A Short Log Where I Log In And Viravain Spooks Me a Bit

Lillirallia

Viravain strokes a wickedly curved scythe tenderly.

You blink.

With a gentle coo, you say, "H...hello Lady."

Her voice bright and resonant, Viravain, Lady of the Thorns says, "Mmm. The Nekotai."

A vicious, magpie crow caws loudly, sending a shiver up your spine.

Continuing the hunt for his dark mate, Father Sun presses forward in his journey, lowering himself in the sky yet still casting even, full light upon the land.

Viravain drifts in a slow circle around you, Her eyes unblinking, Her expression appraising. "Tell Me about your choice."

With a gentle coo, you say to Viravain, "Yes! I am still pondering if it is the fit for me. I do like the idea of one day using the nekai to spill blood for You. But then...I ponder the Shadowbeat. I could sing songs of Wyrden glory."

With a gentle coo, you say, "I've also been considering taking up the teachings of Brother Crow..."

With a gentle coo, you say, "The opportunities of Your garden are plenty."

The ghost of a smile passes fleetingly across Viravain's lips.

Viravain reaches out to tenderly cup your cheek in Her hand.

You see Viravain, Lady of the Thorns in your mind's eye, holding a seedling bearing your name. Lovingly, She adds it to Her Garden, and you know that your death is merely a part of Her Web -- that She is the Gardener Who turns the Seasons of your life.

With a note of finality, Viravain, Lady of the Thorns says, "Welcome home."

Coiling sinuously about Her petite frame, stygian shadows cloak Viravain in an unnatural darkness and evanesce into the aether, leaving behind only the faintest scent of roses.

With a gentle coo, you whisper, "Thank You Lady."

Lillirallia

Her blessing looks like this!


The mortal threads of your being severed, you scream in agony as the Divine spark within you enfolds your body with scorching flames.

You died.

All around you, Her children draw near, their many eyes observing you, their many legs guiding you to the present. They stitch together your wounds with their silk, lovingly caring for you as if you were their own.

Her children leave, and you are left with thoughts: how will I better weave Her Web? How can I earn my place in Her Design? How will I honour the perfection of Her Wyrd?

Soon, the cold of Her Garden sets in, and you feel whole again. Your wounds have been tended to, your mind has been repaired, and your place as a seedling in Her Garden nears its end.

Like a rose blooming for the first time, your mind ignites with the glory of life, and in service to the Wyrd, to your Mistress, you are strengthened. You feel a hand caress your cheek, the nails -- like thorns -- digging into your flesh. "Be the Spider, never the Fly," Her voice whispers, as seedling becomes blossom and your tah'vrai continues.

Within the cold embrace of the Wyrd.

You are suspended in place by dense soil, the weight of it cold and constricting; tomb-like and all-encompassing; soothing and whole, like a mother's womb before birth. Tendrils of black roots writhe like snakes past you, each one moving with a rhythmic pulsing as if it were part of a great system of earthen veins being pumped full of blood. Black flames flicker like starlight in the spaces between your thoughts, raw and uncontained, and you know that this is the life of the Wyrd given form within this garden bed, and you, another of its seeds.

You see a single exit leading out.

Viravain

You're all just little people-shaped tulips, and I, your humble gardener. 

Tridemon

... humble?