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Old 08-27-2014
Grey-Moth's Avatar
Grey-Moth Grey-Moth is offline
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A Fool's Errand; The Starweaver

Pursed lips pressed to a stag as the elf placed her lips to a coin. The cool temperature of the bit of iron and gold almost void like, if the sensation of something solid, despite such cool temperature, hadn't followed alongside it. Her pinched fingertips placing the sovereign atop altar and though still timid in such motions, a gesture of prayer made.

Only the night sky and dense, untamed foliage of the Viridale was there to witness her prayer to Sehanine, and Angharradh. Only they were there to smell the aroma of dried herbs set to flame by the snap of arcane gesture, fire conjured from nothing more then night air and a few murmuring words. Fingertips dipping to bowl, and stirring until it was merely a small pile of embers. Stubbornly feeding, and stubbornly returning that scent of smoke and ash, the smell of faith and praise.


The Starweaver walked her woods, with the scent still clinging to her form. Vapors of smoke still rose from her tightly woven black hair for a few seconds longer as the Viridale's realm of life croaked, clicked, hooted and rustled. But she had no fear for such things anymore. When she spoke of 'her' woods, she never meant they belonged to her. No, it was much deeper then that. Much how one commands their own hand, and is powerless without it. That was how to perceive the term, an all too familiar facsimile to her corporeal form.

Maybe it was just as much escaping her frail body as it was the desire to explore the forest that overtook her so many nights. The sensation she was whole in this scant moments where her entire body felt left behind and only a moon elf's soul explored the meanings of life, death, and eternal life again. She was a soul far older then a body. More attuned to trees and rocks, to flowing rivers and countless, abundant life. Then she could ever be to cold and hard stone. To worked wood, and vermin. It helped her see Greagrios' old, stern expression in the rolling fogs that swallowed everything, and made it a cloud of uncertainty.

Her heart jumped as his final words came to her once more. A lie, but a beautiful and understandable one. He'd just meet them ahead... even his lips moved, as ethereal as they were here. It stuck with her. The image of his dead body in those filthy, dark walls.

It was no place for his memory to end. Or Avara to consider time, and time again for her fallen brother. He deserved so much better, deciding on the spot, that she'd give him precisely that. She'd bring his memory home.

Small fingers slid to the array of belts across her left arm. The withered thing that gained her far from respect, but a wealth of wisdom. Wisdom that transmuted as if magic, to power. And power, bandaged so heavily in medicines. That new reached into the ley.

"It's a fool's errand." her small voice spoke against the quiet and natural world.

Not a single disruption across it even as her will became not quite foreign to the ley, and to the weave. it wasn't quite domination, as a wizard. And it wasn't quite instinct, as a druid. It was somewhere between, where two energies attempted to match.

"But he deserves that much. Deserves everything I may yet give."

And penetrated the veil of ancient secrets. Her slim, ethereal portal snapping shut as her body rode the lines of matter and form. Today was a day to change destinies. The moonlight granting the hour, to send her elder, her teacher, and her friend. On to the next life. And far, far away from these cruel surroundings.


She had no idea just how cruel. Her stomach was in knots as she exited the ley, and her spine nearly felt cracked. Her withered limb thrummed with pain that argued with her concentration. There was a groan of protest as her eyes zipped upward.

Too late to dodge it. Only enough time to measure out, and narrowly evade outright death from the falling ceiling. A plume of dust and cracks running deep into the stone beneath her as the Citadel wasn't quite done in trying to bleed her. The skin along her left side saturated in abrasions that wept red, and her ankle nearly snapped in half. She could count each second as a eternity realizing she was still alive.

The Citadel's portal room. She recognized the stone, and the small altars that designated each of the portals. Her small hand splayed across the stone as she worked to hone her other senses to the here and the now, her knees aching from slamming across the floor. A few beads of her own blood giving the smallest of wet 'plit's as her head ceased spinning. A moment was taken, and no longer as her scimitar's sheathe slammed into the cracked stone floor. Her single frail arm tensing as she rises.

Pain is a distant memory when you have a mission. A duty to uphold to someone. It must have been that integral element that separated men that lead, and men that follow. Her frame hobbled, bent and still rising, but it knew the way to go. Knew as she stopped but a moment to consider the masses of rubble all around her, knew the words to speak of a spell. Her sword turned cane tapping a massive rock before her as it melted and pooled into nothing more then mud, and bid her passage to the door.

Jammed tight. Her brow furrowed with brief contempt for the object as her body gave a few more earnest yanks. But the bars were open enough...

Enough time was wasted. Her closed briefly as the small elf became a smaller still cat, and leaping, passed this single barrier and onto the Citadel proper. She thought for a moment, she could hear him again as if he were still there to chastise them. How she'd half-smiled, and chuckled for his grumpy air of indignation.

"You've certainly changed, haven't you."

The cat was an elf once again in no time. No crunch, no clicking, just the pitch black furred little cat rising, expanding and assuming a new form. The gold eyes remaining across both bodies, as they settled onto the stairwells surrounding her. Taking in the outright destruction.She hadn't considered it, before. Not at length. How much devastation must have ripped in the wake of the Nexus being destroyed. Not that anything remained, now.

"You were once so proud. For stone, at least..."

Her footfalls echoed only for the lack of any white noise. There were no more lit torches, or ever-burning braziers. What rays of light penetrated only seemed as gloomy and doomed as the castle itself, climbing up each stairwell in steady shuffles. That cracking noise interrupted her train of thought. Stepping aside, to watch as another support pillar collapsed.

"Now you're just rock, again. You should be happy for that, I suspect. How anything, be it man or matter, should not have to serve the dark gods."

Perhaps they were in agreement with her. The ceiling was starting to give way, and soon, the sun and moon of Toril would by destiny and conquest, penetrate this black tomb of evil. It was unfortunate they hadn't asked her, first. Perhaps she could have bartered just a few minutes longer, forced to dart and corner each turn by skin of her teeth and narrowed brow. He had to be here, somewhere. A man as he? No necromancy could possibly touch a child of earth as devout as him, it spurned her heels to keep going despite the ache of so much stone assailing her. Thick rocks crashing across her frail shoulders and tremors trying to knock her right off of her feet.

Such faith was rewarded. His body seemed so dignified, even in death. Scores of worthless undead warriors, rotting long before they ever met Greagrios lay around him. A testament to his strength.

Their rot took so many forms. Even the felled Banites rotted in their souls. Humbled, they now rot in body. But something was... odd. Off. Not unnatural. But Greagrios, he hadn't taken to withering as a corpse as deeply as those that surrounded him.

He just looked at rest. The color was gone from his cheeks, but their was no sure signs of withering. Still clutching a duskwood staff in his now limp arms.

"I wish I could take you with me." The Starweaver quietly lamented to the fallen man.

Her rough palm passing over his cheek, his beard still as stiff and rigid as the quills of a porcupine. But he was much more of a bear, guiding cubs. Angry, and quick to it but past such a thick hide... well. He'd loved every last one of them. From Airgetlam, to Acolyte, he yelled because his words were important. His wisdom was born of ages. And his heart, too large to display to all of them and still hold position as unquestionable guidance.

Her hand folded over his old staff. So many stressed cracks across the surface, nearly broken right in half. As it stood, any fashion of enchantment had left the old shod staff. She could see it right in her mind, Greagrios' determination striking a Banite helmet so deeply, the steel helm folded inwards and brutalized what few brains these cultists still had. With a quick jerk, the staff was soon passed onto her right as the floor sincerely began to quake.

"But I'll take what I may. Your memory, and your conviction, leave here on my shoulders. Let us together run from this place. We'll never look back, again."

It's precisely what she did. Sword across hip, and broken staff in hand hammering the way back to the portal room. Hammering as much as her heart as falling debris crashed in cascades, hunting her every step.
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Old 08-27-2014
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Grey-Moth Grey-Moth is offline
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Run Far, Far Away

Her slender frame crashed through the now destroyed door-frame of the portal room, the last tremor sweeping her off her feet. A panting mixture of anxiety and fear gave way to only one emotion as she climbed to her knees, and drew her last gift for the Black Citadel.

A simple, and single acorn. It would be a miracle. It'd be almost too much to ask of the gods. But what greater miracle is there, then life itself, and the cycles of the natural world? On her knees she whispered her prayer, and her wove her magic as strongly as she could into this one, tiny seed. And slammed her tiny palm down into the cracked and broken stone.

Maybe by some miracle, to take root. Maybe by some miracle, to begin to heal this broken land. To become a towering tree, where seeds would find shelter beneath. To take back from the darkness, their earth, and their world. Blood and tears had been the birth of Tel'Quessir. Now for one moon elf's blood, and tears to foster even more.

It would be some miracle. But miracle-workers did exist. The elf penetrating a veil of uncertainty once more, and her very being sent hurtling into mystery again.


A half bloody eye cracked open as she stared into the sky. Whose tree was this, though? She couldn't tell straight away, shutting her eyes and taking a deep, pained breath. Everything was bruised now. But not broken, as the Starweaver wove magic into her humbled little body. A spell of regeneration to slowly knit her wounded form.

The smells were off. Mountainous air, a bit of water. There was a campfire... Schild. She'd been spat out in Schild. Coughing, labored breaths causing her to wince and clutch Greagrios' staff to her chest.

It was alright to lay here. That was all that was important to her, as she started crying from how much everything hurt. The sun was the only one there to witness her reduced to a heap of crying in her victory. For another hour she'd still be there, long after the tears stopped. But for that hour, she'd drop her titles and be a fragile girl for a short while.

And then she'd stand. When all traces of weakness were shed and fed the grass she'd stained with her blood. Bruises still surfaced in ugly purple marks, but the swelling had gone across her body. Her ankle set in the right position. She'd stand as the Starweaver must, and wander down the road.

Accompanied by a mirage of her former master. Or perhaps his spirit, beckoned free of the grave the Citadel had tried to be. Perhaps he merely accompanied her. She hoped his pride at how much she'd grown was real. That her promise to make all of this worth something. Could be felt in a realm beyond.
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Last edited by Grey-Moth; 08-27-2014 at 09:43 PM.
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