Her voice firm and commanding, Terentia, the Even Bladed says to you, "You have kept your oath to Me, Parhelion. You have sworn to maintain Justice in these troubled times."
Yet if a boon be granted me, unworthy as I am, let it be for a steady hand with a clear eye and a fury most inflaming.
Her voice firm and commanding, Terentia, the Even Bladed says to you, "You have kept your oath to Me, Parhelion. You have sworn to maintain Justice in these troubled times."
Yet if a boon be granted me, unworthy as I am, let it be for a steady hand with a clear eye and a fury most inflaming.
Did anyone collect examined descriptions for the chickens during yesterday's chicken hunt?
0
EveriineWise Old Swordsbird / BrontaurIndianapolis, IN, USA
edited January 2022
Yessssssssssssss, I love it!
Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele, floats ominously above the ground.
This pillar of roughly-hewn, dark rock stands upright and floats a few inches above the ground. Roughly cylindrical with a gently rounded taper, it retains the crude, natural form given it by nature; a chisel wielded by an abecedarian hand did the rest. The work is, overall, slipshod and sloppy--except for the face. The differences in style and skill are poles apart. The face of the stone, carved in high, sunken relief, depicts an eagle's head bearing fiendish and hostile features that stretches nearly the entire length of stone. None of its dimensions are quite right, drawing on eldritch geometry for inspiration. Deep, empty eye sockets that stare in all directions at once; jagged feathers flared in horror; and a sharp, elongated beak, open to emit a terrible shriek, give the head a frightening visage. Comparatively little room or thought is given to the rest of the bird's body. Two simple, hastily wrought wings, absent any feathers carved into them, fold over the chest of the bird. Whoever carved the fearsome image either neglected to leave enough room for the legs and talons, or simply omitted them. Strange, unsettling wodesigns and geometric patterns decorate the rough sides of the megalith, and crackling streamers of lightning race along the surface. A myriad of soft, malcontented voices whisper around the carved stone from an undiscernible source.
You greet Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele with a sincere smile.
A chorus of dissonant, bitter whispers swells in the air around Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele . A feminine voice answers, "What is it?"
You greet Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele with a sincere smile. A chorus of dissonant, bitter whispers swells in the air around Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele . A masculine voice answers, "Yes?"
You give a tiny firebreathing salamander to Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele. A tiny firebreathing salamander floats toward Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele and settles into an erratic orbit around it.
You say, "Deliver to Lendren." A platter of powderfruit elephant mochi orbits Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele as it floats away to deliver it.
A clangor of whispers repeating, "It is done," over and over, precedes the entrance of Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele.
You say, "Eagle." Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele drops to the ground with a thud and falls eerily silent.
The whispering fades as Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele, floats northeast.
A clangor of whispers from the south precedes the entrance of Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele.
Purple and blue sparks arc and crack across the Eldritch Stele's surface.
Caustic whispers ripple through the air, leaving you chilled and unsettled.
And a huge shoutout and thank you to @Rancoura, wherever she is, for the initial help in brainstorming and revision.
Everiine is a man, and is very manly. This MAN before you is so manly you might as well just gender bend right now, cause he's the manliest man that you ever did see. His manly shape has spurned many women and girlyer men to boughs of fainting. He stands before you in a manly manerific typical man-like outfit which is covered in his manly motto: "I am a man!"
Daraius said: You gotta risk it for the biscuit.
Pony power all the way, yo. The more Brontaurs the better.
Descriptions from the observation crystal during Li-varili's judging. Someone else will have to post a log of the conversation elsewhere!
Though asymmetrical in appearance, this mighty crystal nonetheless has a fine shape: no jagged edges here or wild protrusions, but instead the smooth tapering of its many facets and sides into two points at either end of its length. Warmth engenders the hand when touched, a sensation brought by the swirling immanidivinus energies that imbue the crystal with a subtle aura of power and muted light; it is from this energy too that images resolve within the stone, indeterminate shapes or figures that seem to snap into sharp relief before dissolving again into obscurity. A feeling of vertigo overwhelms the senses when looking through the crystal for too long, almost as if one were not peering through the pale, translucent stone but rather looking through the window or the eyes of another. It weighs about 1000 pounds. It has the following aliases: crystal, observation, memory. You may use the observation crystal in the following ways: * USE OBSERVATION SURVEY - Peer through the crystal and try to discern the location of the Elder divine. * USE OBSERVATION EXAMINE - Look through the crystal and examine the surroundings of the Elder divine. * USE OBSERVATION LOOK <GOD> - Glance through the crystal and take stock of a particular Elder. * USE OBSERVATION WHISPER <TEXT> - Use the crystal to whisper a short message or prayer to Li -varili. * TOUCH OBSERVATION - Touch the crystal to sense the disposition of Li-varili and the proceedings.
Your eyes fixate upon the many facets of the observation crystal, trying to focus on whatever details you are able to notice: You notice the following Elders present: Drocilla, Lisaera, Maylea, Ein, Crumkane, Lantra, Carakhan, Terentia, and Nocht. You sense that the Elders have congregated in the Divine Havens. Despite the desert sands, you cannot tell what further environmental features or factors are present. You sense that the Elders reside on the Prime Material Plane. You sense that the Elders are outdoors.
You lean closer and stare into the humming depths of the observation crystal, taking stock of the place where the Elders currently stand: You notice that they reside within an endless expanse of fine, white sand. All around you is sand. Simply, purely, completely. Dune after dune rises and falls like the rushing of waves, curiously sibiliant in the same manner, but eddying into fine granules that would scour the skin rather froth and dissolve into foam. Above, the radiance of the sun rains down oppressively; this light reflects against the stark whiteness of the sand, much like a mirror, much like the snow, much like the sea, with the faintest shimmer of gold. Even though you are merely observing through the crystal, you can still feel the heat of this desert: almost as if you were there, its dryness tickling your nostrils with the chalky odour of dust. There is no vegetation, no break of shrub or boulder. Just the sand endlessly moving in quiet agitation.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Drocilla: She is radiant and breathtaking to be sure, but as You look at Her, You feel the rage, the indigiation, the hatred that bubbles up at the mere sight of Her beauty. What does a betrayer look like? Her, of course. Someone who offers glory, power, everything... only to clamp manacles upon the wrist, bind You to a damnable seat. Those purple eyes, not worth the name of the colour they truly are, those eyes are the eyes of a liar. And She knows it. Her perfection and poise, all calculated, inculcated, and maturated. And They punish You when She still stands there? Pathetic.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Lisaera: This thin sprout of a figure, a maiden, who is this? Whence has She arrived? So late returning from the Void? From some vacant place within the First World? And She earns the right to punish You? Do not trust that gentleness that this maiden sports. Do not trust those eyes that sparkle with youthful curiosity. She is indeed a predator. An owl? No, a vulture. If She faced what You faced with the Moon instead of the Sea, of no doubt would they would pity Her. Sweet maiden.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Maylea: She is so full of vibrancy. Not simply colour--from the gold of Her eyes, the blue in Her hair, to the prismatic hues that dance about Her--but power itself. None of them know it or recognise it, save perhaps Nocht. But You can respect someone who knows the many ways to threaten another. You can respect someone who would do everything to make sure to gain what they want. She is not so different from You. And perhaps, at another time, in a different life, You would have gone to Her first.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Ein: Energy seethes, drips, agitates around this Elder, and as You linger upon His shape: the hair, the boyishness, the vicious wound on His arm, nothing but doubt and disinterest foams within Your thoughts. Who is this? Hmm, was He not one who heard Mysrai's voice? Inspired by the truth of the Circlebreaker? How pathetic that He offers aide and services to even weaker Elders, who think their truth and ethics and justice matter. And what truly matters here? For it is not justice. Mewling hypocrisy. But those eyes... they seem so familiar. Gold-green. Gold-green. You stare at Him for a moment longer, and You dwell upon your current predicament.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Crumkane: This Elder... Ha! Haha! This fool, this cad? This is the one that They bring to dole out punishments? And what would this jovial cretin, this utter imbecile, what would He to offer in terms of insights? Cookies? Pastries? He would rather feast on them Himself than say anything valuable or useful. No thoughts, no opinions. Just crumbs from His ridiculous moustache. Discontent churns within You like the choppy waves of a sea storm. And His hair is ugly too.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Lantra: There She is. She said She cared about You, wanted to heal You, fix You. You don't need fixing or healing or care. You need what you deserve, what is rightfully yours. And She thinks Herself so unassuming. And why for? She burdens Herself with the weight of old opinions, old beliefs, old strictures. Hamadhi? She wears such hypocrisy like the veil about Her head, while wielding it like a weapon just like the spear in Her hand. A Goddess of Light who is no different than Drocilla: both tying You down, believing They know better. And the funny thing is... You can see in the blue of Her eyes that She could be something greater.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Carakhan: You see nothing but the raw, pure redness of rage.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Terentia: How funny, how delightful that a famed Warrior of the Golden Circle would look so small, so ridiculously puny in comparison to these others. What, does this old weapon consider Herself humble? Ha! Humility be damned, especially when She deigns to spit the words 'justice' and 'mercy,' as if She coined them, as if She wasn't -made- to think them. As you stare at those icy green eyes, You remember that you know the truth about Her. There is only a fine line between killer and protector, and the ever tightening narrow of Her gaze tells that She knows that You know.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Nocht: A mere shadow isn't He? And He, one of the most keen and wise and powerful of all the Awakeners, now a little ghost or wisp of His former self. Victim in His own games against Maylea, unable to even see when He Himself was being played. He is a fool, and He will remain one until every one of those flowers bleed out His essence, and then He will just be a morsel to some stronger, greater power.
Some of the touch messages (definitely not all):
Li-varili's thoughts waft through the crystal to your own mind, sweet and sickeningly like a bromieliad's fragrance: And what of the Bloodtide? What will they do? Will they strike out against My Kin? Or will they retreat back to being mewling kittens, afraid of getting wet? No, they have learned from Me. And I from them.
Seething like the onbreak of a storm, Li-varili's thoughts coalesce through the crystal and cloud your own: And They had mortals give testimonies? Hahaha, those pathetic, sweet fools? What matters their voices, their opinions, when it comes to Me? What do any of them know of immortal desires? The pain that I felt? The betrayal?
Li-varili's thoughts roar above your own like a furious wave cresting before it descends, echoing
loudly through the crystal to you: And the BETRAYER! They have HER judge ME! SHE who partook the
Elixir? SHE who pushed ME into that DAMNABLE SEAT! She who would gift Me riches and beauty and then
gut Me like a fish when She has the first chance. She will have NO MERCY from ME! EVER!
Booming like the din of thunder, Li-varili's thoughts echo loudly throughout your mind: Carakhan...
She still holds Herself blameless. A thief! THIEF! If there is any morality in this world, She will
get what comes to Her! She will know the pain that I have felt!
The crystal's connection to Li-varili brings Her thoughts to the forefront, like a wave battering
the shoreline. You see faces bubbling up in a confluence of wild and bright light: the sly face of
Soriali; the gleeful face of Klaia; Oinone's lips twisted in laughter; the twisted visage of Iaira
as Li-varili throws her corpse into Her cauldron.
Like rising floodwaters, Li-varili's thoughts surface through the crystal and overwhelm your own:
Ahaha! These fools hew closely to ancient customs of justice, but yet they cannot even summon a
Meditator to arbitrate. What justice is this? What fairness is here? None! Just complete hypocrisy.
As your hand connects to the crystal and links to Li-varili's thoughts, you witness something within
your mind's eye: a submerging, an inching down, down, down into the depths of blue, then black, then
even darker waters. And there, surrounded by crags as ancient as the Elders Themselves, you see the
Seat. A chilled pain shudders down your back, as you feel, phantomly, the grating, slashing,
stabbing pain, as if you were the one who sat there on it. For years. For centuries. For times
untold.
Darkness floods your mind through your connection to the crystal, and illiminated in flashes like
lightning is Li-varili, Her figure above the First World as the rains descend upon it: the seas
agitate, the roads flood, the Bay barely afloat, and the Tidal Flats drowned. You sense that She
luxuriates in this power, this ability to bend the world to Her grasp. And you hear it, that mad
cackle escaping Her throat, like the gurgle of a drowned person... but it is forced. As if, there is
something behind all that pain.
Through the crystal, Li-varili's thoughts descend upon you like rain, saturating your mind with Her
opinions and feelings: And these Awakeners here: Nocht, Lisaera... if they were in My position, what
would they have done? Their children live! Their children is loved! Do They think that They would
not do the same as Me? Loathesome, the both of them. May they never know solace or rest.
When the connection is made, you feel the tempestuous tides of Li-varili's thoughts roiling through
your own mind, and then, Her words hissing like the teeming of the seas: And what choice do They
wish Me to make? Into the Void like the Traitors? Into the shackles of Lantra to be 'healed'? How
predictable They are. How utterly stupid. What I would do to them again, when I get the chance. They
think They can control Me, but I will not be controlled. I will not be contained. I am Li-varili,
and I. Will. Drown. Them. All.
Swirling thoughts and visions invade your mind's eye, the link between you, the crystal, and Li
-varili whipping about furiously like the sea. But in a moment of pause, something rises from the
foam: Keltari and Li-varili, standing side by side, gazing out at the bejewelled horizon of the most
serene sea. And then, in a sudden surge, it is torn away. Drowned by other thoughts.
As you make connection with Li-varili, the feeling of something catching you takes hold: like a kelp
strand upon your leg, like the undertow pulling you beneath the waves. And then, like thunder, you
hear Her voice: You will see their foolishness, mortal. Because of Me, you will learn the hypocrisy
of the Elder Ones. And in the end, I will be victorious regardless.
Crumkane, Lord of Epicurean Delights says, "WAS IT INDEED ON FIRE, ERITHEYL."
-
With a deep reverb, Contemptible Sutekh says, "CEASE YOUR INFERNAL ENERGY, ERITHEYL."
The strangest feeling of being watched overcomes you, yet before you can investigate you are met with an abrupt chill. Wet warmth follows as you look down to see crimson spreading across your chest, blossoming out from the forearm that has emerged from a tear in the aether to pierce your flesh. Then, the numbed shock is broken as you hear something wet sloshing against the ground. You stare forward as the world begins to dim, torturous pain the only thing keeping you conscious to see your heart crushed into shredded tatters. Your knees crumble at last, and your body falls lifeless to the ground in a growing pool of your own blood. Your final memory before death is the voice of Malmydia, laughing in derision. You have been slain by Malmydia.
And the favour, to boot:
Essence surges beneath their skin, and the air surrounding them shimmers with a faint glittering light as the truefavour of Malmydia, the Chiurgeon dances about them in a nearly translucent fog.
Crumkane, Lord of Epicurean Delights says, "WAS IT INDEED ON FIRE, ERITHEYL."
-
With a deep reverb, Contemptible Sutekh says, "CEASE YOUR INFERNAL ENERGY, ERITHEYL."
From events of "After Me, the Flood"
In Maylea's Fulcrux:
"flowers400980" a many-hued garden of faithful blossoms
Glowing like a small swaying garden amidst the meadows, these blossom appear separate from the wildflowers that surround them, having been formed from pure raw immanidivinus etheara. Their petals shift and sway in the ever-present breezes that circle the grove, adding their fragrance to the scented air, the slightest movement causing their energies to scatter and float away. The rippling power feels reminiscent, as of the Elder Divine to whom one is most familiar or faithful. It cannot be told how many such flowers bloom together here, and it is difficult to resist the urge to pluck one in reverent devotion.
The flowers growing here smell simply divine, perhaps you should PLUCK one for yourself?
Taking a knee, you reach and pluck a single flower from the garden here, the slightest touch causing raw immanidivinus energy to scatter like pollen and wreathe your hands in a gentle light. [HINT]: You may TOUCH the flower to attune it to your divine.
"flower415459" a flower blossoming with faith
This beautiful flower blossoms with faith, so imbued is it with the overflowing essence of the Elder Gods. The slightest movement of its petals causes for raw immanidivinus etherea to scatter at the touch, wreathing its stem and bloom in an aura that radiates Divine majesty and strength. Domothean energies pulse from the fragile flower to faintly ripple in the aether, humming with a thrum of latent power.
You reach out and touch a flower blossoming with faith.
A flower blossoming with faith changes under your blessed touch, imbued with Blossoming Faith for Lisaera.
"flower415459" a moonlit flower of the Silver Goddess
This beautiful flower blossoms with faith, so imbued is it with the overflowing essence of the Elder Gods. The slightest movement of its petals causes for raw immanidivinus etherea to scatter at the touch, wreathing its stem and bloom in an aura that radiates Divine majesty and strength. Domothean energies pulse from the fragile flower to faintly ripple in the aether, humming with a thrum of latent power. The petals of this moonlit flower gleam a breathtaking shade of argent, radiating the glory of the Silver Goddess.
Lisaera, the Hallowed Crone: Moonlight pierces the air about Lisaera, the Silver Goddess, shrouding Her within its pale glow. She wields a knotted moonhart lantern in Her left hand.
Despite the moonlit aura that glitters brightly around Her, the hunched figure
of Lisaera, the Hallowed Crone swathes Herself in a veil of darkness it does not
shatter. Where flashes of it show, Her pale skin puckers like willow bark, every
wrinkle ponderous, ancient, and deep. Though Her figure speaks of an elder's
fragility, Her every gesture is purposeful, Her every step filled with
unyielding, terrible power that belies it. Round eyes narrowed by the weight of
millennia shine with an argent brilliance; their limbal rings glow, carving
through shadows like the sickle moon cuts through the blanket of night. Her
hands are ungloved and Her feet unshod, permitting glimpses of the leafy tattoos
painting the tops of each, verdancy trapped in a cycle of withering and death.
A strict plait of braided silver hair drapes over Her shoulder, falling to Her
waist. Strewn with grey owl feathers that gleam darkly in comparison, its severe
knots allow nary a strand to slip out of place.
She is wearing:
a long, dark cloak embossed with shimmering moonlight draped around Her
shoulders and down Her bent back
midnight robes trimmed in dark furs and owl feathers concealing Her frame
completely, leaving only Her knobbly knuckles bare
a black shroud of mourning threaded with silver light cowling Her features,
letting little but Her eyes peer through
a lustrous moonglass periapt gleaming at the hollow of Her throat
You look at a long, dark cloak embossed with shimmering moonlight that Lisaera
is wearing:
This long cloak is a midnight blue, almost black in colour, with shimmering
silver patterns shifting and dancing upon its surface, causing the entire
garment to appear to be flowing. For some reason the cloak does not lift with
the wind or stir at all as the air swirls around it, though it does ripple with
seemingly no manipulation while the air is still.
You look at midnight robes trimmed in dark furs and owl feathers that Lisaera is
wearing:
Flowing layers of ethereal darkness form the elegant folds of this enigmatic,
all-concealing garment. The simple pleats and stitches of the robes shift and
waver like liquid, billowing slightly with the passing breezes that ever
surround the Goddess's form. Black furs, luxurious and practical, trim the
sleeves, deep cowl and hem of this piece, cushioning the grey owl feathers which
fall within their bristling warmth. Cascading to fall elegantly in waves and
crests, these diaphanous robes trail in gossamer rivulets that gradually fade
into mist behind and beneath Her.
You look at a black shroud of mourning threaded with silver light that Lisaera
is wearing:
Threaded through with silver light, this shroud drapes the wearer's features
entirely. The gauzy material, woven from the shadows of starlight, ripples with
its own ethereal breeze and as the wearer moves, it flexes instinctively to
prevent unnecessary tripping.
You look at a lustrous moonglass periapt that Lisaera is wearing:
Alive with the stillness and relief of an illuminated night sky, this moonglass
periapt radiates a gentle coolness that never warms, not by hand and not by
sunlight. An argent fire burns within its core, lustrous and bright, pulsating
as steadily as a heart's vital beating. No matter the time or weather, its light
never fully dims, instead waxing and waning with the phases of Mother Moon. The
cradle encapsulating it comprises the same pristine silver as the braided chain
from which it is suspended, affixed to allow it to swivel. It has been worked
with a Goddess's touch, covered with little sigils and images that ebb and flow
as water across its filigreed surface, their meanings skimming the periphery of
understanding. Perfectly round and extraordinarily smooth, glossy beads of
midnight black trail a small distance up either strand away from the periapt,
three upon the left and three upon the right, their depthless darkness catching
and reflecting the light.
Leaning Her weight onto Her snarled moonhart lantern's long and sturdy pole,
Lisaera peers toward the heavens, eyes narrowing. She clucks her tongue, then
shakes Her head. When She speaks, Her voice is thin and creaks like wood. "It is
about time for Us to take care of this, hm?"
You look at a knotted moonhart lantern that Lisaera is wielding:
Burly with knots bulging from its length, this lantern is sturdy enough to be
used as a walking staff. Here and there, dying moonhart leaves still cling to
their tender perches, brilliant gold and crimson in hues and awaiting their
allotted time to fall. At its head, the wood crooks in on itself like the curled
tip of a fern's frond, providing a place for a lamp to dangle. Wrought from
silver with misted moonglass panes, its orb contains within an eternal lick of
moonfire, the argent flame luminous, flickering, and never dying.
Lisaera, the Sacred Mother As straight-backed and towering as the proud aspen tree - and nearly as pale as well - the Sacred Mother Lisaera manifests with a commanding presence, Her moonlit aura burgeoning with the menace and protectiveness of a thorny bramble patch, or a wolf with bloody teeth bared. Silver eyes circled by luminous limbal rings flash, their lunar starkness doing little to relieve the severity of Her other angular features: high cheekbones, thin lips, proud nose, a narrow face. By contrast, the Goddess's fingertips are soft and Her movements graceful, as though every step and gesture were born from ceremonial intention. Upon the backs of Her hands, leafy patterns like chainmail sleeves climb as far as the middle knuckles, viridescent colours suffused not with ink but vibrant and wild energy that bleeds into Her surroundings.
Ribbons of liquid moonlight tangle through Her night-black tresses, ravelling into two thin, parallel braids that draw back from Her left temple and join behind a slender ear. Kissed by the wind and sky, the rest piles unbound away from Her face and down Her back, wild and heavy. She is wearing: a vine-wreathed crown of frozen moonlight sitting poised upon Her brow, veiling Her features in a shroud of sterling luminescence a fur-lined jerkin scrolled with silver moonlight, layered over a tunic that softly glimmers a skirt spun from moonlit skies skimming the tops of Her bare feet a belt of silver plates slung over Her hip a heavy sterling torc ringing Her neck with snarling wolves at Her throat
You look at a vine-wreathed crown of frozen moonlight that Lisaera is wearing: Radiant upon the Goddess's brow, this crown of cold moonlight musters itself into needle-sharp diffractions of lunar energy. Each pinpoint of light glints like a collection of spectral crystals, shedding pale luminescence that shrouds all below it in a stark veil of glittering silver. Ethereal vines climb about its many fractal spokes, thick and green, their verdant leaves rustling whenever whispered to by the wind.
You look at a fur-lined jerkin scrolled with silver moonlight that Lisaera is wearing: Sculpted from a protective black material and layered over a tunic woven from silver ferns, this jerkin envelops the Goddess's form with surprising fluidity, swathing Her torso and upper legs with inscrutable midnight skies. Moonlight scrolls along either side underneath the arms, exquisite in its detailing: sterling lines follow the contours of glossy leaves that shift whenever She moves. Upon the shoulders, thick tufts of grey fur rise like hackles to ward against the cold - or impending threats.
You look at a skirt spun from moonlit skies that Lisaera is wearing: Impossibly and bewitchingly fluid, this ankle-length skirt comprises nothing less than the midnight skies themselves, patterned as though the heavens have been drawn down to flow effortlessly about the Goddess's limbs. Far from pitch in darkness, thousands of stars glow upon its black ripples like gemstones, casting minuscule haloes of iridescence about themselves. Piercing shafts of moonlight likewise pleat its expanse, revealed in the ethereal winds which often tug against its hem, independent of any physical influence.
You look at a belt of silver plates that Lisaera is wearing: Threads of glimmering moonlight bind together this silver belt, the insubstantial but cold links forged to rest behind each gossamer-thin plate. Subtle engravings etch into the surfaces of the discs, the enchanting scenes playing out through them constantly shifting, leading the eye with a sense of almost-familiar nostalgia that loses meaning whenever it changes. Sitting loosely about the waist and hips of the Goddess, it clinks lightly with Her every step, filling the air with a chime not unlike a delicate bell.
You look at a heavy sterling torc that Lisaera is wearing: Braided from cords of heavy sterling silver, this pale torc gleams with an enchanting glow all its own. Its surface radiates preternatural coolness, rimed between metallic folds with a veneer of frozen moonlight that frosts and fades with the turning of the sun. At either of its open ends, a pair of snarling wolf heads bristle with ferocious protectiveness, challenging one another over the hollow of the throat.
---
Maylea She is a radiant immortal and glows with effulgent life, a powerful sense of vibrancy emanating from Her presence. There is something thoughtful and introspective about Her expression and Her brilliant golden eyes, as though She gazes farther into the soul, brushing aside the impermanent layers of existence to seek the truth within. Streaks of deep blue wind through Her chestnut hair as it falls straight down Her back to the hips, several shorter locks dangling forward to frame Her heart-shaped face. A thin line crosses the skin of Her left forearm, the only remnant of the scar from a savage bite. An aura of power plays about Her slender frame and sets Her tawny skin aglow in faint, prismatic hues.
She is wearing: a woven sari edged in prismatic embroidery draped upon Her radiant form a trailing rainbow sash tied loosely about Her waist an armband of twining vines wrapped about the upper arm in a vibrant network a sky-hued bluebell tucked in Her chestnut tresses a translucent crystal bindi gleaming with prismatic colour between Her brows an anklet hung with crystal chimes lightly resting against Her bare foot
You look at a woven sari edged in prismatic embroidery that Maylea is wearing: Woven of ethereal gossamer thread, the fabric comprising this sari is as light as air, almost floating over the body below. Wrapped neatly around the waist, it falls gracefully to the wearer's ankles in generous folds of downy softness. Drawn from the waist around the back and chest, the decorated tail of the garment is folded at the left shoulder and allowed to dangle down the back, leaving the right shoulder and both arms completely bare. The elaborate embroidery along the trailing hem of the sari is vaguely metallic in nature, refracting the light in prismatic shades of colour.
You look at a trailing rainbow sash that Maylea is wearing: As the rainbows formed in the sky are composed of arcing motes of various hues of prismatic light, so is this sash, formed by some divine hand. Seemingly plucked from the sky itself, the sash extends far beyond the form it encircles, leaving faint remnants of light to shine where it is has trailed.
You look at an armband of twining vines that Maylea is wearing: A network of thin vines wraps around the bearer's upper arm, clinging like a second skin. As vibrant and fresh as though still planted in the earth, the vines form a beautiful filigree knot centred across the tricep. Light faintly glistens across the greenery, cast from several tiny flowers blossoming along the edges of the living braid.
You look at a translucent crystal bindi that Maylea is wearing: Barely the size of a seed, this small crystal shard is a faceted oval flattened along one side. Its pristine depths are almost perfectly clear, though a slight milky light glimmers within the depths, drawing attention more to what is around the actual bindi than to the bindi itself. Worn between the brows, it refracts the faintest light in a subtle display of prismatic colour that dances across the forehead of the wearer in enigmatic patterns.
Like a moonhart sapling just beginning to realise its potential, the thin sprout
of a youth manifesting here exudes the unabating brightness of Lisaera, the
Blessed Maiden. Possessing irises like twin moons encircled by rings of sterling
lambency, Her eyes sparkle with the urgency of youthful curiosity, and they are
wide - almost too wide, better suited to a predatory owl surveying the entirety
of Her domain. Silver brushes Her skin with a dewiness that sparkles across Her
gangling frame, appearing at times like freckles, or like moonlight splashed
across a glassy lake. Dappling the backs of Her hands and centred above Her
brow, leafy patterns form crescents of viridescence which emit their own faint
illumination, alive with wild energy.
Embraced by a fluttering cloud of silver mooncloak butterflies, a wild tumble of
midnight hair pulls away from Her face and down Her back. Two small braids frame
Her cheeks, falling no further than Her jaw, their ends tied off by delicate
silver clasps.
She is wearing:
a belt of silver plates slung over Her hip
a heavy sterling torc ringing Her neck with snarling wolves at Her throat
a gown of gossamer moonlight skimming the tops of Her bare feet
a braided silver band encircling Her head with lustrous beauty
a hooded, fur-trimmed cape warming Her shoulders, fastened shut by a moonglass
charm
a fluttering earring of the mooncloak butterfly through Her left ear
You look at a belt of silver plates that Lisaera is wearing:
Threads of glimmering moonlight bind together this silver belt, the
insubstantial but cold links forged to rest behind each gossamer-thin plate.
Subtle engravings etch into the surfaces of the discs, the enchanting scenes
playing out through them constantly shifting, leading the eye with a sense of
almost-familiar nostalgia that loses meaning whenever it changes. Sitting
loosely about the waist and hips of the Goddess, it clinks lightly with Her
every step, filling the air with a chime not unlike a delicate bell.
You look at a hooded, fur-trimmed cape that Lisaera is wearing:
Stitched together from softened leathers, this dark cape enfolds the shoulders
in an embrace of simplicity and warmth. Though hooded, its head covering sits
lowered, pooling instead between the shoulderblades in an abundance of silver-
flecked fur. The same plush lining rims the bottom hem, brushing against the
elbows and chest at its lowest and fullest fall. Mimicking the waxing gibbous's
uneven globe, a single moonglass charm serves as the only concession to
ornamentation, and it fastens the front together at the sternum. Nestled into
its eyelet hook, the captured bead sheds its light in diffuse rays that radiate
from within its very heart.
Crowned in yellowed grasses speckled with floss flowers, a serotinal brownie grins here.
Small and stout, this brownie is the very picture of summer fading into autumn: their complexion is ruddy, their hair tousled in ringlets of barkish brown, and their figure wreathed in the susurrations and sighs of gilded leaves. Perched above their brow, a wreath of crimped grasses braids and intertwines through itself, splintering and fraying at sharp angles that betray its dryness, dotted by tiny white floss flowers that quiver in the slightest of winds. Below, limpid eyes of lilac hues crinkle with perpetual levity. The sweet scents of raw pumpkins and tart berries waft about them, mingling and evoking hints of harvests yet to come.
---
An arrangement of cornucopias sits upon the grass, resting over a cheery red and white checkered blanket.
A large woolen blanket of red and white checker patterns spreads across the
grass of the grove here, covering much of the ground. Arranged haphazardly with
their bountiful mouths facing outwards, a collection of harvest cornucopias
rests upon the blanket, spilling over with flowers and leaves and the fruits and
nuts harvested from the land. Each cornucopia itself represents a bounty of
food, but all of them placed together grants a sense that the seasons have been
blessed indeed with plenty. Here and there, the sound of fae laughter can be
heard echoing from the silver-rimmed and food filled goat horns.
It weighs about 92 pounds.
a harvest cornucopia
A harvest cornucopia rests here, food and flowers almost spilling from the real goat's horn.
A dark, curved goat's horn comprises the outside of this cornucopia, grooved
with ridges from the pointy tip to the wide, round opening on the other end. The
horn has been stuffed with the bounty of the land - flowers and leaves and
fruits and nuts of every kind - such that they are beginning to spill out from
the broad mouth. Silver lines the mouth's rim, shimmering with a faint light
even in darkness, and there is an echo of wispy laughter that comes from the
opening.
Perched on a sun-bleached driftwood log, an unearthly fae creature plucks idly at an acoustic guitar.
Intricate white lace markings splay out from the hairline of Petrichor, this
ethereal fae of unclear dynasty. The mandalic markings are slightly raised from
her pale lavender skin, and appear on other visible areas - her forearms,
collarbones, a bare foot protruding from beneath layers of floating gossamer
skirts. Extremely long pointed ears poke out from her fine opalescent hair,
which drifts out around her as if perpetually underwater. Her wide eyes are an
extremely vivid pink, framed by indigo lashes, and adorned with shimmering
lavender paint. She wears a gown made entirely of pastel pinks and purples,
swathes of layered silk that envelop her in a tunic that just overlaps the top
of her gossamer skirts. In her slender hands she holds a beautiful guitar of
pale wood, the edges, frets and other detailing picked out in opal, strings
thrumming beneath each strum and pluck of her claws.
Petrichor looks to be crushingly strong.
Enjoying the sand and surf, Norin Saltfeather relaxes near the bonfire with a drink in one hand.
Life upon the open seas has done wonders for Norin, his once pale and clammy
skin kissed by the sun and turned a deep, even tan that almost matches his
piercing tawny gaze. Lily-white feathered wings banded in brown-red plumes fan
out behind him, roughened by his time in the salty winds yet no less opulent for
it. Barefoot in the sands of Toronada Flats, he wears a pair of grey cotton
breeches which terminate right below his knees, with a matching shirt half-
buttoned to his navel and exposing his chest to the wind. In place of his usual
bandanna, a scraggly straw hat sits atop his head to shield him from the worst
of the sun's rays.
Norin Saltfeather looks to be crushingly strong.
Merrymaker Merri sways unsteadily here, nursing a bottle of foul-smelling liquor.
With scaly skin the colour of blushing carnations, Merri's cheeks, raggedy ears,
and collarbones are perpetually flushed by the stain of inebriation. She is
otherwise a scrawny fink clad in rope-tied trousers and a thin, wine-dark shirt
with excess fabric knotted at the waist. A bit too long for her frame, her wiry
fingers bear trimmed and tidy claws, clean and painted with romantic red tips.
What dark hair crowns her head gathers at the top of her scalp, tied there by an
enormous yellow bow that bounces with her movements. The scent of milkweed hangs
sweetly about her, a perfume unable to disguise the unfortunate reek of whatever
unusual liquor she imbibes.
Merrymaker Merri exudes a quiet confidence.
Did anyone collect examined descriptions for the chickens during yesterday's chicken hunt?
Two years later, haha. Some are missing room appearances or movement.
Pecking and fluttering, a humble brown chicken stands here.
This humble chicken is of the average variety with brown feathers covering her
body and fluffy white feathers decorating her tail. She bears a small red comb
on her scalp that flops freely as she cocks her head from side to side,
alternately looking around and at the ground. Occasionally, she scratches and
pecks in search of food. The chicken is plump and in the prime of life.
Clucking steadily, a frisky striped chicken hops in from the west.
This chicken is covered from head to foot in shiny white feathers run through
with thin black stripes. The stripes move and undulate with every motion of her
body, appearing like dark waves upon a snow white sea. She has tiny black eyes
that glitter brightly, gazing out from a fleshy red face that runs into her
pinkish red comb. She moves about with frisky energy, fluffing her feathers and
clucking steadily.
Her long, featherless neck a bright scarlet, a naked neck chicken hops about here.
The most prominent feature of this chicken is her red, fleshy neck, which is
completely naked and rises from a puff of feathers at the chest to meet her,
alert, rubbery face. Her eyes are bright yellow rings with round, black pupils
couched within. The rest of her body is brown and fluffy, the feathers of a
appearance akin to more usual chickens. She pecks the ground with a sturdy brown
beak, daring any to approach her with ill will.
A scarlet chicken enters from the west, fluffing up her neck feathers.
A cascade of red feathers covers this proud-looking chicken, who puffs up her
chest whenever she lifts her head in between pecking at the ground. Her body
shimmers a range of lovely hues, ranging from earthy brown to vivid scarlet in a
gleaming gradient on each individual feather. She bears a proud comb and a pair
of crimson wattles, which vibrate and jerk whenever she turns to look one way or
another. Her yellow-ringed eyes shine brightly with spirit as she fluffs her
feathers over and over again to make herself look bigger.
Draped in graceful white feathers, a fluffy silkie chicken stands here.
From afar, this silkie chicken looks like a giant puff of cotton. Unlike
chickens of the more usual variety, her brilliant white feathers are narrow and
unusually elongated, such that she appears to be growing thick, luscious fur,
which flows all the way down to her legs and drapes over her toes. A blue face
has she, with azure wattles and a smooth, cerulean beak, and any eyes that may
be present are obscured in a crown of dense feathers. She moves with a fluid and
genteel grace that belies her bulky appearance.
Eye of Dynara from log when Ani and Pysynne got it for Lady Maylea (from Lord Nocht).
This crystalline eye positively sings with divine power, thrumming with a melody that is breathtakingly beautiful beyond any you have ever heard before, but vanishes from your mind the instant it is heard such that you cannot recall its melody a moment later. The orb bears a distinct likeness to a great eye, yet is comprised entirely of swirling, multi-coloured crystal. It glows with a brilliant and blinding light.
It weighs about 1 pounds and 0 ounce(s).
It has the following aliases: eyeball, eye.
A crystal shard from Buck, the Iniquitous Chicken at the Festival of the Creatrix.
Asymmetrical in appearance, this crystal shard has been splintered from a larger
whole. One side of it is smooth and curved, while the other side bears jagged
edges and wild protrusions with cracks running through the surface. The crystal
feels largely cold to the touch, but there is a lingering sense of warmth on the
smooth half, accompanied by subtle flickers of power and muted light. Shattered
images and ideas emanate from within the stone, hinting at indeterminate shapes
and scattered thoughts. Though once of divine origin, this shard appears to have
travelled much since its shattering from the whole, having picked up the
thoughts and dreams and memories of the wide world it has moved through.
It weighs about 1 pounds and 0 ounce(s).
It has the following aliases: shard, crystal.
She is a radiant immortal and exists as a translucent embodiment of a star
-shaped entity. Light passes through the surface of Her skin and refracts
within, releasing an iridescent nimbus of dark sapphire and indigo around Her
body. The fingers of Her left hand lightly grasp an anomalous quill, the essence
of creation restrained within the feather's calamus. Motes of burning reality
trail in Her wake, flickering out of existence without Her presence to sustain
them. She is wearing the Belt of Klangratch, a dress woven from the threads of
reality, an Amulet of Resurrection.
It bears the distinctive mark of Riluna Mes'ard.
It has the following aliases: figurine.
There's been a bit of a lull, so let's spice things up! I offer you a challenge: show me the coolest, undocumented find that you think you've got. Bonus points if it's actually something that hasn't been shown here before! I'll start by offering a room that you should hope you never see: the containment room of Malmydia. You could wander the ocean forever and never find your way out (and I hear that there's worse things there than just the view).
A perfect body of reflective, dark water. No matter the hour, a dark grey sky looms overhead; dotted with billowing storm clouds that streak across the heavens like racing birds and trail flashes of lightning amid ominous rumbles of thunder. Despite the absence of sun, moon, and stars, all things are offered a smooth and even light that emerges from no discernible source. Water stretches as far as the eye can see in all directions, as still as a pane of glass and darker than even the deepest of pitch. Despite this appearance, there is no solid structure or surface atop the water; yet the ripples caused by motion within them disappear not even a stone's throw away from their source. The clouds that streak overhead are reflected against the black water, offering the eye a disorienting vision of clouds racing towards the horizon underfoot as well to meet their twins above.
Slightly damp and worse for wear, the poster has been secured with what appears to be sticky algae and depicts a striking nereid. The depiction is artful, with clear lines of a realistic sketch that has been brought to life with watercolours. Her skin is midnight blue, her hair fireweed crimson darkening to the finest wine, and her luxurious piscine tail flares into rosetail fins. Her beauteous form is the crimson of sunset sinking into twilight's embrace. While the rendering is perfection, it is the posing itself that leaves a little to be desired, however. The nereid is drawn from too high an angle, as if she were holding the artist within her grasp above herself. It has the following aliases: poster
BUT! Imma cheat.
This kirin is a wonder to behold, graceful and majestic in her hybrid glory. As with most kirin, she has the head and scales of a dragon, a thick mane of fur that extends from her brow, where a resplendent curved horn of glittering beryl emerges, to where her head meets the deer-like body. Unlike other kirin however, her mane seems to be made from iridescent dreamy mist, with wisps of clouded memories and motes of vibrant light escaping from it occasionally as it shifts between dozens of vibrant hues. Her scales, too, seem to glow with an inner light and fade from brilliant emerald to deep sapphire as they flow from her back to her belly and down her legs, where fetlocks of cloudy dreamstuff roil out to obscure her hooves, and along her tail, which bears more of the same iridescent material as her mane bursts forth from the lower half. Surrounding her is an aura of half-seen images and vague memories, which gives her an odd, translucent appearance to the unwary. Kaiyo, the lucid Dream has an air of extreme strength. She is strangely weightless. She is loyal to Jade Dreamer Luce Shevat, Quintessence of Refinement. Kaiyo, the lucid Dream is holding: Nothing. It has the following aliases: kaiyo, kirin.
Shimmering a soft white, a doe stands here in a swirl of glistening snow.
A doe in the snow stands here in a swirl of ice crystals, her gentle eyes gazing
about the forest.
Her hide a luminescent white, this doe stands with a gentle bearing, taking in
her surroundings in quiet patience. A soft, liquid brown, her eyes glimmer with
snowflakes that dance about her eyelashes, while a pair of oval, velvety ears
turn this way and that, attentive to the sounds of the forest. An ever present
breeze dances about the doe, whistling and rustling, covering her here and there
in swirls of ice crystals and patches of hush snow, white against alabaster, so
that it is difficult to tell at times where the fur ends and the snow covering
begins. Her legs, strong and slender, step gracefully upon a snowdrift that fans
out from her location, her hooves making deep imprints shaped like pairs of half
moons.
a snowball marked by a hoofprint
Gleaming with ice crystals, a snowball rests here, marked by a
single hoofprint.
About the size of a large apple, this snowball has been tightly packed, made mostly of pure white snow crystals, some of which still bear their crystalline
snowflake shapes. The snowball is roughly round, here and there pine needles resting just below the surface or stick out through the snow, giving the sphere a sap-like scent over the fresh smell of frozen water. Pressed deep into the cold and blind white, a single hoofprint marks where a doe had stepped, its form bearing the shape of paired half moons.
((Following Sondayga))
A fylgia enters from the southwest, floating upon flickering hooves.
To gaze at the fylgia is akin to looking through fog or mist. It is difficult to focus on her presence before you, your mind continually sliding away from her existence. Her form is translucent, ever-changing, barely holding the outline of a ghostly doe with a multitude of features - eyes that are sad, joyous, furious, concerned, loving all at once; pelts of many shades; ages that ranges from the youngest fawn to the eldest of deer. Tendrils of curling silver light extend from her body outwards in all directions, giving her the appearance of wearing a tattered, wind-blown cloak.
A fylgia seems to be unafraid.
Following a request from a player who wishes to remain anonymous, please enjoy the modern iteration of Malmydia's Hamadhi outfit, inspired by traditional/mythological hanfu:
She is wearing: a gilded hairpin dripping with menace that shimmers in a haze of translucent fog, plunged through Her bun to keep it tidy as its sharpened edge gleams maliciously where it pokes out the other side heeled slippers of grey silk which are barely seen beneath Her robes multilayered robes in woundwort hues that are fastidiously clean; nary a thread out of place as She carries Herself with the stature and grace of true nobility an aquatic green cloak of malefic mist which shimmers and contorts as though constantly in motion, sizzling where it brushes against Her sash a carmine sash which wraps lovingly about Her arms before coming to float above Her shoulders, exuding an aura of unease all the while
a gilded hairpin dripping with menace
This hairpin is an exquisite expression of glittering opulence, every spark of light reflecting off its surface like a surgeon's blade, sharp and cutting. Its slender body coils tightly into itself, twisting into tense ridges that rise and fall with perfect precision. At one of its ends, a fall of fragile yet unyielding chains tumbles from beneath a spray of poisonous hemlock enamelled a bitterly clean hue, stained white like bones picked clean. Strewn about the spill of lacy strands, vipers flash their ruby-tinted fangs, their sinuous bodies weaving mesmerising patterns throughout the delicate links at artfully-spaced intervals. At the other end, naught adorns it save for a treacherous needle-pointed tip possessing a narrow, hollow channel, a telling concession to practicality tucked within this otherwise enchanting piece of Divine jewellery.
heeled slippers of grey silk
First and foremost easy to don and remove, these slippers pay homage to function rather than fashion, with a thick, short heel to allow the cloth it is made of protection from fluids which may litter the ground. Revealing naught of Her feet but Her ankles, the only decoration to be found upon these slippers is a simple serpent embroidered in black, winding about a staff of bone.
multilayered robes in woundwort hues
With a solid collar in carmine red purposely arranged in parallel, gauzy grey cloth makes up a set of interior robes over a dark bodice hosting a straight neckline and broidery of nondescript blooms alongside the recurring hemlock flower. Both are tucked into a long, fluttering skirt which shimmers and distorts with dark shadows regardless of the light, swimming across the silk like ink spilled from a bottle. The navel-high waistband is secured with ribbons of charcoal and chartreuse, the ends of which cascade down to the ankle along with wide pleats that dissolve into wisps of mist ere they can terminate naturally. Nearly translucent, green mist solidifies into an overrobe which veils the arms with overlong sleeves, its hem coming to rest at mid-calf. The marsh green of these overrobes briefly shimmer gold when they are brushed into motion.
an aquatic green cloak of malefic mist
This raiment been fit with a generous hood of the same strange Divine weave, able to drape over any adorned coiffure without snagging. Just above the elbow, shifting patterns sinuously circle around the cloak, barely a few shades lighter than the rich aquatic green. The fall of the lustrous material ends not in a rippling hem but an ethereal haze, a faint perfume of petrichor drifting from the glittering mist that is nearly overpowered by the sterility which surrounds Her.
a carmine sash
A cloying, sanguine haze surges through the air in the form of a long, floating sash. Wreathing about the arms before rising to arch over the shoulders, the blood which drips from it sizzles and burns away before it can dare to stain the clothing which it serves to tie back. Occasionally, whispers of contrition can be heard escaping from the haze, accompanied by the faintest silhouette of a tormented face; flickering into existence just as quickly as it fades away once more, leaving you unsure it was ever seen at all.
Vluldaerui - Malmydia's High Priest. (Or so I'm told!)
A fine physical specimen, burgeoning muscle lines the form of this mugwump, though he has yet to fully grow into his lanky frame. Coloured a brilliant orange akin to sunset through smog, his visible flesh carries a faint sheen of moisture to it and also bears natural splashes of electric blue that primarily wind along his limbs. Standing proud despite his five feet and two inches of height, he fidgets near ceaselessly by moving his hands; twirling a long, sharp needle between his fingers like a conductor's baton. Two eyes bulge out noticeably from his head, the blackened sclera as bright and vivid as a pool of spilled ink: dots of milky white scattered throughout like stars in the night sky - the only indication of his gaze moving due to a lack of visible pupil therein. Thin, wide lips seem permanently turned into a handsome grin, accentuating his natural, delicate features. Nearly translucent, wiry membranes sprout from the crown of his head and are slicked back, the tendril-like growths braided into a simple plait before falling to dangle in a wavy curtain at chin level. Visible callouses can be seen among the contours of his hands and feet, an obvious sign of dedication to the martial arts.
A swarm of silver fireflies has coalesced into, or perhaps around, a humanoid
form, their movement giving shape to an ethereal being of air and twinkling
luminescence. He is a radiant immortal, bearing only the vaguest hint of being
masculine, namely in the slim musculature and bare-chestedness suggested by the
swarm's shape. Though the individual fireflies drift slowly, each to their own
rhythm, the overall being maintains a sense of cohesion, his movements emerging
from the seemingly unordered dance of the small insects. The fireflies' soft,
silvery blinking continue nonchalantly, generally uncoordinated except when
stronger emotion from the being creates a synchronized effect. The only
fireflies that do flicker in tight concurrence are those making up the outline
of the ephemeral's eyes, which blink as would any mortal's.
He is wearing:
fluttering moonhart leaves shaped into breeches
He is a radiant immortal and is surrounded by a cloud of ethereal stars, each
seemingly set in an orbit about Him. Drawn back into a shoulder-length ponytail
from its widow's peak source, silky hair as dark as ebony offsets slightly the
tanned, worn complexion of His face. With only the faintest hint of cragginess,
His otherwise handsome face is somewhat marred by the jagged, white scar running
across His right eye, starting from the temple and working its way to the base
of His nose. Immediately surrounding the searing scar, grey flesh creeps around
both the scar and the unseeing eye, creating a ghastly effect. While lithe and
slender, toned muscles also grace His frame, seemingly dancing beneath His
swarthy skin with each movement made.
(in dark grey/silver)
Grown out just long enough to be prickly without being annoying or abrasive to
the touch, this black-as-night beard graces the Navigator's face, running along
His cheeks and chin, but no lower than just below His jawbone. Seemingly lighter
than the rest of the stubble, though barely so, a strip runs beneath His nose,
joining on either side of the mouth.
He is wearing:
a pair of nearly knee-high, faded leather boots
a cloud of stars suspended in starlight
a starlit pearl pin
a pair of cuffed breeches
a canvas backpack
a jet-black tricorne covered with glowing lines of power sits jauntily atop his
head
You look at a pair of nearly knee-high, faded leather boots that Darvellan is
wearing:
Comprised entirely of worn, faded, leather-like material, these nearly knee-high
boots still manage to look impressive despite their apparent age. Even what
stains can be seen are barely visible, likely also having been worn away by time
and use. While the heels of the boots look to have been redone sometime in the
recent past, the rest of the boot, even the cuff at the top, looks remarkably
preserved.
l at star on darvellan
You look at a cloud of stars suspended in starlight that Darvellan is wearing:
Hanging amidst glimmering motes, a glowing star twinkles merrily away. Faint
flecks of light catch upon the motes, casting subtle yet dazzling patterns all
about. Thin lines of power shoot between the motes of dust, ephemeral
constellations forming in the moment.
look at pants on Darvellan
You look at a pair of cuffed breeches that Darvellan is wearing:
Comprised of some foreign, black-dyed material, these cuffed breeches start at
the waist and disappear into the wearer's boots, the material tucked in nicely
with an attention to detail. Leaving room for maneuverability, a bit of excess
material remains untucked, giving the breeches a slightly puffy look. Use and
wear has left the material mottled and partially stained, though these too are
faded and worn, having become more a part of the breeches and less a hindrance.
You look at a canvas backpack that Darvellan is wearing:
It is large enough to hold a considerable amount of goods. Grey and mottled
brown, it has been skillfully woven to keep out the majority of water in the
rain. Pockets of all shapes and sizes hang off of it, ready to store any number
of things.
I could not figure out the noun for the pin or the hat! May another unravel the mystery.
Maylea (desc above) was missing her bracelet. I did not get a glance in time at Drocilla's bracelet (a 'gift' from Darvellan).
Drocilla, the Enchantress
She is a radiant immortal and is breathtaking to behold, radiating a painfully
sublime and gentle beauty that inexplicably drains the vibrancy and colour from
all else in the room. Shimmering with an eerie effulgence, Her almond-shaped
eyes are a cruel, sharp lavender; sculpted with grey and violent shadows, they
draw the onlooker with their mystical allure. Her tawny skin is creamy and
flawless - the visage of utter beauty, elegance and perfection - and Her high
cheekbones are touched by the gentle shade of a rose. The glossy scarlet red of
Her lips stands out against these soft hues with a generous fullness that makes
them deliriously tempting. Every subtle movement of Her perfectly poised figure
exudes a raw confidence that dominates Her surroundings, Her superlatively
shaped jawline held with regal posture. Intoxicating and addictive, an
entrancing scent drifts in Her wake like a cloak of perfumed silk.
(in gold)
Her silken hair, a hundred shades of burnished gold, is pinned like a crown of
molten gold atop a visage of utter perfection. The thick, detailed braids wrap
about the head with nary a disobedient wisp in a polished updo that wreathes Her
face in a smouldering halo.
She is wearing:
sophisticated pants of pitch-black velvet
a set of armour rings of blackened silver over the knuckles of Her right hand
black slippers on white copper heels
a luxurious pitch-black corset trailing a tulle skirt and black mists
an exquisite smokesilver shoulder necklace
You look at sophisticated pants of pitch-black velvet that Drocilla is wearing:
Form-fitting and without a single crease, these pants have an air of
sophistication to them borne of the lushness of the velvet and the sleekness of
the cut. High-waisted and appearing to have no conventional closure at the top,
they taper off right below the ankles without any cuffs. The stretchable fabric
adopts well to every movement and hides no pockets or other adornments.
You look at a set of armour rings of blackened silver that Drocilla is wearing:
Worn on each of Her right hand's fingers, these unconventional rings fit snugly
over each second knuckle. Thin blackened bands over and under the knuckle keep
these accessories in place, while the fronts bear likeness to pieces of armour
with their overlapping plates of matte blackened silver. The armoured layers
have been securely fastened with minuscule onyx rivets on each side but permit a
full range of motion within their protective confines.
You look at black slippers on white copper heels that Drocilla is wearing:
Crafted from leather so unnaturally dark it appears to be absorbing the light,
these high-heeled slippers embrace the feet in comfort and luxury. Lined with
reflective golden silk, the slippers leave much of the feet exposed, swooping
forward to barely cover the toes. The soles and the heel are all white copper,
polished and eye-catching in contrast to the darkness of the shoe itself.
You look at a luxurious pitch-black corset trailing a tulle skirt that Drocilla
is wearing:
Soft and stretchable, the velvet comprising this superbly well-fitted overbust
corset is decadent lushes embracing a divine figure. The off-the-shoulder
neckline is enveloped on either side by plush straps that embrace the arms
loosely. Where the corset terminates, an open-front pleated skirt of sheer black
tulle cascades on either side and culminates in a sweeping train. The dramatic
tulle overlay has been sparsely embroidered with silhouettes of nighthawks
picked out in black thread, while the pitch-black opaque hems gleam with heavy
lace applique.
You look at an exquisite smokesilver shoulder necklace that Drocilla is wearing:
No more than a handful of whisper-thin chains in the front, the shoulder
necklace is made up of smokesilver strands that cascade and intersect upon the
neckline. In the back, however, a myriad chains of varying lengths make up the
necklace. Some hang at varying lengths while others meet at sharper angles. Some
are little more than shimmering wisps of black smoke, others are richly
ornamented chains with little charms made of the same metal.
More silhouette than Elder, the way the shadows on the ground seem to grasp
towards Him make it unmistakable that He is a radiant immortal. Standing a
little taller than the height of an average elfen, all other aspects of the
Elder's appearance are shrouded in veils and robes. Flashes of brilliant emerald
and prismatic light occasionally light up the air around Him, accompanied with a
sickly sweet floral scent that lingers in the air.
He is wearing:
a cluster of snapdragons erupting from the shoulder of His cloak
concealing robes painted with the colours of Night that twist in the air around
Him as if underwater
a veiled blackthorn crown that obscures His face
You look at a cluster of snapdragons that Nocht is wearing:
Three stems make up this bunch of snapdragons, and from each stem springs forth
many flowers. The shades include pale orange, bright red and stark white, but
each individual snapdragon seems to have been created from the same mold. The
petals fold in such a way that they do indeed resemble small mouths poised to
snap.
You look at concealing robes painted with the colours of Night that Nocht is
wearing:
Shimmering with a faint divine energy, these billowing robes look like a piece
of the nighttime sky has been cut from the heavens. Soft purples, like dusk,
paint the areas near the shoulders before slowly giving way to the deepest black
that colours the majority of the elegant robes. Struggling, faint pinpricks of
light dot the dark cloth, like faint stars in a moonless sky. The robes engulf
the wearer, flowing fabric seeming to move of its own accord. No sign of the
wearer is visible within the garment. Long swaths of fabric hang from the
shoulders, tied at the elbows to form sleeves before falling loose to cover even
the wearer's hands from sight.
You look at a veiled blackthorn crown that Nocht is wearing:
Blackthorn branches have been masterfully coaxed to wrap around the thin gold
band that forms the base of this crown, the dark colour of their wood
contrasting sharply with the gleaming gold and their own bone-white petals. A
rippling band of thin cloth falls from the crown down to the wearer's shoulders,
it's sheer fabric allowing only a faint outline of the head behind it.
Maylea (desc above) was missing her bracelet. I did not get a glance in time at Drocilla's bracelet (a 'gift' from Darvellan).
Drocilla, the Enchantress
She is a radiant immortal and is breathtaking to behold, radiating a painfully
sublime and gentle beauty that inexplicably drains the vibrancy and colour from
all else in the room. Shimmering with an eerie effulgence, Her almond-shaped
eyes are a cruel, sharp lavender; sculpted with grey and violent shadows, they
draw the onlooker with their mystical allure. Her tawny skin is creamy and
flawless - the visage of utter beauty, elegance and perfection - and Her high
cheekbones are touched by the gentle shade of a rose. The glossy scarlet red of
Her lips stands out against these soft hues with a generous fullness that makes
them deliriously tempting. Every subtle movement of Her perfectly poised figure
exudes a raw confidence that dominates Her surroundings, Her superlatively
shaped jawline held with regal posture. Intoxicating and addictive, an
entrancing scent drifts in Her wake like a cloak of perfumed silk.
(in gold)
Her silken hair, a hundred shades of burnished gold, is pinned like a crown of
molten gold atop a visage of utter perfection. The thick, detailed braids wrap
about the head with nary a disobedient wisp in a polished updo that wreathes Her
face in a smouldering halo.
She is wearing:
sophisticated pants of pitch-black velvet
a set of armour rings of blackened silver over the knuckles of Her right hand
black slippers on white copper heels
a luxurious pitch-black corset trailing a tulle skirt and black mists
an exquisite smokesilver shoulder necklace
You look at sophisticated pants of pitch-black velvet that Drocilla is wearing:
Form-fitting and without a single crease, these pants have an air of
sophistication to them borne of the lushness of the velvet and the sleekness of
the cut. High-waisted and appearing to have no conventional closure at the top,
they taper off right below the ankles without any cuffs. The stretchable fabric
adopts well to every movement and hides no pockets or other adornments.
You look at a set of armour rings of blackened silver that Drocilla is wearing:
Worn on each of Her right hand's fingers, these unconventional rings fit snugly
over each second knuckle. Thin blackened bands over and under the knuckle keep
these accessories in place, while the fronts bear likeness to pieces of armour
with their overlapping plates of matte blackened silver. The armoured layers
have been securely fastened with minuscule onyx rivets on each side but permit a
full range of motion within their protective confines.
You look at black slippers on white copper heels that Drocilla is wearing:
Crafted from leather so unnaturally dark it appears to be absorbing the light,
these high-heeled slippers embrace the feet in comfort and luxury. Lined with
reflective golden silk, the slippers leave much of the feet exposed, swooping
forward to barely cover the toes. The soles and the heel are all white copper,
polished and eye-catching in contrast to the darkness of the shoe itself.
You look at a luxurious pitch-black corset trailing a tulle skirt that Drocilla
is wearing:
Soft and stretchable, the velvet comprising this superbly well-fitted overbust
corset is decadent lushes embracing a divine figure. The off-the-shoulder
neckline is enveloped on either side by plush straps that embrace the arms
loosely. Where the corset terminates, an open-front pleated skirt of sheer black
tulle cascades on either side and culminates in a sweeping train. The dramatic
tulle overlay has been sparsely embroidered with silhouettes of nighthawks
picked out in black thread, while the pitch-black opaque hems gleam with heavy
lace applique.
You look at an exquisite smokesilver shoulder necklace that Drocilla is wearing:
No more than a handful of whisper-thin chains in the front, the shoulder
necklace is made up of smokesilver strands that cascade and intersect upon the
neckline. In the back, however, a myriad chains of varying lengths make up the
necklace. Some hang at varying lengths while others meet at sharper angles. Some
are little more than shimmering wisps of black smoke, others are richly
ornamented chains with little charms made of the same metal.
You look at a twinkling sapphire cuff bracelet that Drocilla is wearing: Shaped of a single piece of azure sapphire, this cuff bracelet twinkles with some inner light. Inset in the centre of the bracelet, six star-shaped pieces of beryllonite provide the only texture of the otherwise smooth surface. Faint cracks run through the inside of the bracelet, providing conduits for the occasional streak of power to shoot between one piece of beryllonite to another. Whether clinging to the bracelet or slowly broiling off of it, a slight mist permeates the air about the cuff, creating the perfect environment for its inner light to twinkle effectively.
Huskii proudly shows off a sketch of an alien looking bluebell flower: An alarming shade of magenta, this flower sets itself apart from normal bluebells in not just color, but in size. Growing to at least twice the size of the other bluebell flowers it grows aside, the only trait it shares it the same muted, slender stalk on which the flower sits.
A travelling mugwump thaumaturge stands here, gazing with wonder and curiosity.
Swamp mud clings lightly to the many folds and layers of this mugwump's musty
robes, which are brown with the faded colours of their well-worn threads. A
length of soft rope secures their clothes to their waist, countless bone
trinkets hanging from the swamp-green cord to clink with every shuffle and
twitch of their stooped body. Gangly hands emerge from deep sleeves, the
glistening skin tight over skinny fingers to clutch possessively at a gnarled
wooden staff decorated with talismans and ritualistic painting. Partially
shrouded by a raised hood, the thaumaturge's face sports a enigmatic smile; two
wide, roving eyes are set deep within the skull, the dark pupils glittering with
vibrant emotion.
Manteekan, the Nightmare hangs here hazily, His presence nothing
more than a chilled mist that drifts hauntingly through the air. He wields the
splintered quill of the Forest Dreamer in His left hand.
Manteekan, the Nightmare
Nearly transparent flesh is pulled taut over a tall, lanky and ectomorphic
frame. Hanging in the air like a veil of fine mist, the presence of this
immortal seems nothing more than a chill upon the skin. A ghastly aura hangs
around His figure, manifesting in a cool fog that gathers at His feet, the
miasma roiling like an impending storm. The collected mist beneath Him carries
him aloft, His slender and nearly skeletal feet never touching the ground. What
can be seen of His facial features must have once been fair; handsome if not for
His otherwise spectral existence. His unnaturally long, needle-like fingers
constantly fidget, as though grasping at something unseen. His intense, icy blue
stare is the most corporeal thing about Him, as though His eyes are more real
than He is, swirling with internal vortices of ice and snow.
Ghastly alabaster locks billow behind His head, each thread glowing white as it
whips frantically through the air behind Him. Icy mist trails behind each strand
as it thrashes about, slowly drifting to the ground to settle in a cloud of haze
that churns about His feet.
He is wearing:
a torturous noose of thorn and vine
billowing robes of a chilled mist
You look at a torturous noose of thorn and vine that Manteekan is wearing:
Woven vine forms a binding noose, wrapped and knotted to fit tightly about the
neck. Sharp thorns protrude from the ivy, pointed inward so that when worn, they
dig into the flesh. Drops of a frosty blood cover each of the jagged
protrusions, staining the woody material a dark crimson.
You look at billowing robes of a chilled mist that Manteekan is wearing:
Wispy threads of fog have been pulled together into a set of billowing robes,
the mist chilled slightly so that it hangs heavy in the air. Threads of the haze
whip gently about the garment, caught in an unseen wind that never slows. The
churning vapor lies thick about the form, layer upon layer draping over and over
itself until it resembles naught but a miasma of alabaster that roils furiously.
Comments
A chorus of dissonant, bitter whispers swells in the air around Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele . A masculine voice answers, "Yes?"
A tiny firebreathing salamander floats toward Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele and settles into an erratic orbit around it.
A platter of powderfruit elephant mochi orbits Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele as it floats away to deliver it.
Bauta-na-Grindir, Eldritch Stele drops to the ground with a thud and falls eerily silent.
Though asymmetrical in appearance, this mighty crystal nonetheless has a fine shape: no jagged edges
here or wild protrusions, but instead the smooth tapering of its many facets and sides into two
points at either end of its length. Warmth engenders the hand when touched, a sensation brought by
the swirling immanidivinus energies that imbue the crystal with a subtle aura of power and muted
light; it is from this energy too that images resolve within the stone, indeterminate shapes or
figures that seem to snap into sharp relief before dissolving again into obscurity. A feeling of
vertigo overwhelms the senses when looking through the crystal for too long, almost as if one were
not peering through the pale, translucent stone but rather looking through the window or the eyes of
another.
It weighs about 1000 pounds.
It has the following aliases: crystal, observation, memory.
You may use the observation crystal in the following ways:
* USE OBSERVATION SURVEY - Peer through the crystal and try to discern the location of the Elder
divine.
* USE OBSERVATION EXAMINE - Look through the crystal and examine the surroundings of the Elder
divine.
* USE OBSERVATION LOOK <GOD> - Glance through the crystal and take stock of a particular Elder.
* USE OBSERVATION WHISPER <TEXT> - Use the crystal to whisper a short message or prayer to Li
-varili.
* TOUCH OBSERVATION - Touch the crystal to sense the disposition of Li-varili and the proceedings.
Your eyes fixate upon the many facets of the observation crystal, trying to focus on whatever
details you are able to notice:
You notice the following Elders present: Drocilla, Lisaera, Maylea, Ein, Crumkane, Lantra, Carakhan,
Terentia, and Nocht.
You sense that the Elders have congregated in the Divine Havens.
Despite the desert sands, you cannot tell what further environmental features or factors are
present.
You sense that the Elders reside on the Prime Material Plane.
You sense that the Elders are outdoors.
You lean closer and stare into the humming depths of the observation crystal, taking stock of the
place where the Elders currently stand:
You notice that they reside within an endless expanse of fine, white sand.
All around you is sand. Simply, purely, completely. Dune after dune rises and falls like the rushing
of waves, curiously sibiliant in the same manner, but eddying into fine granules that would scour
the skin rather froth and dissolve into foam. Above, the radiance of the sun rains down
oppressively; this light reflects against the stark whiteness of the sand, much like a mirror, much
like the snow, much like the sea, with the faintest shimmer of gold. Even though you are merely
observing through the crystal, you can still feel the heat of this desert: almost as if you were
there, its dryness tickling your nostrils with the chalky odour of dust. There is no vegetation, no
break of shrub or boulder. Just the sand endlessly moving in quiet agitation.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder
Drocilla:
She is radiant and breathtaking to be sure, but as You look at Her, You feel the rage, the
indigiation, the hatred that bubbles up at the mere sight of Her beauty. What does a betrayer look
like? Her, of course. Someone who offers glory, power, everything... only to clamp manacles upon the
wrist, bind You to a damnable seat. Those purple eyes, not worth the name of the colour they truly
are, those eyes are the eyes of a liar. And She knows it. Her perfection and poise, all calculated,
inculcated, and maturated. And They punish You when She still stands there? Pathetic.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Lisaera:
This thin sprout of a figure, a maiden, who is this? Whence has She arrived? So late returning from
the Void? From some vacant place within the First World? And She earns the right to punish You? Do
not trust that gentleness that this maiden sports. Do not trust those eyes that sparkle with
youthful curiosity. She is indeed a predator. An owl? No, a vulture. If She faced what You faced
with the Moon instead of the Sea, of no doubt would they would pity Her. Sweet maiden.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Maylea:
She is so full of vibrancy. Not simply colour--from the gold of Her eyes, the blue in Her hair, to
the prismatic hues that dance about Her--but power itself. None of them know it or recognise it,
save perhaps Nocht. But You can respect someone who knows the many ways to threaten another. You can
respect someone who would do everything to make sure to gain what they want. She is not so different
from You. And perhaps, at another time, in a different life, You would have gone to Her first.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Ein:
Energy seethes, drips, agitates around this Elder, and as You linger upon His shape: the hair, the
boyishness, the vicious wound on His arm, nothing but doubt and disinterest foams within Your
thoughts. Who is this? Hmm, was He not one who heard Mysrai's voice? Inspired by the truth of the
Circlebreaker? How pathetic that He offers aide and services to even weaker Elders, who think their
truth and ethics and justice matter. And what truly matters here? For it is not justice. Mewling
hypocrisy. But those eyes... they seem so familiar. Gold-green. Gold-green. You stare at Him for a
moment longer, and You dwell upon your current predicament.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder
Crumkane:
This Elder... Ha! Haha! This fool, this cad? This is the one that They bring to dole out
punishments? And what would this jovial cretin, this utter imbecile, what would He to offer in terms
of insights? Cookies? Pastries? He would rather feast on them Himself than say anything valuable or
useful. No thoughts, no opinions. Just crumbs from His ridiculous moustache. Discontent churns
within You like the choppy waves of a sea storm. And His hair is ugly too.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Lantra:
There She is. She said She cared about You, wanted to heal You, fix You. You don't need fixing or
healing or care. You need what you deserve, what is rightfully yours. And She thinks Herself so
unassuming. And why for? She burdens Herself with the weight of old opinions, old beliefs, old
strictures. Hamadhi? She wears such hypocrisy like the veil about Her head, while wielding it like a
weapon just like the spear in Her hand. A Goddess of Light who is no different than Drocilla: both
tying You down, believing They know better. And the funny thing is... You can see in the blue of Her
eyes that She could be something greater.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder
Carakhan:
You see nothing but the raw, pure redness of rage.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder
Terentia:
How funny, how delightful that a famed Warrior of the Golden Circle would look so small, so
ridiculously puny in comparison to these others. What, does this old weapon consider Herself humble?
Ha! Humility be damned, especially when She deigns to spit the words 'justice' and 'mercy,' as if
She coined them, as if She wasn't -made- to think them. As you stare at those icy green eyes, You
remember that you know the truth about Her. There is only a fine line between killer and protector,
and the ever tightening narrow of Her gaze tells that She knows that You know.
You peer into the observation crystal, seeing through Li-varili's eyes to witness the Elder Nocht:
A mere shadow isn't He? And He, one of the most keen and wise and powerful of all the Awakeners, now
a little ghost or wisp of His former self. Victim in His own games against Maylea, unable to even
see when He Himself was being played. He is a fool, and He will remain one until every one of those
flowers bleed out His essence, and then He will just be a morsel to some stronger, greater power.
Some of the touch messages (definitely not all):
Li-varili's thoughts waft through the crystal to your own mind, sweet and sickeningly like a
bromieliad's fragrance: And what of the Bloodtide? What will they do? Will they strike out against
My Kin? Or will they retreat back to being mewling kittens, afraid of getting wet? No, they have
learned from Me. And I from them.
your own: And They had mortals give testimonies? Hahaha, those pathetic, sweet fools? What matters
their voices, their opinions, when it comes to Me? What do any of them know of immortal desires? The
pain that I felt? The betrayal?
-
The strangest feeling of being watched overcomes you, yet before you can investigate you are met with an abrupt chill. Wet warmth follows as you look down to see crimson spreading across your chest, blossoming out from the forearm that has emerged from a tear in the aether to pierce your flesh. Then, the numbed shock is broken as you hear something wet sloshing against the ground. You stare forward as the world begins to dim, torturous pain the only thing keeping you conscious to see your heart crushed into shredded tatters. Your knees crumble at last, and your body falls lifeless to the ground in a growing pool of your own blood. Your final memory before death is the voice of Malmydia, laughing in derision.
You have been slain by Malmydia.
And the favour, to boot:
-
From events of "After Me, the Flood"
In Maylea's Fulcrux:
"flowers400980" a many-hued garden of faithful blossoms
Glowing like a small swaying garden amidst the meadows, these blossom appear separate from the wildflowers that surround them, having been formed from pure raw immanidivinus etheara. Their petals shift and sway in the ever-present breezes that circle the grove, adding their fragrance to the scented air, the slightest movement causing their energies to scatter and float away. The rippling power feels reminiscent, as of the Elder Divine to whom one is most familiar or faithful. It cannot be told how many such flowers bloom together here, and it is difficult to resist the urge to pluck one in reverent devotion.
The flowers growing here smell simply divine, perhaps you should PLUCK one for yourself?
Taking a knee, you reach and pluck a single flower from the garden here, the slightest touch causing raw immanidivinus energy to scatter like pollen and wreathe your hands in a gentle light. [HINT]: You may TOUCH the flower to attune it to your divine.
"flower415459" a flower blossoming with faith
This beautiful flower blossoms with faith, so imbued is it with the overflowing essence of the Elder Gods. The slightest movement of its petals causes for raw immanidivinus etherea to scatter at the touch, wreathing its stem and bloom in an aura that radiates Divine majesty and strength. Domothean energies pulse from the fragile flower to faintly ripple in the aether, humming with a thrum of latent power.
You reach out and touch a flower blossoming with faith.
A flower blossoming with faith changes under your blessed touch, imbued with Blossoming Faith for Lisaera.
"flower415459" a moonlit flower of the Silver Goddess
This beautiful flower blossoms with faith, so imbued is it with the overflowing essence of the Elder Gods. The slightest movement of its petals causes for raw immanidivinus etherea to scatter at the touch, wreathing its stem and bloom in an aura that radiates Divine majesty and strength. Domothean energies pulse from the fragile flower to faintly ripple in the aether, humming with a thrum of latent power. The petals of this moonlit flower gleam a breathtaking shade of argent, radiating the glory of the Silver Goddess.
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Lisaera, the Hallowed Crone:
Moonlight pierces the air about Lisaera, the Silver Goddess, shrouding Her within its pale glow. She wields a knotted moonhart lantern in Her left hand.
Despite the moonlit aura that glitters brightly around Her, the hunched figure of Lisaera, the Hallowed Crone swathes Herself in a veil of darkness it does not shatter. Where flashes of it show, Her pale skin puckers like willow bark, every wrinkle ponderous, ancient, and deep. Though Her figure speaks of an elder's fragility, Her every gesture is purposeful, Her every step filled with unyielding, terrible power that belies it. Round eyes narrowed by the weight of millennia shine with an argent brilliance; their limbal rings glow, carving through shadows like the sickle moon cuts through the blanket of night. Her hands are ungloved and Her feet unshod, permitting glimpses of the leafy tattoos painting the tops of each, verdancy trapped in a cycle of withering and death.
A strict plait of braided silver hair drapes over Her shoulder, falling to Her waist. Strewn with grey owl feathers that gleam darkly in comparison, its severe knots allow nary a strand to slip out of place.
She is wearing:
a long, dark cloak embossed with shimmering moonlight draped around Her shoulders and down Her bent back
midnight robes trimmed in dark furs and owl feathers concealing Her frame completely, leaving only Her knobbly knuckles bare
a black shroud of mourning threaded with silver light cowling Her features, letting little but Her eyes peer through
a lustrous moonglass periapt gleaming at the hollow of Her throat
You look at a long, dark cloak embossed with shimmering moonlight that Lisaera is wearing:
This long cloak is a midnight blue, almost black in colour, with shimmering silver patterns shifting and dancing upon its surface, causing the entire garment to appear to be flowing. For some reason the cloak does not lift with the wind or stir at all as the air swirls around it, though it does ripple with seemingly no manipulation while the air is still.
You look at midnight robes trimmed in dark furs and owl feathers that Lisaera is wearing:
Flowing layers of ethereal darkness form the elegant folds of this enigmatic, all-concealing garment. The simple pleats and stitches of the robes shift and waver like liquid, billowing slightly with the passing breezes that ever surround the Goddess's form. Black furs, luxurious and practical, trim the sleeves, deep cowl and hem of this piece, cushioning the grey owl feathers which fall within their bristling warmth. Cascading to fall elegantly in waves and crests, these diaphanous robes trail in gossamer rivulets that gradually fade into mist behind and beneath Her.
You look at a black shroud of mourning threaded with silver light that Lisaera is wearing:
Threaded through with silver light, this shroud drapes the wearer's features entirely. The gauzy material, woven from the shadows of starlight, ripples with its own ethereal breeze and as the wearer moves, it flexes instinctively to prevent unnecessary tripping.
You look at a lustrous moonglass periapt that Lisaera is wearing:
Alive with the stillness and relief of an illuminated night sky, this moonglass periapt radiates a gentle coolness that never warms, not by hand and not by sunlight. An argent fire burns within its core, lustrous and bright, pulsating as steadily as a heart's vital beating. No matter the time or weather, its light never fully dims, instead waxing and waning with the phases of Mother Moon. The cradle encapsulating it comprises the same pristine silver as the braided chain from which it is suspended, affixed to allow it to swivel. It has been worked with a Goddess's touch, covered with little sigils and images that ebb and flow as water across its filigreed surface, their meanings skimming the periphery of understanding. Perfectly round and extraordinarily smooth, glossy beads of midnight black trail a small distance up either strand away from the periapt, three upon the left and three upon the right, their depthless darkness catching and reflecting the light.
Leaning Her weight onto Her snarled moonhart lantern's long and sturdy pole, Lisaera peers toward the heavens, eyes narrowing. She clucks her tongue, then shakes Her head. When She speaks, Her voice is thin and creaks like wood. "It is about time for Us to take care of this, hm?"
You look at a knotted moonhart lantern that Lisaera is wielding:
Burly with knots bulging from its length, this lantern is sturdy enough to be used as a walking staff. Here and there, dying moonhart leaves still cling to their tender perches, brilliant gold and crimson in hues and awaiting their allotted time to fall. At its head, the wood crooks in on itself like the curled tip of a fern's frond, providing a place for a lamp to dangle. Wrought from silver with misted moonglass panes, its orb contains within an eternal lick of moonfire, the argent flame luminous, flickering, and never dying.
! I'm missing her hair, aah!
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Lisaera, the Blessed Maiden
Like a moonhart sapling just beginning to realise its potential, the thin sprout of a youth manifesting here exudes the unabating brightness of Lisaera, the Blessed Maiden. Possessing irises like twin moons encircled by rings of sterling lambency, Her eyes sparkle with the urgency of youthful curiosity, and they are wide - almost too wide, better suited to a predatory owl surveying the entirety of Her domain. Silver brushes Her skin with a dewiness that sparkles across Her gangling frame, appearing at times like freckles, or like moonlight splashed across a glassy lake. Dappling the backs of Her hands and centred above Her brow, leafy patterns form crescents of viridescence which emit their own faint illumination, alive with wild energy.
Embraced by a fluttering cloud of silver mooncloak butterflies, a wild tumble of midnight hair pulls away from Her face and down Her back. Two small braids frame Her cheeks, falling no further than Her jaw, their ends tied off by delicate silver clasps.
She is wearing:
a belt of silver plates slung over Her hip
a heavy sterling torc ringing Her neck with snarling wolves at Her throat
a gown of gossamer moonlight skimming the tops of Her bare feet
a braided silver band encircling Her head with lustrous beauty
a hooded, fur-trimmed cape warming Her shoulders, fastened shut by a moonglass charm
a fluttering earring of the mooncloak butterfly through Her left ear
You look at a belt of silver plates that Lisaera is wearing:
Threads of glimmering moonlight bind together this silver belt, the insubstantial but cold links forged to rest behind each gossamer-thin plate. Subtle engravings etch into the surfaces of the discs, the enchanting scenes playing out through them constantly shifting, leading the eye with a sense of almost-familiar nostalgia that loses meaning whenever it changes. Sitting loosely about the waist and hips of the Goddess, it clinks lightly with Her every step, filling the air with a chime not unlike a delicate bell.
You look at a hooded, fur-trimmed cape that Lisaera is wearing:
Stitched together from softened leathers, this dark cape enfolds the shoulders in an embrace of simplicity and warmth. Though hooded, its head covering sits lowered, pooling instead between the shoulderblades in an abundance of silver- flecked fur. The same plush lining rims the bottom hem, brushing against the elbows and chest at its lowest and fullest fall. Mimicking the waxing gibbous's uneven globe, a single moonglass charm serves as the only concession to ornamentation, and it fastens the front together at the sternum. Nestled into its eyelet hook, the captured bead sheds its light in diffuse rays that radiate from within its very heart.
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Crowned in yellowed grasses speckled with floss flowers, a serotinal brownie grins here.
Small and stout, this brownie is the very picture of summer fading into autumn: their complexion is ruddy, their hair tousled in ringlets of barkish brown, and their figure wreathed in the susurrations and sighs of gilded leaves. Perched above their brow, a wreath of crimped grasses braids and intertwines through itself, splintering and fraying at sharp angles that betray its dryness, dotted by tiny white floss flowers that quiver in the slightest of winds. Below, limpid eyes of lilac hues crinkle with perpetual levity. The sweet scents of raw pumpkins and tart berries waft about them, mingling and evoking hints of harvests yet to come.
---An arrangement of cornucopias sits upon the grass, resting over a cheery red and white checkered blanket.
A large woolen blanket of red and white checker patterns spreads across the grass of the grove here, covering much of the ground. Arranged haphazardly with their bountiful mouths facing outwards, a collection of harvest cornucopias rests upon the blanket, spilling over with flowers and leaves and the fruits and nuts harvested from the land. Each cornucopia itself represents a bounty of food, but all of them placed together grants a sense that the seasons have been blessed indeed with plenty. Here and there, the sound of fae laughter can be heard echoing from the silver-rimmed and food filled goat horns.
It weighs about 92 pounds.
a harvest cornucopia
A harvest cornucopia rests here, food and flowers almost spilling from the real goat's horn.
A dark, curved goat's horn comprises the outside of this cornucopia, grooved with ridges from the pointy tip to the wide, round opening on the other end. The horn has been stuffed with the bounty of the land - flowers and leaves and fruits and nuts of every kind - such that they are beginning to spill out from the broad mouth. Silver lines the mouth's rim, shimmering with a faint light even in darkness, and there is an echo of wispy laughter that comes from the opening.
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From the Toronada Summer Soiree
Perched on a sun-bleached driftwood log, an unearthly fae creature plucks idly at an acoustic guitar.
Intricate white lace markings splay out from the hairline of Petrichor, this ethereal fae of unclear dynasty. The mandalic markings are slightly raised from her pale lavender skin, and appear on other visible areas - her forearms, collarbones, a bare foot protruding from beneath layers of floating gossamer skirts. Extremely long pointed ears poke out from her fine opalescent hair, which drifts out around her as if perpetually underwater. Her wide eyes are an extremely vivid pink, framed by indigo lashes, and adorned with shimmering lavender paint. She wears a gown made entirely of pastel pinks and purples, swathes of layered silk that envelop her in a tunic that just overlaps the top of her gossamer skirts. In her slender hands she holds a beautiful guitar of pale wood, the edges, frets and other detailing picked out in opal, strings thrumming beneath each strum and pluck of her claws.
Petrichor looks to be crushingly strong.
Enjoying the sand and surf, Norin Saltfeather relaxes near the bonfire with a drink in one hand.
Life upon the open seas has done wonders for Norin, his once pale and clammy skin kissed by the sun and turned a deep, even tan that almost matches his piercing tawny gaze. Lily-white feathered wings banded in brown-red plumes fan out behind him, roughened by his time in the salty winds yet no less opulent for it. Barefoot in the sands of Toronada Flats, he wears a pair of grey cotton breeches which terminate right below his knees, with a matching shirt half- buttoned to his navel and exposing his chest to the wind. In place of his usual bandanna, a scraggly straw hat sits atop his head to shield him from the worst of the sun's rays.
Norin Saltfeather looks to be crushingly strong.
Merrymaker Merri sways unsteadily here, nursing a bottle of foul-smelling liquor.
With scaly skin the colour of blushing carnations, Merri's cheeks, raggedy ears, and collarbones are perpetually flushed by the stain of inebriation. She is otherwise a scrawny fink clad in rope-tied trousers and a thin, wine-dark shirt with excess fabric knotted at the waist. A bit too long for her frame, her wiry fingers bear trimmed and tidy claws, clean and painted with romantic red tips. What dark hair crowns her head gathers at the top of her scalp, tied there by an enormous yellow bow that bounces with her movements. The scent of milkweed hangs sweetly about her, a perfume unable to disguise the unfortunate reek of whatever unusual liquor she imbibes.
Merrymaker Merri exudes a quiet confidence.
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Two years later, haha. Some are missing room appearances or movement.
Pecking and fluttering, a humble brown chicken stands here.
This humble chicken is of the average variety with brown feathers covering her body and fluffy white feathers decorating her tail. She bears a small red comb on her scalp that flops freely as she cocks her head from side to side, alternately looking around and at the ground. Occasionally, she scratches and pecks in search of food. The chicken is plump and in the prime of life.
Clucking steadily, a frisky striped chicken hops in from the west.
This chicken is covered from head to foot in shiny white feathers run through with thin black stripes. The stripes move and undulate with every motion of her body, appearing like dark waves upon a snow white sea. She has tiny black eyes that glitter brightly, gazing out from a fleshy red face that runs into her pinkish red comb. She moves about with frisky energy, fluffing her feathers and clucking steadily.
Her long, featherless neck a bright scarlet, a naked neck chicken hops about here.
The most prominent feature of this chicken is her red, fleshy neck, which is completely naked and rises from a puff of feathers at the chest to meet her, alert, rubbery face. Her eyes are bright yellow rings with round, black pupils couched within. The rest of her body is brown and fluffy, the feathers of a appearance akin to more usual chickens. She pecks the ground with a sturdy brown beak, daring any to approach her with ill will.
A scarlet chicken enters from the west, fluffing up her neck feathers.
A cascade of red feathers covers this proud-looking chicken, who puffs up her chest whenever she lifts her head in between pecking at the ground. Her body shimmers a range of lovely hues, ranging from earthy brown to vivid scarlet in a gleaming gradient on each individual feather. She bears a proud comb and a pair of crimson wattles, which vibrate and jerk whenever she turns to look one way or another. Her yellow-ringed eyes shine brightly with spirit as she fluffs her feathers over and over again to make herself look bigger.
Draped in graceful white feathers, a fluffy silkie chicken stands here.
From afar, this silkie chicken looks like a giant puff of cotton. Unlike chickens of the more usual variety, her brilliant white feathers are narrow and unusually elongated, such that she appears to be growing thick, luscious fur, which flows all the way down to her legs and drapes over her toes. A blue face has she, with azure wattles and a smooth, cerulean beak, and any eyes that may be present are obscured in a crown of dense feathers. She moves with a fluid and genteel grace that belies her bulky appearance.
In Lusternia, a henway's about 5 pounds.
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Eye of Dynara from log when Ani and Pysynne got it for Lady Maylea (from Lord Nocht).
This crystalline eye positively sings with divine power, thrumming with a melody that is breathtakingly beautiful beyond any you have ever heard before, but vanishes from your mind the instant it is heard such that you cannot recall its melody a moment later. The orb bears a distinct likeness to a great eye, yet is comprised entirely of swirling, multi-coloured crystal. It glows with a brilliant and blinding light.
It weighs about 1 pounds and 0 ounce(s).
It has the following aliases: eyeball, eye.
A crystal shard from Buck, the Iniquitous Chicken at the Festival of the Creatrix.
Asymmetrical in appearance, this crystal shard has been splintered from a larger whole. One side of it is smooth and curved, while the other side bears jagged edges and wild protrusions with cracks running through the surface. The crystal feels largely cold to the touch, but there is a lingering sense of warmth on the smooth half, accompanied by subtle flickers of power and muted light. Shattered images and ideas emanate from within the stone, hinting at indeterminate shapes and scattered thoughts. Though once of divine origin, this shard appears to have travelled much since its shattering from the whole, having picked up the thoughts and dreams and memories of the wide world it has moved through.
It weighs about 1 pounds and 0 ounce(s).
It has the following aliases: shard, crystal.
*squint* Time to head to the conspiracy thread?
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a figurine of Iosai the Anomaly
She is a radiant immortal and exists as a translucent embodiment of a star -shaped entity. Light passes through the surface of Her skin and refracts within, releasing an iridescent nimbus of dark sapphire and indigo around Her body. The fingers of Her left hand lightly grasp an anomalous quill, the essence of creation restrained within the feather's calamus. Motes of burning reality trail in Her wake, flickering out of existence without Her presence to sustain them. She is wearing the Belt of Klangratch, a dress woven from the threads of reality, an Amulet of Resurrection.
It bears the distinctive mark of Riluna Mes'ard.
It has the following aliases: figurine.
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No matter the hour, a dark grey sky looms overhead; dotted with billowing storm clouds that streak across the heavens like racing birds and trail flashes of lightning amid ominous rumbles of thunder. Despite the absence of sun, moon, and stars, all things are offered a smooth and even light that emerges from no discernible source. Water stretches as far as the eye can see in all directions, as still as a pane of glass and darker than even the deepest of pitch. Despite this appearance, there is no solid structure or surface atop the water; yet the ripples caused by motion within them disappear not even a stone's throw away from their source. The clouds that streak overhead are reflected against the black water, offering the eye a disorienting vision of clouds racing towards the horizon underfoot as well to meet their twins above.
It has the following aliases: poster
Kaiyo, the lucid Dream has an air of extreme strength.
She is strangely weightless.
She is loyal to Jade Dreamer Luce Shevat, Quintessence of Refinement.
Kaiyo, the lucid Dream is holding:
Nothing.
It has the following aliases: kaiyo, kirin.
a doe in the snow
Shimmering a soft white, a doe stands here in a swirl of glistening snow.
A doe in the snow stands here in a swirl of ice crystals, her gentle eyes gazing about the forest.
Her hide a luminescent white, this doe stands with a gentle bearing, taking in her surroundings in quiet patience. A soft, liquid brown, her eyes glimmer with snowflakes that dance about her eyelashes, while a pair of oval, velvety ears turn this way and that, attentive to the sounds of the forest. An ever present breeze dances about the doe, whistling and rustling, covering her here and there in swirls of ice crystals and patches of hush snow, white against alabaster, so that it is difficult to tell at times where the fur ends and the snow covering begins. Her legs, strong and slender, step gracefully upon a snowdrift that fans out from her location, her hooves making deep imprints shaped like pairs of half moons.
a snowball marked by a hoofprint
Gleaming with ice crystals, a snowball rests here, marked by a single hoofprint.
About the size of a large apple, this snowball has been tightly packed, made mostly of pure white snow crystals, some of which still bear their crystalline snowflake shapes. The snowball is roughly round, here and there pine needles resting just below the surface or stick out through the snow, giving the sphere a sap-like scent over the fresh smell of frozen water. Pressed deep into the cold and blind white, a single hoofprint marks where a doe had stepped, its form bearing the shape of paired half moons.
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((Following Sondayga))
A fylgia enters from the southwest, floating upon flickering hooves.
To gaze at the fylgia is akin to looking through fog or mist. It is difficult to focus on her presence before you, your mind continually sliding away from her existence. Her form is translucent, ever-changing, barely holding the outline of a ghostly doe with a multitude of features - eyes that are sad, joyous, furious, concerned, loving all at once; pelts of many shades; ages that ranges from the youngest fawn to the eldest of deer. Tendrils of curling silver light extend from her body outwards in all directions, giving her the appearance of wearing a tattered, wind-blown cloak. A fylgia seems to be unafraid.
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a gilded hairpin dripping with menace that shimmers in a haze of translucent fog, plunged through Her bun to keep it tidy as its sharpened edge gleams maliciously where it pokes out the other side
heeled slippers of grey silk which are barely seen beneath Her robes
multilayered robes in woundwort hues that are fastidiously clean; nary a thread out of place as She carries Herself with the stature and grace of true nobility
an aquatic green cloak of malefic mist which shimmers and contorts as though constantly in motion, sizzling where it brushes against Her sash
a carmine sash which wraps lovingly about Her arms before coming to float above Her shoulders, exuding an aura of unease all the while
its surface like a surgeon's blade, sharp and cutting. Its slender body coils tightly into itself,
twisting into tense ridges that rise and fall with perfect precision. At one of its ends, a fall of
fragile yet unyielding chains tumbles from beneath a spray of poisonous hemlock enamelled a bitterly
clean hue, stained white like bones picked clean. Strewn about the spill of lacy strands, vipers
flash their ruby-tinted fangs, their sinuous bodies weaving mesmerising patterns throughout the
delicate links at artfully-spaced intervals. At the other end, naught adorns it save for a
treacherous needle-pointed tip possessing a narrow, hollow channel, a telling concession to
practicality tucked within this otherwise enchanting piece of Divine jewellery.
fashion, with a thick, short heel to allow the cloth it is made of protection from fluids which may
litter the ground. Revealing naught of Her feet but Her ankles, the only decoration to be found upon
these slippers is a simple serpent embroidered in black, winding about a staff of bone.
multilayered robes in woundwort hues
of interior robes over a dark bodice hosting a straight neckline and broidery of nondescript blooms
alongside the recurring hemlock flower. Both are tucked into a long, fluttering skirt which shimmers
and distorts with dark shadows regardless of the light, swimming across the silk like ink spilled
from a bottle. The navel-high waistband is secured with ribbons of charcoal and chartreuse, the ends
of which cascade down to the ankle along with wide pleats that dissolve into wisps of mist ere they
can terminate naturally. Nearly translucent, green mist solidifies into an overrobe which veils the
arms with overlong sleeves, its hem coming to rest at mid-calf. The marsh green of these overrobes
briefly shimmer gold when they are brushed into motion.
adorned coiffure without snagging. Just above the elbow, shifting patterns sinuously circle around
the cloak, barely a few shades lighter than the rich aquatic green. The fall of the lustrous
material ends not in a rippling hem but an ethereal haze, a faint perfume of petrichor drifting from
the glittering mist that is nearly overpowered by the sterility which surrounds Her.
a carmine sash
about the arms before rising to arch over the shoulders, the blood which drips from it sizzles and
burns away before it can dare to stain the clothing which it serves to tie back. Occasionally,
whispers of contrition can be heard escaping from the haze, accompanied by the faintest silhouette
of a tormented face; flickering into existence just as quickly as it fades away once more, leaving
you unsure it was ever seen at all.
A fine physical specimen, burgeoning muscle lines the form of this mugwump, though he has yet to fully grow into his lanky frame. Coloured a brilliant orange akin to sunset through smog, his visible flesh carries a faint sheen of moisture to it and also bears natural splashes of electric blue that primarily wind along his limbs. Standing proud despite his five feet and two inches of height, he fidgets near ceaselessly by moving his hands; twirling a long, sharp needle between his fingers like a conductor's baton. Two eyes bulge out noticeably from his head, the blackened sclera as bright and vivid as a pool of spilled ink: dots of milky white scattered throughout like stars in the night sky - the only indication of his gaze moving due to a lack of visible pupil therein. Thin, wide lips seem permanently turned into a handsome grin, accentuating his natural, delicate features. Nearly translucent, wiry membranes sprout from the crown of his head and are slicked back, the tendril-like growths braided into a simple plait before falling to dangle in a wavy curtain at chin level. Visible callouses can be seen among the contours of his hands and feet, an obvious sign of dedication to the martial arts.
Junzain, the Scintillae
A swarm of silver fireflies has coalesced into, or perhaps around, a humanoid form, their movement giving shape to an ethereal being of air and twinkling luminescence. He is a radiant immortal, bearing only the vaguest hint of being masculine, namely in the slim musculature and bare-chestedness suggested by the swarm's shape. Though the individual fireflies drift slowly, each to their own rhythm, the overall being maintains a sense of cohesion, his movements emerging from the seemingly unordered dance of the small insects. The fireflies' soft, silvery blinking continue nonchalantly, generally uncoordinated except when stronger emotion from the being creates a synchronized effect. The only fireflies that do flicker in tight concurrence are those making up the outline of the ephemeral's eyes, which blink as would any mortal's.
He is wearing:
fluttering moonhart leaves shaped into breeches
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Darvellan, the Navigator
He is a radiant immortal and is surrounded by a cloud of ethereal stars, each seemingly set in an orbit about Him. Drawn back into a shoulder-length ponytail from its widow's peak source, silky hair as dark as ebony offsets slightly the tanned, worn complexion of His face. With only the faintest hint of cragginess, His otherwise handsome face is somewhat marred by the jagged, white scar running across His right eye, starting from the temple and working its way to the base of His nose. Immediately surrounding the searing scar, grey flesh creeps around both the scar and the unseeing eye, creating a ghastly effect. While lithe and slender, toned muscles also grace His frame, seemingly dancing beneath His swarthy skin with each movement made.
(in dark grey/silver)
Grown out just long enough to be prickly without being annoying or abrasive to the touch, this black-as-night beard graces the Navigator's face, running along His cheeks and chin, but no lower than just below His jawbone. Seemingly lighter than the rest of the stubble, though barely so, a strip runs beneath His nose, joining on either side of the mouth.
He is wearing:
a pair of nearly knee-high, faded leather boots
a cloud of stars suspended in starlight
a starlit pearl pin
a pair of cuffed breeches
a canvas backpack
a jet-black tricorne covered with glowing lines of power sits jauntily atop his head
You look at a pair of nearly knee-high, faded leather boots that Darvellan is wearing:
Comprised entirely of worn, faded, leather-like material, these nearly knee-high boots still manage to look impressive despite their apparent age. Even what stains can be seen are barely visible, likely also having been worn away by time and use. While the heels of the boots look to have been redone sometime in the recent past, the rest of the boot, even the cuff at the top, looks remarkably preserved.
l at star on darvellan
You look at a cloud of stars suspended in starlight that Darvellan is wearing:
Hanging amidst glimmering motes, a glowing star twinkles merrily away. Faint flecks of light catch upon the motes, casting subtle yet dazzling patterns all about. Thin lines of power shoot between the motes of dust, ephemeral constellations forming in the moment.
look at pants on Darvellan
You look at a pair of cuffed breeches that Darvellan is wearing:
Comprised of some foreign, black-dyed material, these cuffed breeches start at the waist and disappear into the wearer's boots, the material tucked in nicely with an attention to detail. Leaving room for maneuverability, a bit of excess material remains untucked, giving the breeches a slightly puffy look. Use and wear has left the material mottled and partially stained, though these too are faded and worn, having become more a part of the breeches and less a hindrance.
You look at a canvas backpack that Darvellan is wearing:
It is large enough to hold a considerable amount of goods. Grey and mottled brown, it has been skillfully woven to keep out the majority of water in the rain. Pockets of all shapes and sizes hang off of it, ready to store any number of things.
I could not figure out the noun for the pin or the hat! May another unravel the mystery.
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Maylea (desc above) was missing her bracelet. I did not get a glance in time at Drocilla's bracelet (a 'gift' from Darvellan).
Drocilla, the Enchantress
She is a radiant immortal and is breathtaking to behold, radiating a painfully sublime and gentle beauty that inexplicably drains the vibrancy and colour from all else in the room. Shimmering with an eerie effulgence, Her almond-shaped eyes are a cruel, sharp lavender; sculpted with grey and violent shadows, they draw the onlooker with their mystical allure. Her tawny skin is creamy and flawless - the visage of utter beauty, elegance and perfection - and Her high cheekbones are touched by the gentle shade of a rose. The glossy scarlet red of Her lips stands out against these soft hues with a generous fullness that makes them deliriously tempting. Every subtle movement of Her perfectly poised figure exudes a raw confidence that dominates Her surroundings, Her superlatively shaped jawline held with regal posture. Intoxicating and addictive, an entrancing scent drifts in Her wake like a cloak of perfumed silk.
(in gold)
Her silken hair, a hundred shades of burnished gold, is pinned like a crown of molten gold atop a visage of utter perfection. The thick, detailed braids wrap about the head with nary a disobedient wisp in a polished updo that wreathes Her face in a smouldering halo.
She is wearing:
sophisticated pants of pitch-black velvet
a set of armour rings of blackened silver over the knuckles of Her right hand
black slippers on white copper heels
a luxurious pitch-black corset trailing a tulle skirt and black mists
an exquisite smokesilver shoulder necklace
You look at sophisticated pants of pitch-black velvet that Drocilla is wearing:
Form-fitting and without a single crease, these pants have an air of sophistication to them borne of the lushness of the velvet and the sleekness of the cut. High-waisted and appearing to have no conventional closure at the top, they taper off right below the ankles without any cuffs. The stretchable fabric adopts well to every movement and hides no pockets or other adornments.
You look at a set of armour rings of blackened silver that Drocilla is wearing:
Worn on each of Her right hand's fingers, these unconventional rings fit snugly over each second knuckle. Thin blackened bands over and under the knuckle keep these accessories in place, while the fronts bear likeness to pieces of armour with their overlapping plates of matte blackened silver. The armoured layers have been securely fastened with minuscule onyx rivets on each side but permit a full range of motion within their protective confines.
You look at black slippers on white copper heels that Drocilla is wearing:
Crafted from leather so unnaturally dark it appears to be absorbing the light, these high-heeled slippers embrace the feet in comfort and luxury. Lined with reflective golden silk, the slippers leave much of the feet exposed, swooping forward to barely cover the toes. The soles and the heel are all white copper, polished and eye-catching in contrast to the darkness of the shoe itself.
You look at a luxurious pitch-black corset trailing a tulle skirt that Drocilla is wearing:
Soft and stretchable, the velvet comprising this superbly well-fitted overbust corset is decadent lushes embracing a divine figure. The off-the-shoulder neckline is enveloped on either side by plush straps that embrace the arms loosely. Where the corset terminates, an open-front pleated skirt of sheer black tulle cascades on either side and culminates in a sweeping train. The dramatic tulle overlay has been sparsely embroidered with silhouettes of nighthawks picked out in black thread, while the pitch-black opaque hems gleam with heavy lace applique.
You look at an exquisite smokesilver shoulder necklace that Drocilla is wearing:
No more than a handful of whisper-thin chains in the front, the shoulder necklace is made up of smokesilver strands that cascade and intersect upon the neckline. In the back, however, a myriad chains of varying lengths make up the necklace. Some hang at varying lengths while others meet at sharper angles. Some are little more than shimmering wisps of black smoke, others are richly ornamented chains with little charms made of the same metal.
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Nocht, the Silent
More silhouette than Elder, the way the shadows on the ground seem to grasp towards Him make it unmistakable that He is a radiant immortal. Standing a little taller than the height of an average elfen, all other aspects of the Elder's appearance are shrouded in veils and robes. Flashes of brilliant emerald and prismatic light occasionally light up the air around Him, accompanied with a sickly sweet floral scent that lingers in the air.
He is wearing:
a cluster of snapdragons erupting from the shoulder of His cloak concealing robes painted with the colours of Night that twist in the air around Him as if underwater a veiled blackthorn crown that obscures His face
You look at a cluster of snapdragons that Nocht is wearing:
Three stems make up this bunch of snapdragons, and from each stem springs forth many flowers. The shades include pale orange, bright red and stark white, but each individual snapdragon seems to have been created from the same mold. The petals fold in such a way that they do indeed resemble small mouths poised to snap.
You look at concealing robes painted with the colours of Night that Nocht is wearing:
Shimmering with a faint divine energy, these billowing robes look like a piece of the nighttime sky has been cut from the heavens. Soft purples, like dusk, paint the areas near the shoulders before slowly giving way to the deepest black that colours the majority of the elegant robes. Struggling, faint pinpricks of light dot the dark cloth, like faint stars in a moonless sky. The robes engulf the wearer, flowing fabric seeming to move of its own accord. No sign of the wearer is visible within the garment. Long swaths of fabric hang from the shoulders, tied at the elbows to form sleeves before falling loose to cover even the wearer's hands from sight.
You look at a veiled blackthorn crown that Nocht is wearing:
Blackthorn branches have been masterfully coaxed to wrap around the thin gold band that forms the base of this crown, the dark colour of their wood contrasting sharply with the gleaming gold and their own bone-white petals. A rippling band of thin cloth falls from the crown down to the wearer's shoulders, it's sheer fabric allowing only a faint outline of the head behind it.
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Shaped of a single piece of azure sapphire, this cuff bracelet twinkles with some inner light. Inset in the centre of the bracelet, six star-shaped pieces of beryllonite provide the only texture of the otherwise smooth surface. Faint cracks run through the inside of the bracelet, providing conduits for the occasional streak of power to shoot between one piece of beryllonite to another. Whether clinging to the bracelet or slowly broiling off of it, a slight mist permeates the air about the cuff, creating the perfect environment for its inner light to twinkle effectively.
Huskii proudly shows off a sketch of an alien looking bluebell flower:
An alarming shade of magenta, this flower sets itself apart from normal bluebells in not just color, but in size. Growing to at least twice the size of the other bluebell flowers it grows aside, the only trait it shares it the same muted, slender stalk on which the flower sits.
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A travelling mugwump thaumaturge stands here, gazing with wonder and curiosity.
Swamp mud clings lightly to the many folds and layers of this mugwump's musty robes, which are brown with the faded colours of their well-worn threads. A length of soft rope secures their clothes to their waist, countless bone trinkets hanging from the swamp-green cord to clink with every shuffle and twitch of their stooped body. Gangly hands emerge from deep sleeves, the glistening skin tight over skinny fingers to clutch possessively at a gnarled wooden staff decorated with talismans and ritualistic painting. Partially shrouded by a raised hood, the thaumaturge's face sports a enigmatic smile; two wide, roving eyes are set deep within the skull, the dark pupils glittering with vibrant emotion.
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Manteekan, the Nightmare hangs here hazily, His presence nothing more than a chilled mist that drifts hauntingly through the air. He wields the splintered quill of the Forest Dreamer in His left hand.
Manteekan, the Nightmare
Nearly transparent flesh is pulled taut over a tall, lanky and ectomorphic frame. Hanging in the air like a veil of fine mist, the presence of this immortal seems nothing more than a chill upon the skin. A ghastly aura hangs around His figure, manifesting in a cool fog that gathers at His feet, the miasma roiling like an impending storm. The collected mist beneath Him carries him aloft, His slender and nearly skeletal feet never touching the ground. What can be seen of His facial features must have once been fair; handsome if not for His otherwise spectral existence. His unnaturally long, needle-like fingers constantly fidget, as though grasping at something unseen. His intense, icy blue stare is the most corporeal thing about Him, as though His eyes are more real than He is, swirling with internal vortices of ice and snow.
Ghastly alabaster locks billow behind His head, each thread glowing white as it whips frantically through the air behind Him. Icy mist trails behind each strand as it thrashes about, slowly drifting to the ground to settle in a cloud of haze that churns about His feet.
He is wearing:
a torturous noose of thorn and vine
billowing robes of a chilled mist
You look at a torturous noose of thorn and vine that Manteekan is wearing:
Woven vine forms a binding noose, wrapped and knotted to fit tightly about the neck. Sharp thorns protrude from the ivy, pointed inward so that when worn, they dig into the flesh. Drops of a frosty blood cover each of the jagged protrusions, staining the woody material a dark crimson.
You look at billowing robes of a chilled mist that Manteekan is wearing:
Wispy threads of fog have been pulled together into a set of billowing robes, the mist chilled slightly so that it hangs heavy in the air. Threads of the haze whip gently about the garment, caught in an unseen wind that never slows. The churning vapor lies thick about the form, layer upon layer draping over and over itself until it resembles naught but a miasma of alabaster that roils furiously.
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