pale skin to raging red! The vial fell from her grasp. Falling through the air, it landed with a clunk upon the ground, yet she did not see it. Holding her hand in abject horror, her ghostly countenance written a mask of fear as she fixed her eyes upon the impertinent candle. With an almost childish cry, she lashed out with her mind, obliterating the wax into its composite atoms. There would be no more flame! She would not touch the inferno! Never fire!
    And so it played out again before her eyes. The figure of her brother, lashed to the pyre. The flames, passion, reaching higher and higher. The scimitars of flame hewing his pale flesh into a thousand pieces. Cruel hands chanting On! On! As his body surrendered to the fires of their ignorance. The hideous screams as his throat, burning, cried out in his agony. His last words written in flame. First it was that his fair locks did yield, as corn set ablaze by the sun, as gold marred by imperfection. His eyes of emerald glowed to the last, even as his shattered frame did fall, feeble before their feet.

    How the petulant fools triumphed in their own ignominy. How the cretinous beasts gloried in their murder of a boy. He was but a boy. How each injudiciously laughed, cackled, took twisted, distorted pleasure in it. They were nothing but savages, beasts, barbarians. Aspera recalled well how she had dealt with them.

    A hundred bodies lined the road. Each nailed to crosses. Each left to rot in the cold, for the crows to have their pleasure of.

    To die in the snow was too good for them. Humanity the plague. Humanity the curse. Humanity the blight upon nature and this earth.

    She knew them well. She would not surrender to the flames. Never.


  • Aspera sat in her chair in Spellweaver Keep, countless documents, papers, scrolls laid out before her, each scanned, read, absorbed again and again. Countless talk of wells, of the Weave. With an almost desparate sigh, she opened the final tome, throwing open its pages with forced energies. She knew she had to persist.

    The hand was elegant and floral… elven work... and so she read...

    _Here follows the true account of Ulanor Tarilvar…mage of Norwick... the happenings most foul...of man misguided....

    The Death of Purity

    The dew of the morning hung upon the plants like the tears of the gods. The frail glow of dawn crept over the forest, silently. Maria stumbled forward, blind to the tears that ran down her face. Her village was dying; the wells were poisoned yet she could do nothing. Cruel thorns tore into her bare feet as she stumbled into the glade. The wan light of the newborn sun, precariously hanging from the sky stung her eyes, so accustomed to the dark gloom of the forest.

    A pale shadow against the black columns of the trees flitted before her tired eyes. As if a ghost, the mysterious figure fled before her eyes, deeper into the blackness of the forest. Scooping up her tattered rags, she flew after the light in the darkness. Cool water spattered across her tear-worn face as she crashed through the trees. Branches, so pitiless, scarred her body. Inured to pain, she ran after the radiant creature, always slipping in and out of vision.

    Suddenly, she stopped.

    Her eyes grew wide as she looked upon the beauty of it. With grace unknown to the dull minds of humanity, the wondrous creature stepped forward, its hooves making no noise to break the still silence of the morning. Her glazed eyes saw a rippling coat of purest white illuminated by the sun in a halo of iridescent light, its noble brow crowned in its glory by a spiralling horn of ivory. The lunar beauty of the proud and fearless, yet gentle creature stunned her.

    For this was a unicorn.

    The animal moved towards her, yet she did not shrink away. She felt her fear wash away as the tide of magic drifted over her. Venturing out a pallid hand, she laid it upon the unicorn’s side. Warmth spread out its tendrils, enveloping her body in its tenderness. Black, liquid eyes met hers and she understood. Gesturing with her hand she pointed back the way she had come, her child-like eyes pleading. The ill wind blew its bitter chill back into her tired limbs. Gazing into the sky, she saw that the morning that had begun with such promise had sunk into gloom. As summer gives way to winter, so she saw the sun die under the assault of the cloud. The trees around her shook in fear as day turned to night, and lightning lashed angrily across the sky.

    The girl almost quailed under the rage of the storm gods above her, yet something steadied her. The unicorn glowed as a beacon in the darkness, its flowing mane of snow roaring in the wind. Then the storm broke.

    Fiery arrows of water pattered from the leaves above the oddly matched pair. Such a noble, god-like creature beside a poor peasant girl, yet both had something in common. A pure heart.

    Even as the rain fell, the pair hurtled down the well-worn path to her village. The trees parted before them; nothing would bar the unicorn’s path. Time blurred into a single moment, and the maiden was clear of the tree line. With a guiding hand, she touched the unicorn’s strong neck and led the noble creature to the well. Her eyes stung as she looked upon the cancer in the heart of her village, what had once given life and now took it away. The water was covered in a black slime, putrid and vile and deadly to all who touched it.

    Bowing to the moon, the unicorn let the shaft of ivory pierce the surface of the water. When the horn touched it, the water trembled, the slime on its surface dissolved and it shimmered pure as crystal, clean as sunlight.

    "Look to the horn," came an ominous voice from behind them.

    Spinning around, the maiden saw the villagers swarming out of their greasy little huddles to paw at the lustrous satin of the unicorn’s sides. It did not flinch at their rough hands, but daintily sidestepped to be closer to the girl.

    Fear loomed before the innocent girl, as through the eyes of a child she saw the evil intent of the villagers. Their eyes all gazed with the evil glint of greed as they clawed at the unicorn. All thought of the magical beauty of the unicorn was cast aside by the power of human frailties. The mob moved in with terrifying enthusiasm, throwing the maiden aside. She landed heavily against the cold stone cobbles of the road. She could only look on in horror as the men laid about the majestic beast with billhooks and crude spears.

    Tears of purest agony fell from her eyes. This was her fault. She had brought the unicorn here.

    Even before the light had died in the unicorn’s beautiful eyes, they had hacked off the precious horn. Little did they care that they had removed magic from the world; little did they care that they had sinned beyond the universe for the death of purity itself is of little concern to the evil of this world._


  • Aspera looks across the portrait, offering a smile to the elven arists who stood at her side, quivering slightly.

    "You have done well Loenal… "


  • I seize the 50th post in the name of my Dark Mistress! For Shar!


  • Daemons is it now? How strange this place Norwick is. So it is that the vermin swarmed from their hovels but days ago, so it is that a rot is at the heart of the people grows deep indeed.

    I took Chaelvin to be a man of control, a man of power. A dangerous man. Yet as we sat, discussing the Gem of Life, his eyes turned to snow, gazing distantly at a perceived spectral foe. His staff, glowing with energies seemed to swell in my sight as he drew the forces of the weave to him. His aura is potent and his power compelling. Yet perhaps his mind is a weakness. For he screamed of daemons within the mind.

    The daemonic. The Fell. The legions of the Nine Hells. The armies of the Abyss. Many are their names. Many are their energies and powers. Daemonology is a facet of the art which has long been distant from my hand. My essence seemed to recoil somewhat from the touch of such vile creatures. Yet, their powers cannot be ignored. Their might could be focussed closely unto the glory of my name. Fierthior he was once. An imp in my service. He was but a chittering evil. A minor beast. Once I heard a hypothesis upon the nature of the sorceror's familiar. The mage within suggested that these small creatures were a physical manifestation of the life force of the wizard, a signature of their being. I now understand that by this philosophy, the imp which came to me was but a sign of my nature - chaotic, unjustified, confused and enraged.

    Yet what if I could draw upon one more powerful?

    Mayhap the essence of the well would be enough, if the burst of wild magic was sufficient enough. To break the barriers between the planes. I do not know if I have the strength in me, yet bouyed upon the energies that the well could feed me, if I managed to protect myself and draw forth a surge and control it. It may well be possible to call up one of those daemons. My mistress of night… mayhap indeed she too could aid in this business. For a price. The blade is drawn black. In time, I will have to qench light with it. The energies of divine and arcane interwined may have the power to invoke its spirit. Though in doing so, I should be forced to find a fitting sacrifice in Her name.

    Perhaps the word of this creature may help me to find the Gem of Life if I could bind it... I shall have to seek numerous texts upon this. Spellweaver for all of its glory will have them hidden deep in some inner sanctum. I will have to proceed calmly in this business, for if I was to be uncovered, it would be for the ill of all. For now, I will maintain by search for my Gem of Life in earnest. It is close, almost tangible and not quite unto me.

    So I turn my eyes to texts and scrolls. So I look through eyes upon thousands of words, to see truth from fallacy. So I return to my books.

    Aluve' malla ilharess


  • ((Man, I love reading this diary. Keep up the good…er, I mean evil... work. I have to admit, I really think Kara would be very much like Aspera if Kara had fallen to evil...

    Was fun being a bitch... I think I'll have to make a new character...))


  • Unto life's testament I stand, alone upon the last shore. Someone said that to me once. I forget who it was now. Though true I find it upon each examination of it. In the end, we all stand alone. No matter how close we hold others in life. In my delirium of rage and of pain, I lost sight of this. I thought for one horrible moment that Meril was my all in this life, and without it, there was little left for me. Perhaps this is true. Yet we must take life as we find it, and my road winds into the distance before me. I choose to follow it.

    Though I must confess, I would that my tongue had not lashed out upon the eve of the time that my execution at the hands of the peasants seemed certain. For they have not forgotten my words. The Selunite knows of whom I hold close. The fool will fall to rot and ruin. Her light extinguished by my strong hand. So it is written, so let it be done.

    Many are the things that unfold in this dank collection of hovels. For it was but yesterday that a host of those who walk in shadow approached. Ashan, the beast dressed in the petty countenance seeks me skills in discovering the validity of orbs of power. The banite seeks to bind them to his will and use them unto whatever depraved end his master would direct him unto. Petty things these disciples of the Dark Hand are. I could see his ignorance in his eyes, written clearly upon every movement of his crude features. This ox could not understand the subtleties of the manipulation of the weave. He will not be able to operate the orbs should they be of properties as he suggests.

    The bard, my fateful fellow, Meril knows of such secrets according to the words of this pawn. Out of professional interest… I may question him upon these artefacts. As to my later use of the information however and whether I grant it to Ashan remains to be seen. Only once it is clear that I cannot gain it myself will I proceed in such a matter. It is the only logical course of action.

    Moreover, it was the followers of this brusque behemoth which intruiged me. Many seemed but petty thugs, yet another walked beside him. One he introduced and Elendel. I do not walk these lands with my eye distant and my ear beset with silence. This was the drow that the barbarians in the town speak of in hushed whispers and silent terrors. More odd. Part of me, upon drawing close to this creature felt the revulsion that all of my kind would.... yet another. It cannot be said.

    Nevertheless, the fact that this man exists was enough evidence for me. I cannot say what drove me, save for the savage joy of it. Upon the wings of darkness, I stole out to the camp of the elves to the south. With silvered tongue, I informed their leader of the' people' of Norwick's actions in allowing the drow to escape, suggesting that they are in league with such dark forces. Who can say what will transpire of it. Yet it satisfied my petty revenge.

    And so it is that other enemies seek to close in. The foolish, doomed Silverstar sought to accuse me of tampering with the well. Cretin. She does not comprehend my scrying and took it for some sort of foul action upon my part. However, one cannot deny that some correlation did indeed occur between my subtle, delicate manipulation of the weave and a burst of increased magical disturbance. It remains to be seen, however, whether these are, as my research seems to suggest, random occurances, of whether my use of the weave, even slight, did cause such a reaction.

    However, it seems that the elf Braeth, possessed with his belief in the 'greater good' seeks my end. He seems sadly misguided, in time he will make a move upon my life. Of that I am almost certain. We must simply hold ourselves close, and trust only in the mistress embrace that I be prepared when the day comes that I may strike out in turn.

    Dark, night, hoplessness.

    I arm myself with all. Now let them come.

  • ?

    When kin I buy ye that drink, lass?

    leers and grins

    M


  • _Underneath her normal journal is written this small verse intitled 'Praises unto Shar'…

    I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,
    Their hooves heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;
    The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,
    The East her hidden joy before the morning break,
    The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,
    The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:
    O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,
    The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:
    Beloved let your eyes half close and your heart beat
    Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,
    Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,
    And hiding thier tossing manes and their tumultous feet._


  • A new page is taken in the journal. The hand is one of calm confidence and controlled action once more. Moreover, such are the flourishes upon some of the letters, one would almost think her quite happy.

    Forgive me for I have sinned. It has been some time since my last confession.

    Many have the days and weeks that I have walked apart. I split with all that I knew and loathed and hated and hurt beyond that which I have in my soul. Upon legs, never wearied by wood nor stone nor wind, I walked the lands in search of that which once I knew, and was clouded.

    Yet to understand that place upon which I stand now, I must gaze back with distant eyes to the past that seems so ethereal now. I must see through eyes beset with clarity that which was, for good or for ill.

    I could lie to myself. I could claim that when Meril cut with me, my heart was unchanged, unflinching. Yet it would only be a lie. I stood in my desolate weakness, the shards of my shattered heart burning in my chest. I stood and looked with eyes, clouded by a thousand mists of emotion.

    No more.

    Upon the silent field, where none walk, I delved into that which resides within, and struck. With all my energies, I mustered cyan strength, yet the creature would not fall, and in turn, my spirit was ripped in twain. Hightower. Long may his name be cursed in the annals of my houses. And so it was atop a pillar of flame that I fell into the land which has no name. And in that place, I lost myself that I may live once more in the light, where the trees and flowers grow.

    It was, through these bleeding eyes, incarnadined by rage, that I finally saw that which was and that which is. Though a tongue controlled by the power of truth, I spat out all the venom that the asp and adder had driven through my chest. I saw finally that which was true: I saw that there was something which could not break with me. The touch of my Lady. The touch of Shar.

    So it is that I walk eternally in her embrace. So it is that I will quench the light of the moon for her, if the needs be. So it is that I live again. The Silverstar will fall. The paladins in their radiant self satisfied glory will be bathed in the mistress' glory. They will feel the sting of the blade and the grim agony of their blood flowing from their shattered bodies. And the adder, in his fawning weakness will tell me what he knows. I am the Winter Rose, and no spring will dare melt my radiance. Nevermore.

    And in her embrace, I bury all of my pain. For there is no need of it now. Hope is beyond and light gone. Yet the stars are now wanted now, put out every one. For in darkness I have found my peace. And in the bringing of it unto this world, I will find glory.

    In the books and in the song of the weave, the Gem of Life becomes clearer to me. My hands reach out across the ethers and it falls into their grasp. I am close mistress of the dark. So close that I can almost taste it.

    Fear me, for I am your apocalypse…

  • D

    Reviewed. XP Pending.


  • _Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,
    Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
    Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,
    Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

    Your mother land is always young,
    Dew ever shining and twilight grey;
    Though hope fall from you and love decay,
    Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

    Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
    For there is mystical brotherhood
    Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
    And river and stream work out their will;

    And Goddess stands winding her lonely horn,
    And time and the world are ever in flight;
    And love is less kind than the grey twilight,
    And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn._

  • ?

    Xp Given


  • Reviewed. XP Pending.


  • Shadows whispered into her mind… the echoes of combat, the sound of sword against shield, blades drawn and the tears of blood and agony staining the field. The yelling... nay... the howling... fires leaping up across her body. Lights flaring before guttering black once more. Hearts rending before falling still. The whore's lifeblood burning the land crimson.

    Her hand touched the water of the well, skipping lightly across its surface as if taunting it to strike at her. To burn out whatever canker made her wretch and cry each and every morning. A drop of will, the very whisper of arcane wording dripped from her finger. The dagger was held but an inch from her heart, though she had not the stomach to drive it home.

    The shadows began to whisper again... they said that they had something to claim from her. Something that they wanted and that she must acent to giving. A final wave of fear washed through her before the red clouds exploded from the surface of the water. Noxious, hideous, the cloud of pestilence filled her lungs and in her chest, she felt her heart explode. Perhaps this would be the end. Perhaps it would be right.

    Images, the planes, the fires, the ice all hacking at her. Their bitter memory. Their painful scars. Shadow's embrace. Hearts beating still and filled with a warmth. Shar. She was all she had left. The adder would pay. She would see to it that he could not leave her. There would be a child, and it would be his and he could not leave her. He could not.

    She had to do it. She had to show him. A scroll to dominate his mind was all that she needed. Her love would make them whole. He would be hers...


  • No need to appologise - I love praise as I am of course, needy in that regard 😉

    If you really want to be a foe of Aspera, start worshiping Selune in a public manner… or be a friend of the paladins... or be a priest of Lathander ... or sleep with Meril cough oh wait... maybe not....

    Now that would have been a shock!

    Just hope they get round to xping me soon!

    Thanks

    Lady Aspera Chillwind
    ArUlric