It appeared in the night.

A moonlight fisherman discovered it in the early dawn, heavy in the sand on the quiet Weod coast. In the dim gray light, the etchings glowed faintly blue from deep within and cast bright shimmers on the frothy tide.

With each rush of foam on the beach, water seethed and spun round and round the great stone, clockwise, as if stirred by the wind, though the air was still. A bowl of spun sand had formed at its base.

With each crash of the incoming tide, drops of saltwater leaped high and were ensnared in a spinning fugue that danced high above the Mote. Like an intricate mobile set in motion, the constellation of glinting water-drops turned and whirled in perfect suspension -- a column of perpetual motion high above the etched stone -- though there was no wind at all.

The first curious visitors arrived out of the nearby fishing village of Laku, with wide eyes, quiet voices and uncertain footsteps.

Eventually the first brave one stepped forward, leaving his footprints in the wet sand, and poked at the stone with a stick.

Nothing happened.

He whacked at it, with a sharp clap of sound.

Nothing happened.

A child, heartened by the Mote's inanimate nature, tossed a seashell into the air above it.

The shell was swept up with the water-drops in perfect spinning circles, suspended as it whizzed round and round like a halo.

The child's delighted laughter brought more villagers onto the sand. A stick, then a pebble, then a shoe, then a glass bottle, were all tossed up into the spinning column -- and one by one, no matter how very high they were thrown, they all joined the perpetual turn.

A youth laid his hands on the stone and, using the blue-soft etchings as footholds, clambered up the side of the Mote in order to retrieve his spinning shoe. Before his grasping fingers could reach it, his own body was swept up in the dance -- the villagers watched while his helpless body was spun round and round in the air, and he made unintelligible noises of surprise and uncertainty. Finally, after he'd attempted and failed to stop himself, another villager caught him by the ankle as he spun past and yanked him out of the Mote's whirling hold. He had, at least, retrieved his shoe.

After a few days, the swirling column of old pots and fish bones and wood-shavings and hats and shovels had lost its novelty, and the villagers' attention directed instead to the trickle of visitors come to see the new phenomenon. A few had appointed themselves experts, and for a few coin would offer tours of the scenic coast and invite customers to toss things into the towering swirl of detritus.

But at night, the blue-glow etchings cast a haunting shine across the ocean -- beckoning.

'It's not useful,' Griffin could almost wail. 'But I'll make it worth my time.'

He had spent good coin to go on that tour. Better coin, coin that he needed to stock his return to Crossroads, was spent to retrace his steps to the Mote on the second tour. Perhaps if he hadn't needed to replace his hand-pick, Griff would have enough for a third. There was room and board to consider as well. The fisher's wife had gotten stingier with her crawlspace as the days trickled by in Laku, and Griff knew that travelers with deeper pockets were due to approach any day now.

An expert had taken the party to visit the stone. He was old, and half-blind. Griff wanted to see sparks of lightning; shards of crystal springing forth from the rock's rounded face; perhaps the rings of vapor that you could sometimes see seeping out of the forest in the middle of the night would be exhaled from the Mote.

A dervish of junk spun above the monolith. Griff frowned as he recalled the spectacle. Useless.

It was disheartening, but it wouldn't stop him. He'd memorized the path that the half-blind expert had taken to get out of the village. Footprints in the sand had been swept away by tide; though the sun had set long ago, Griffin felt as if he could see them clear as day. As he neared part of the shoreline that dropped steeply into the waters below, he swung around the well-traveled trail and ducked behind a thicket of tall, threadbare cattails.

Time was short, and Griffin had wasted so much already. Yet here he stooped, immobilized as he rehearsed the motions in his head. Appraised the tools at his disposal. He reached into a hide pouch on his belt. Leather-working tools he had re-purposed for a new mission. Metal for carving, scraping. Blunted the end of a narrow pick so that he could wedge it into the stone's smallest imperfection. A rawhide mallet, expensive but reliable. Needles. A compass. Griff had his dagger, too, but that would hopefully stay snug against his hip.

The Mote was over this dune. All he had to do was swoop around and approach it from an angle opposing the expert's path. None would dare travel at this hour, but it still couldn't hurt to be careful. Patience was something Griff usually didn't have the luxury to have in high supply, but he didn't want to mess this up. As others in Laku slept, or sorted their wares for tomorrow's market, or idled their time in the ramshackle pub near the docks, Griffin took a deep breath.

He scurried from behind the thicket, crested the dune, and made his way towards the glow of the beach.

As per usual, it had been Ranger who picked the path Evelio took, the peregrin falcon sitting imperiously on his right shoulder like a king overlooking his subjects. Its sharp beak tugged on his hair until he turned to face the direction it thought right, followed by a light nip on his earlobe to get him walking forward. The wanderer didn't exactly mind, seeing as he wasn't looking to explore new places, more than content in letting the bird and his feet take him across the lands. It had been more than a week since he left the last village, spending only a night in the shabby inn of a near-empty inhabitance. He had been glad to leave the foul-smelling place, but he was pretty sure the inn-keeper was happier to see him walk out the door. It wasn't really Evelio's fault he had mistaken the man's son to be a hobgoblin. Damn brat certainly looked the part, a creature of folk tales or not. Didn't help the brat looked like he was ready to steal Evelio's slice of goat cheese. No one touched Evelio's cheese. No one.

Either way, under the guidance of Ranger, the former Knight found himself approaching a fishing village as the sun moved past its zenith. The smell of fish and sea salt permeated the air, carried by the constant breeze coming from the ocean. Residents dressed in patched linen and hauling nets of catch around was an expected sight. However, what wasn't the norm was the presence of strangely clad individuals draped in gaudy looking clothes with dried bones hanging from their limbs, clinking dully in the wind as they stalked to and fro, a smattering of people following a distance behind, expression ranging from bemusement to exasperation.

Only one thought ran through Evelio's mind. Ah, fellow madmen! Proper conversationalists at last!

Unfortunately for the poor wanderer, his too-wide grin distorted to deranged, courtesy of his scars and gleam in his lone eye. Evelio's first target squeaked when a calloused hand landed heavily on a thin shoulder, the force of it rattling and clinking the cheap hanging ornaments. A cobalt eye was drawn to them by the sharp noises, the mad grin somehow managing to stretch wider.

"My friend! Are those any effective in warding off dream demons?" At the thin man's confused look, Evelio leaned closer and lowered his voice, as though divulging a secret. "Those damn things have been getting their slimy claws closer to my eyeballs. Even the one I lost years ago! Don't ask me how, I dearly like to know too! Say, should I try locking them up in a box and throwing away the key? What do you -- "

His ramblings were cut short when the gaudy man finally recovered from shock and shoved the hand off his shoulder. "Tha heck 're ya on? I ain't no shaman! Jus' a guide! Ya know, fer tha Mote on tha coast!"

Evelio stopped short. "Mote?" His gaze turned distant. "A Mote here? On the coast? A guide for...oh! Tourists!" The last word was said in triumph, a finger jabbed in the direction of the small crowd watching the spectacle. The finger withdrew as he clapped gleefully. "Wonderful! Brilliant! Let's all go to see this Mote, shall we?"

"Not wif ya, we ain't! Move on, ya mad cur!"

"Well, that's rather rude of you, but everyone is entitled to their opinion. I shall bid you good day and...move on." Giving a stately bow, he whirled on his heels and stalked off.

It didn't take all that long to glean the location of the Mote from people eager to share the strange sight they had personally witnessed. A monolith of stone with blue glowing carvings on its surface standing in the middle of all that sand, a whirlwind of miscellaneous junk swirling around it. It was this barrier that prevented frustrated researchers from laying their hands on the rock itself. The mysterious force was strong enough to sweep even a full grown man off his feet! No one wanted to risk that. Not even for a sliver of mystery rock.

Evelio had nodded politely at the recounts and left, purchasing a room for two days at the local inn with a small piece of sapphire. He didn't carry gold or coins, only various precious stones he found during his travels. The gem was still covered in hard mud, but enough glimmer shone through to be accepted by the innkeeper.

He waited until nightfall, when most of the village went back to their homes and the streets were empty, save for a few drunks and nightowls. Evelio slipped out the door and headed down the various twists and turns, stopping every now and then to look for the landmarks described by the people who took the tour to see the Mote. He would have gladly paid to go on a tour too, except all the guides he talked to either refused his gems or shied away, leaving him with no choice but to go alone. And what better scene to witness when night fell and stars are out.

It was the blue glow that let him know he was getting closer. Walking down the coast as though it was a main street, Evelio didn't bother sneaking. He didn't know if there were rules regarding visiting the Mote, and if there was, he didn't care a wit. As described, the swirl of junk revolved around the monolith, preventing all from getting close. Circling the Mote a few times, he can to a halt in front of it, making sure to put a few feet distance between.

"Hmm...it doesn't seem to hold other strange powers other than this..." he murmured to himself, arms crossed over his chest and head tilted to the side. Ranger, who had left his side during his afternoon tour of the village, landed back on his shoulder again with a single sharp cry. "What do you think, Ranger? Should I throw you at it? See if you can fly out of the whirl? Shall I throw myself at it? Maybe I can touch the Mote's surface that way? Ooh, how about throwing someone else at it? Pity there's no one around though."

Swaths of saltwater glided up the sandy shore in the moonlight, frothed and hissed around the mote and the visitors' feet -- then retreated, translucent, back into the glinting ocean.

The blue glow from within the Mote brightened and dimmed ever so slightly -- almost like breathing, almost in time with the rise and fall of the water.

The tower of spinning refuse sometimes sparked in reflection of the moon and the stars -- a mirror, a bit of glass, a shoe-buckle -- it was almost beautiful in its silent swirl.

Until --

whimper

A high-pitched whine emitted out of the thick tornado of trash. At first it might seem like the squeak of a hinge or something sharp against metal -- but then the detritus whimpered again.

Something struggled among the swirl of discarded bones and sticks: a paw, a tawny tail, a dejected little nose. The puppy had all but given up hope of rescue, but upon sight of new people approaching had redoubled its efforts to attract attention. The dog spun round and round with the refuse, pawing at it and twisting, spinning upside-down then tail to the sky, squeaking in a tired and dizzy and hopeful tone.

"Unbelievab--"

Griff nearly choked on surprise. As the urge to cough seized his throat, his voice muffled against his sleeve. He sunk even further behind a thicket of dune-grass and cattails. There was a flick of a crab scuttling on the white sands of the moonlit beach.

'Unbelievable,' He thought again.

Someone was approaching the Mote. A man. Not old, but older. Griff could only see the man's profile as he seemed to saunter towards the monolith. Weapons? Unclear. From the angle, and the ephemeral spotlight cast dramatically from the moon above, the stranger seemed to be finely-dressed. If there was one thing that Griff knew about rich garb, it meant you either trusted yourself to be armed, or hired good hand. Well-dressed, traveling at night alone? Well, Griff wasn't a betting man...

He just kept low. Breathing was the key. It was like checking the traps and snares early in the morning. Weasels that were flitting about after the rising sun. Near the morsel of bread or bloodied meat that had been concealed in the jaws of the trap. Breathe too hard, move your boot in the wrong direction, you'd crush a twig underfoot, and bank on one fewer strip of leather or boot-fur. Fewer coins in the grocer's fund.

Patience was key. To wait, and to watch. Ensure the quarry was hungry enough, curious enough to venture closer to the trap.

A shadow dove from the sky and melded with the man's silhouette in a flurry of wingbeats. Griff's eyes strained as he resisted the choke of surprise once again. However, it wasn't some shadowbound wing-beast of a woods-whisperer's pact--it was a bird of prey. A hawk, maybe? Too far to tell. Griff was briefly reminded of a falconer that visited Crossroads nearly every spring; the man used some sort of unseen prestidigitation to hypnotically soothe his familiar.

Griff dared edge closer, now almost flat on his stomach. His legs remained taught, ready to fly into action, as his arms naturally guided him forward, pushed and pulled at the grassroot and sand in such a way to slide him even closer to the Mote. Its sigils seemed to pulsate with blue light, almost as if they were breathing. Bleeding. Griff could almost imagine the ice blue energy pour out of the etchings and dissolve into the tide below.

Griff shook his head, knocking himself out of the Mote's own brand of hypnosis. Trash swirled like a dreamcatcher above the rock.

He needed a distraction--a rock, a thrown stone into the water just shy of the man. Maybe that could deter the stranger, spook the man and his bird away from the Mote. Griff could fall back and try his approach again in an hour. He could try a sharp whistle--something so loud and sudden on a dark beach would surely discourage further inspection of the Mote.

'No,' Griff realized dully. 'If he's approaching such a strange thing on this witching hour, there can't be much in the way of splashing rocks he fears.'

Fine. It would be the final approach. The plan that Griff had put on a back-burner in his mind. Something that he had considered, but failed to give any meaningful weight. Useless to devote time and energy to rare happenstance, but now here he was. Sand down his collar, dagger and tools pressed against his waist, and the moonlight threatening to reveal his location if there was too strong a sea breeze. What were the odds that he'd encounter someone up here?

"W-wait!" Griff pounced. His legs drove him up and to a quick pace. He approached the stranger from the opposite end of the stark beach. "Don't touch it! Be careful! The Mote. It's, er...it's dangerous!"

As Griff approached Evelio, he raised two open palms as a sign of nonviolence.

So stupid. So useless. The worst plan: Diplomacy.

"I'm telling you, I heard a dog somewhere. Right guys?" Sirius' voice caused the young girl to jump in surprise as she took a few looks around her to make sure she wasn't being followed. A few other voices mumbled in agreement, but Capella seemed to be more annoyed with the first voice.

"Y-You're making it quite hard to be alone. I thought it someone else.." She said as she placed a small hand on her chest. If anyone had been watching her, they would have thought that the girl was talking to herself, and while that wouldn't necessarily be wrong, she wouldn't want people to think she was as weird as she looked.

She walk mostly silent along the sandy tide, her bare feet exposed to the damp sand and small water droplets that swung by. Dressed in all white with hair akin to half painted drawing, most would think she was a spirit or maybe a ghost that became visible once the moon had hit its peak. Lowering her head to her feet, Capella listened quietly to the voices in her head as they talked about said dog.

"A dogie?! Where? Where?! Capella, go look for it!"

"Yeah, go find it, so that you can kill it and move on with your life."

"Rigil, how COULD you?! The little pupper might be in danger!!"

"Canopus is right for once, we should at least make sure everything is okay, Capella."

Nodding slowly in understanding, but without any input of her own, Capella dashed forward, hopefully getting close to the destination that the voices, well Caponus, so desperately wanted her to check out.



Capella didn't have to run very far as it only took a few minutes for her to see what was going on. Well for one thing, she wasn't alone despite how much she would have wanted to be. There was two men, who appeared to be talking to each other, one of them holding their hands up, and the other sported a bird.

"Ohmygod, look it's the pupper!" Capella blinked in confusion as the voice in her head instead was more focused on the swirling trash just above a rather small sand dune. Blue and orange eyes blink in confusion as the barefoot girl instead approached the sand dune, her eyes wide with curiosity as she could see a blue light pulsating from the base. The two mean were forgotten at that point as Capella slid down to her knees, her white dress now covered in sand particles, and stared down at the aforementioned Mote in hopes of getting a better look. She was close to the edge of the sand dune but her body continued to lean forward, despite Sirius' pleas for her to be careful. How could she not stare at something so beautiful?

A momentary silence fell as the falcon didn't do more than flick it tail feathers in mild disdain, as though reprimanding Evelio for asking its opinion when it didn't care one bit about the blue-glowy rock surrounded by spinning trash. The man sighed aloud, shrugging a shoulder helplessly before returning his gaze to the Mote. Briefly, he wondered if throwing something with enough force inside the whirlwind could possibly knock something out. Or allow the thrown object to safely exit out the other side without falling victim to the mysterious force. HUmming lightly under his breath so the dreaded silence was broken, he cast his eye around the sandy ground for a small rock or something similar. Just as he was about to take a few steps around the Mote for a bit of jagged rock he spied picking out of a pile of dried seaweed, a voice called out to him.

Or at least he assumed it was him the voice was addressing, since he was the only other person on this coast. Maybe. being blind in one eye left quite a blind spot in one's vision, you know. And let it be known the existence of spirits and ghosts and other spectral beings were not impossible. Those who questioned it obviously needed to broaden their horizons! Or their brains. Either worked, really. Maybe eat more brain pie too? Hmm...would that work? Another trivial matter to discover.

Anyway, back the voice. Evelio straightened, leaning back and to the side slightly in order to see past the Mote and debris. Under the wane moonlight and illumination provided by the glowing rock, he could make out a young man hurrying forward. Only as he drew closer did Evelio realise the lad was holding both hands out, probably in a gesture of peace. Which made him wonder why the youth bothered to do so in the first place. Did he really look like someone who resorted to violence at first opportunity? Look, both of Evelio's hands weren't anywhere near his falchion at all!

Wide grin appearing on his face, the former Knight waved jauntily at the young man. "Why, hullo there, fellow sneak!" He paused for a second, pursing his lips in thought. "Hang on, no. I'm pretty sure I'm not a sneak, so the wording is improper. Let's see...lil' ole me is a wanderer, but you don't look like one, lad. So that leaves...ah ha! Appraiser? You're here to study this shiny mystery rock too, are you not?"

Lifting his left hand, he beckoned Griff over enthusiastically. "No worries lad, no worries. I'm mentally unstable, not senseless. I'd be even madder than I am now to try touching this lovely Mote here without some trials beforehand! Now come over, if you please. I don't bite, Knight's honour. Well, a former knight, but same difference. No guarantees for Ranger, though."

Not waiting to see if the lad followed his request, he was about to explain his idea about throwing a small but heavy debris with all his strength into the whirlwind to see if it could go out the other end when pitiful barking sounded. He blinked, then cackled uproariously as he spotted a little puppy whining as it was forcibly spun round and round the Mote. Oh, the face it was making! Who knew canines were capable of displaying such a pathetic pleading expression?

"No worries lad, no worries. I'm mentally unstable, not senseless. I'd be even madder than I am now to try touching this lovely Mote here without some trials beforehand! Now come over, if you please. I don't bite, Knight's honour. Well, a former knight, but same difference. No guarantees for Ranger, though."

"I...I..." Griff was at a loss for words. "Okay."

He put his hands down. No point in feigning deference. However, Griff wasn't exactly keen on sidling up next to this strange man in the eye-patch. In his mad, sing-song baritone, Griff could see how someone could get mystified at the man's casual mention of his own sanity. There was a phrase for something like that; the truly mad never considered themself such? The stranger's apparent self-awareness actually put Griff more at ease than the man's mention of a forsaken knighthood.

"Appraiser. That sounds...sounds about right," He replied after several long seconds.

The Mote was enchanting. Phosphorescent blue swirls stood out even more against the inky blackness of the night tide. Though it was simply a huge chunk of rock, every crevice and vertex of the relic seemed somehow designed; pressed into shape by diligent earthen fingers. As a craftsman, Griff could appreciate the shape. His eyes drifted upwards, to the storm of trash that gently orbited above the Mote. Old shoes. A snapped bow. Fishline and broken bottles.

It was easy to get lost in the glow of the Mote. Waves bubbled up against the shore, spray getting caught in the airy vortex above the monolith. Several pieces of garbage would clatter together as the rhythmically jostled in orbit. A meager mewling as what Griff assumed was a crumpled piece of fabric turned out to be a mangy puppy. It pun around, upturned and small legs swimming uselessly against the invisible pull.

"We should--"

Something happened very quickly. A girl, with long hair and wearing a white dress, folded to her knees. She was small. Griff wagered she was younger than him, though only by a few years. One of his sisters looked near about her age. As wet sand matted the strange girl's dress, he saw her lean forward. Her breath seemed to tarnish the Mote as she mindlessly moved closer.

"Don't touch it!" He hissed. "How many people must I reprimand tonight?"

He made a motion down towards Capella, as if he was going to snatch her waifish hand out of the air. He stopped, fingers straining against instinctive reflex. The girl's hair; bifurcated perfectly down the middle, light and dark. Chimerical and otherworldly. Witchcraft? Best not to touch her. If only he had something to whap her hands with. A long stick. A piece of driftwood? No time to look.

The puppy whined again. Griff bit his lower lip, frustrated at this turn of events. While he didn't much care for the idea of keeping a dog at his side, he couldn't just leave the animal to its assured demise. Additionally, if he could get rid of these two strangers, have some time to himself in front of the Mote, he could devise a plan to carve out shards of the monolith and make the return trip to Crossroads, only slightly behind schedule.

"The dog," Griff said in a forced calm, "I'm here for the dog. Someone in the village, you see, in Laku...they reported a missing puppy. If we touch the Mote, disturb it in some way, who knows what will happen to the dog. But...how to pull it out?"

It wasn't a smooth lie, but it would at least obscure Griff's real reason for coming here tonight. It could also distract these strangers and stop them from potentially ruining his plans. Motes were finnicky, as the stories went. Capricious. If someone touched it, the Mote could blast off into the sky. Erupt in a shower of acid. Griff needed to ensure that it was he and he alone that would make first contact and shave off a piece.

Past the great expanse of fen and forest was the shoreline of Woed-- the beach, and before that was a ravine to aid the transition from grass and soil to sand. But, even before all of this, back where the earth squelched undertoe, where the open sky suffocated under leafy canopy, and where there was only obscurity, solemnity, and-- worse of all-- snakes, there was rumored to be a cottage or two. A refuge for the reclusive, those unknown who vied to remain so. This was, until, in a sudden bout of urgency, they emerged like living dead from the wilderness and began a hastened scramble down the cliffside to the beach. They grimaced, they grunted, and they hobbled, but-- and this is when one gentleman was engaged in enthusiastic conference-- they had managed a considerable distance, leaving holes and footprints in the sand.

“They,” the figure of crumbled posture, their every step teeming with rheumatism and fragility. And yet, the antique mysticism of their dress-- a miscellany of fabrics and jewelry and beads-- and, most telling, the scowl carved into their gnarled and textured face-- shadows cast and caught like the web of wrinkles faded in the intoxicating glow of the Mote growing closer, closer. Mind, it would be impolite to make any presumptions of the travellers, to make any presumptions of their presumptions of this traveller. Their appearance there was instantaneous. Did she shock, scare? Well, all in all, she was a hag.

Regardless, her story did not involve or address any others in the vicinity. The hag was unconcerned. She was in the midst of removing her soft-soled shoes. She was bracing for arching another dune. There was, kneeled in the sand--

--"Move.”

--someone pushed aside for the Mote.

And then, it was almost too close. It was almost too perfect-- imperfect: coarse, and scarred. Those engravings immersed her in a hypnotic, consecrated color. She strode forward into the surf as if sleep-walking.

The old woman muttered under her breath: "Disrespectful... Reactin' t' magic like this."

The maelstrom of miscellany churned onward and above her; she met it mournfully, the woman, without considering the matching revolution at its base. The sea turned and turned as she, in a step, and then another, approached the object of her infatuation, her sympathy. Those wrinkles-- culminated ire and scorn-- smoothed and languished in her solemnity, and her headscarf was coming loose.

She could see the dog, and something clicked. Her eyes, once wistful, filled with color, darkened. The woman's brow folded over. She whisked around to see the other figures standing, then. She whisked back to see the dog, trapped and spinning. She whisked around towards the kneeling, palled little girl; the more-dignified man accompanied with such fascinating perplexities as a pirate's eye patch, a hunter's bird of prey; and then the owner of the dog...

And then the woman whisked back towards the dog. And then around again. And then! "Alright, alright! Get my cane, you worms! Y' like horses in a field 'bout to get whipped, starin' 'stead of runnin'! You want the damn mutt? Act like it! We'll pull 'em out! I said get my cane! Hurry up!"

AWOOOOOO

The little dog pleaded pitifully, spinning round and round among the villagers' refuse, its fluffy tail now over its head, now pointed at the ocean. It cried, helpless and tired. As it passed it caught sight of the old woman whose voice rang out above the rest; the puppy waggled a paw at her, twisting in the swirl to paddle in her direction, to no use. It whined, high-pitched and desperate.

The dog's tawny fur seemed that it had begun to glow a brighter shade of blue, illuminated from below.

All of the spinning detritus had taken on an intense blue shine, as the monolith's etchings glowed with a rapidly growing intensity.

Blue light cast brightly upon the strangers who surrounded the mote, at certain angles threatening to blind whomever might look straight into the glow. And still it intensified, until the mote appeared that it might explode at any moment.

Across the night-dark ocean, if one might look very carefully, one might glimpse a few flashes of brilliant blue light. A reflection? A second mote? ... Something else?

The little dog howled.

The sand dune upon which Capella was perched -- crumbled underneath her.

At this point, Demorra had been on the road for quite some time. She had been thrown out of the last village, a tiny place called Edwin's Bend, after someone had decided her eyes were a sign of witchcraft, and managed to whip up a mob that drove her out into the night. Fortunately, she had caught wind of it beforehand, and stolen enough food to last her a while. Demorra huffed indignantly, thinking about it. She didn't even know what was so special about her eyes! They worked just fine, as far as she could tell, and so far she hadn't been lucky enough to find so much as a reflective bit of metal, or a non-grimy window, to see if they looked any different from normal. She sighed, and shrugged. At least the weather is nice tonight. It makes my journey that much easier.

All of a sudden, Demorra found herself at the edge of the forest, overlooking a sandy beach. She had been following the sound of the waves for a few minutes, but hadn't expected to arrive at the ocean so quickly. Perhaps the trees had muffled the sound. Demorra set off walking down the beach, hoping to find a town that'd be willing to take her in for the night, or at least have an open stable stall.

As she walked, Demorra noticed that there were several other people down the beach, along with - she gasped as she noticed it - a mote! There was a young, dark-haired man with a ponytail, who seemed to be talking to an older gentleman with an eyepatch and a... pet falcon? Interesting. As she watched, a young girl with black hair appeared, seemingly in a hurry, only to seemingly become hypnotized by the mote, which Demorra noticed had a maelstrom of detritus whirling around it, and fall to her knees. Demorra frowned and sped up her pace slightly. From what she had heard, touching a mote - or being near one at all, really - was a bad idea. At about that moment, an old, hunched woman appeared and shoved the girl out of the way, and seemed to... spin in place several times, before shouting at the others to grab her cane.

Demorra was quite close at this point, which is why when the mote's glow began to intensify, she instinctively turned away and shielded her eyes, though it didn't seem like its light was as blinding as she had thought. Fortunately, this also afforded her a good vantage point of the other girl. As well as the sand dune she was perched on, which began to crumble. Before Demorra could say anything, the dune collapsed completely, sending the girl tumbling down! Demorra immediately ran for her, hoping to catch her before she landed and was injured. As she ran, she noticed that the girl's hair was, in fact, white and black, split perfectly down the middle. Witchcraft? The sight gave her pause, just for a split second, before Demorra decided to file that thought away for later and focus on catching her for now. Witchcraft or not, she was in trouble.

Capella blinked as her gaze on the mote was pulled back down to the two men that were talking to each other. It seemed that their focus was also on the dog howling desperately for their help. That's right, that's the only reason she was there, simple as that, right? But... she couldn't help but watch the iridescent glow of the mote from where she was. Those two men could handle it on their own right?
"CAPELLA!! What are you thinking?! That's so mean! What if that was you up there? Huh? HUH?!" Canopus' voice made Capella's ears ring for some reason, even causing her to place her hands over her ears in hopes of saving them from the assault they were forced to endure. "U-Um, too loud, Canopus." Sirius mumbled softly as the dual haired girl was caught off guard by the sound of an old woman telling her to move.

And that she did, sliding over to the side on her knees, her expression anxious. She didn't think there would be anyone else up where she was, plus with the dune she was perched on top of being rather close to the dangerous yet mysterious mote, she would have never expected such an old woman wanted to get close to such a thing.
"S-Sorry..." She mumbled to both the woman and Canopus as she lowered her head, her blue and orange eye watching as the old woman began to yell at the two men to get their acts together and find her cane in order to save the dog.

However, before anyone had a time to react, the mote as well as the debris and trash floating over it began to glow a brilliant light. Protecting her eyes by using her arm, Capella could only question what was causing the mote to react the way it was. She might have even voiced her thoughts if she didn't feel the sinking of the sand below her. Eyes widening in shock, Capella let out a shrill cry as she leaned forwards, trying not to be devoured by the sand caving in on itself. The dual haired girl tried to brace her landing with her hands, but the slipperiness of the sandy slope caused Capella to tumble forward instead, her entire body rolling dangerously down the collapsing dune. "O-Ow! Ouch! Wh-Whoa!! H-Help!" She cried out with every sandy roll she got caught in, closing her eyes avoid the sand assaulting any further than it has already.

"Oi, cover your head, idiot!" That's right! Acting out her orders efficiently, Capella essentially brought her head down closer to her chest as she was just about roll into the group at the bottom of the collapse dune. She could feel herself going faster, the momentum making her nauseous as she tried to find something to slow herself down, and had no clue which direction was up at this point. All she knew was that she was getting closer to the mote, judging by the light getting brighter, which also meant that she was getting close to touching the object; definitely not the best action with so many people around.

Griff turned. Surf crashing against her gnarled feet, he saw an old woman approach. Bent over, either due to age or the assortment of garments draped about her body, he couldn't tell. His expression changed as she drew closer--calm frustration. A storm of anger bubbled within him. More strangers approached by the second. With each successive traveler, his quest would surely be compromised. This mote no longer his. At the very least, it was another set of ears that could see through his transparent claim to the dog.

'Why? Why did I say such a thing?'

"Alright, alright! Get my cane, you worms! Y' like horses in a field 'bout to get whipped, starin' 'stead of runnin'! You want the damn mutt? Act like it! We'll pull 'em out! I said get my cane! Hurry up!"

The woman squawked with an air of someone who wasn't accustomed to being ignored, gesticulating with a bejeweled hand towards the clattering dervish above the mote.

Griff's eyes darted around. 'Her cane?' It was dark. Did she have it on her person? He'd reach for it. They could draw the dog out of its orbit, and he could wrangle the whole group to run back to Laku, return the pup to its "rightful owner." He could steal away again, retrace his route, and reach the Mote even later in the night.

A pathetic little howl brought Griff to his senses. A blinding blue glow from the mote reminded him of his true quarry. His eyes went wide, and then were forced closed as the monolith seemed to scream soundlessly in front of them. The air was thick with waves of something Griff could not hope to describe.

Blinded, he heard more commotion. Footsteps, tumbling. Dirt was kicked up near his face. Instead of flinching, Griff growled in agitation. He forgot about the cane, forgot about anyone who was near him. Forgot about any feigned diplomacy. The mote was reacting to something, and his time idling on a course of action was drawing to a close.

"Back off!" He growled to the group of strangers. "Before you ruin everything!!"

His hands darted for the pouch on his waist. He deftly snatched the blunted pick and his carving knife. With a lack of foresight that would have shocked him in a sounder mind, Griff lunged forward and attempted to pierce into the mote's jagged face.

In the same quiet moment -- while the dark sea breathed and the distant light flickered -- what follows happened all at once:

Evelio Laughier laughed at the pitiful distress of a puppy trapped in the swirling refuse.

Madame Grouse snapped for her cane to be fetched, so the same pup could therewith be rescued.

Capella Seis toppled, rolling and tumbling, from her perch atop a dune that overlooked the mote.

Demorra rushed across the sand, arms outstretched, in order to prevent Capella's injury.

Griff Sylvestro gave an echoing shout and, with a flash of a blade, struck the face of the mote.

A sudden blue light seared their eyes and engulfed them all. The hollow toll of a bell reverberated in their skulls, as loud and ominous as if they stood in a belltower at the turn of the hour. The shock of light and sound would send the weakest of them to their knees -- and when their hands hit the ground, they would feel thick grass where there had been sand a moment before.

When the bright blindness faded from their eyes, they would find bright daylight sifting down through the soft branches above.

When the ringing faded from their ears, they would hear the cheerful warble and chirp of songbirds all around.

The sand, the water, the distant light, the night ... were all gone.

The birch trees here were pencil-straight, and the ground clear of all but a soft carpet of bright grass -- above, the high canopies shifted the dapples of sunlight. The result was a forest that seemed hollow and empty, full of thin white columns and quiet mysteries.

The reluctant travelers were not alone.

A mote sat in the small clearing in which they found themselves -- but it was not the same mote they had found at the seaside. This was perfectly round, made of a dark reddish stone that towered a few feet higher than the tallest of the travelers. It was etched with carvings that were very different from those of the first mote, but somehow the strokes resembled a similar style. These were dim, but a faint red light glowed deep within.

As they watched, the grass directly surrounding this mote began to grow and change color -- violet grasses thickened, jointed, curled and waved their new fronds in an unsettling manner ... as if they were fingers seeking something to grasp.

A blinding flash. A thrum that reverberated deep into Griff's body, playing his bones like a mad percussionist. He wanted to shout, to scream, to do something or say anything. But his breath had been stolen, and his body was weightless. Though Griff had ever only been in water that went up to his chest, in that moment he likened it to swimming.

But as quick as the light had seized him, quicker was the landing. The pressure of hard ground against his body, limbs now sprawled out. Griff's eyes were closed, reflexively at first, but now he was too worried to open them.

He reached out to grab the knife. Pulled from his fingers in the swirling vacuum. Grass tickled and played at his open palm, but he found no grip on blade handle. Was it gone? He had paid good money for that carving knife.

Griff gingerly opened his eyes. Nothing hurt, not presently, but he was reminded of waking up on cold mornings with a stiff neck. The kind of ache you didn't feel until you rose from bed. All that greeted him were slightly-swaying tendrils of bright green grass. His own breath cleared the slender leaves out from around his nostrils. Griff realized it wasn't especially windy, wherever he was, as a stark contrast to the dark beach trail.

"No," the knot in his stomach was wrenched further in dull realization.

It wasn't dark either.

He sat up, back rigid as a plank and knees tucked beneath him. Griff rubbed at his eyes, swatted at his face--anything to make sure that this wasn't a dream. He looked up, and squinted through the mosaic of leaves as sunbeams lanced through far-off canopy.

There were others around him--four in all. He recognized the head of hair that was bifurcated right down the middle. Strangers on the beach. They were all here with him? Wherever here was, that is. Certainly no beach.

He shifted again, and saw it. Several yards away was the rotund, clay-red body of a mote. Not his Mote. Or rather, not the Mote that had just reacted so strongly to the clatter of a blade against its carapace. Even if it had transmuted color and shape, jumped with them to this elsewhere, the symbols were different. Though the languid half-circles and spirals weren't a language that Griff recognized, he just knew that this was a different Mote.

That cold feeling of dread settled in his gut. A shiver ran down his spine, despite the mild weather of this ossuary wood.

"This is all wrong," he protested.

Just as Capella was about to feel the brute force of the sandy ground below her, she felt her body practically vibrate as if she was struck by a blunt object. The feeling coupled with her current predicament caused her body to go even limper than before. What was going on? The voices in her head were screaming, yelling at her to do something, anything to protect herself from what was to come, but the stimulation was so overbearing that her vision blurred, her hearing went dull and her breathing halted as the light quickly enveloped her body...

...Only for said light to disappear and her body to hit the ground with a thud, not that Capella could comprehend what was going on. She landed on her back, her body in a position that would deem almost normal for a sleeping person, especially with her eyes closed. Her face, however, was contorted in a pained expression, her lips parted slightly as she breathed through her mouth quickly.

"Capella?! Capella?! Are you okay? Get up!" She could feel the the grass beneath her tickle the perimeter of her body, but she wouldn't wake up, even with Sirius calling out to her.

"C-Capella? Wakey wakey!!" A sunbeam moved from her chest up to her face, almost as if trying to wake her, but Capella remain in her motionless state. If it weren't for her breathing, one would probably think she was dead...

Demorra took a moment to catch her breath, after the Mote flashed and did goodness-knows-what. She wasn't used to running so hard. She knew almost immediately, however, that she was somewhere entirely different almost immediately. The beach had been sandy, for one, and not grassy. It had also been nighttime.

That last part took a moment to fully register, but when it did, Demorra let out a small, startled "Oh!" She looked around her at the quiet birch forest, and at the others who had been taken along with her. "...How long were we gone?"

Demorra took in her surroundings for a moment longer, before hearing the ponytailed boy from earlier say "This is all wrong." She gave a laugh that was more of a series of breaths and responded. "Indeed. Although... I wonder if-"

Demorra concentrated, trying to see if her memory had been affected in any way. She started with the present, moving backwards. The beach... Edwin's Bend... and back until the moment she first woke up, in a wheat field somewhere with no memories and strange scars lining her body. And, apparently, eyes that just screamed "witchcraft".

She sighed. "No changes, then. Damn."

Demorra could feel the Mote floating close behind her, and see its red light, though she made an effort not to look at it. No need for someone to get entranced and cause it to do who-knows-what again. In the course of steadfastly not paying any attention to the Mote whatsoever, her eyes chanced upon the bi-colored hair of the girl she had been running to save earlier. She seemed... fitful. Like she was asleep, and having a nightmare that wasn't quite bad enough to wake her up.

Demorra got up and moved to her side, though how to rouse the girl she didn't know. For a moment, Demorra hesitated, looking at her oddly-colored hair and considering the likelihood of witchcraft. But the moment passed, and she shook her head. 'Twould be hypocritical of me to be afraid of witchcraft, particularly when I have been accused of it so often myself. And besides, she is obviously in trouble! How could I leave this poor soul to suffer from... whatever malady she suffers from?

And so, she reached out a hand to gently rock Capella's shoulder. "Um. Excuse me, miss. Are you alright?"

Sunlight shifted softly overhead. Stillness poised among the narrow white trees, while songbirds whistled in the distance. There wasn't even a breeze -- just the quiet, the silky grass, and the Mote that lay nestled in the soil as if it had been there for centuries, glowing gently.

The darkening fingers of weeds and grass took a bony shape, stretching and scratching at the ground. Soon there were more, wriggling out of the ground like dozens of spidery legs from the base of the Mote. The ground there twisted silently, bulged as if something sinewy writhed just beneath the crust of the forest floor.

Ever so slowly, the plantlife around the Mote was transforming, moving, scraping and flexing in a way it had never been known to do before.

Griff would feel a snuffling and poking at his shoulder; the little dog, once trapped in the spiral of the seaside Mote, now wagged and sniffed at him in hope of a morsel.

The Mote's reaching tendrils tickled and along Capella's arm, leaving a sappy green trail. Emboldened, the living weeds jointed and crawled buglike up her shoulder, grasped her ankle, reached around her stomach.

Should this be left to continue for hours or days, it seemed, the crawling grasses would silently hide all trace of Capella's existence.

In the distance, shadows shifted the sunlight. A group of ... something ... moved quietly, huffing low and rustling leaves in their wake. They were unclear so far away, but they were furred and dark and moved like deer.

The little dog seemed jovial enough -- but he wouldn't move any closer to the things in the woods, nor to the Mote and its scratching fingers.

The sharp rays of the sun followed by the gentle rocking of her shoulder managed to bring the dual haired girl back to reality. Her face stilled for a moment as her eyes slowly fluttered open, reveal one bright blue eye and one shimmery orange one. Her gaze immediately went to a girl that was by her side, definitely the one that was shaking her shoulder, trying to wake her up. The first thing she noticed was this person's eyes. Even in the daze of just waking up, the unnatural green that came from the two cat like orbs was breathtaking as well as a bit frightening...not that she had any room to talk. At least her hair was a normal, natural brown, cut and curled to frame her fair face. In the middle of her little analyzing, Capella couldn't ignore two voice in the back of her head mumbling to each other about the woman before her.

"Wow, she's really pretty.."

"Are you serious, Sirius? She looks like an alien with those eyes!"

Wanting more than anything to shut those two up, Capella pushed them out of her head to the best of her ability before looking back to the woman looking down at her.
"U-Um... I think so... thank y-you..." She's probably a little bit too focused on the girl looking down at her as she failed to see most of her surroundings, especially the luminous Mote nearby. Capella's thoughts were slowly tuned in on the girl who gave her a chance despite her looks, who held similar qualities that could make people fear her, and most of all--

Capella never got to finish the thought as a faint, but familiar sensation dragged along her arm, causing her to jump in surprise. She tried to get up, possibly even move closer to the older girl in hopes of catching some sort of break, but in attempts to sit up, Capella was met with what looked like weeds from the ground, slowly but surely swallowing up her body. While struggling too get herself free from her slow forming cocoon like prison, the sound of rustling leaves in the distance made her freeze out of fear.

Bringing her attention back to the girl that woke her up, Capella sucked in a quick breath before speaking.
"A-Are we gonna d-die here...?" She whispered, unable to hide the cracks in her voice and composure as tears slowly began to form in her eyes.

Oh dear. She's cute. Demorra was, just for a moment, distracted by Capella's quite striking looks, but was snapped out of it when she responded to Demorra's question with a shaky "I think so..."

"Oh, wonderful. I was rather concerned when you took that tumble down the sand dune, but it seems- Uh?"

She cut herself off as she noticed the grass starting to form into strange tendrils and crawl over Capella's body, threatening to swallow her if nothing was done.

"A-Are we gonna d-die here...?"

Oh gods she's really cute. ...No! Focus! Save first, swoon later!

Demorra shook her head to clear out any... distracting thoughts, and tried to reassure the other girl. "Not if I can help it, we're not. Hang on just a moment." She went around to Capella's back, hooked her arms under Capella's armpits, and started tugging with all her might. Unfortunately, all of Demorra's might was... not very much. On her own, she wouldn't be strong enough to free Capella from the encroaching weeds. That much was readily apparent.