[center][h2][b]Ophelia[/b][/h2][/center]

Within the caverns of Ophelia's mind the eldritch whispers settled, diffusing into abstract streams of thought not unlike a dream within a dream. She felt herself immersed in the soothing radiance of gentle moonlight through the little structure's windows, wood of the floor contrasting against the argent glow reflecting from the keen polish of the blade in her hand. Almost absentmindedly she brought her left hand away from the hilt to the blade to gently caress along it, feeling the thrum of invisible power radiating from it. She lost all focus on anything but the source of the moonlight above them as her mind resonated with the unseen whispers, letting the subtle guidance it promised fill her very being. Something about it called to her, and something about the place they were in had a resonance she could not understand but could detect.

"I am ready, Mother Moon..." she whispered, an almost-silent prayer leaving her lips. The silence that followed grew louder and louder in her mind, all for the nuances and subtleties of the blade's mysterious urgings to permeate her very essence. She felt nearly compelled to do as it bade, so strong was its longing for purpose and for use--and it held an echo of something principled and chivalrous, she felt, though she knew not where that notion came from nor what it could possibly mean. She was not quite sure if she had not simply imagined this whole thing, so familiar was the rune-brand and so queer the moon... but she could feel the thrum of this thing in her hands, the shivering ache of its desire to be wielded again; of the lack that it had endured for so long. It could not be anything but real, and Ophelia wanted nothing more in that moment than to oblige it.