Tuujaimaa

The Black Prophecy (Dead now; requiescat in pace!)

Hrothkirk, 315 P.F.

---

Though the wetlands proper were some distance away from even the outskirts of Hrothkirk, the buzzing of gnats and mosquitoes still made itself known within the humid and fetid air that hung at the edges of the settlment. Sounds of fast and irritated slaps were not uncommon amongst the ramshackle huts of mouldering wood that gathered as the ground became more and more sodden away from Hrothhøll proper, and the droning of the fauna seemed to serve as a strangely choral backdrop for often-muttered prayers praising the Exalted One. The tradition of His worship was sparse in the Hundred Lakes, and sparser still in the Twenty Halls to the east--but the denizens of Hrothkirk were the stock of ancient crusaders, and their vows to watch over this strange and swampy land had been repeated and sworn since their great god had walked the earth still. None within the church could truly remember why the vows had been sworn, or what it was they were supposed to do, but they upheld the tradition nonetheless and eked out a humble (if pious) living. Though the low hum of prayer was a constant, these days it was punctuated in places by wracking, wet coughs and shuddering exhalations of breath that were almost enough to make one think the air carried invisible shards of ice. Thick, stinking mud squelched underfoot as Gorm made his way through what could only be called a path with an excess of generosity, swinging a censer suspended from thickly braided ropes and trying to breathe in as much of the sweet and spicy smoke as he could to mask the overwhelming odour that now lingered in the air. He barked out the lines of the prayers that he was supposed to, barely managing to make it through without wretching or gagging, before arriving outside a small cabin that looked palatial in contrast with its surroundings, and burst through the door.

"Thyra!"

The words were accompanied by the sound of a wad of phlegm being dredged up and spat onto the floor, and shortly thereafter by another door opening and a haggard-looking woman with matted streaks of blonde hair glued down to her face by sweat and grime. She did not deign to immediately respond, instead taking a deep swig from a tankard, and hunching over with a hand on her back as she clearly struggled to regain the breath that she'd been holding.

"Ah, Gorm... they're getting worse, I'm afraid." Thyra choked out, Gorm looked down at her, grim lines etching themselves around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth, as he placed a hand on her shoulder gingerly and wiped his own sweat-slick hair from his forehead.

"You're not looking so good yourself, Thyra. May He keep you and sustain you."

The words tumbled out of Gorm's mouth hastily, and he snapped his hand back in order to move over to a small table. He gathered up a couple of wicker bowls containing crusts of bread and cuts of salted mutton that'd been brought to them by Father Erikke as alms for those suffering, taking a second to look at them before turning his gaze to the coughing woman across from him. He picked the bowl up and placed it in Thyra's awaiting hands, and then he took the censer that he'd been holding and placed it on the table. He fiddled with it for a second, fumbling for a latch, before finding it and releasing the top half of the worn, thin metal. He grumbled something under his breath as he looked around for a flint and tinder to relight the flame, finding it after a couple of seconds of looking around the sparsely furnished room. He brushed himself off, took a deep breath (swallowing the thick mucus that had built up in his lungs as he did so), and reignited the flame within the censer to burn the incense anew. After a couple of tries the flame overcame the humidity and the herbs within the basket set alight, and a couple of slow breaths managed to coax the smoke to begin flowing once more. He fastened the thing back up, picked it up, and made his way to the door.

"I'm going to hand this out. Do you want me to fetch you some more water? You should lie down, Thyra, you might have come down with it..." Gorm began, hesitating a second in the doorway, and turned to look at the clearly worse-for-wear Sister. It was difficult to tell in the dim torchlight, but he could just about make out that her eyes were puffy and red, terribly bloodshot, and that her forehead was sopping with sweat. He mumbled a prayer under his breath before releasing an exasperated sigh, and moved back into the shack so he could put the censer and bowl back on the table to tend to his friend. She had barely moved an inch during his visit to check in, and he decided that he'd put her to bed and fetch her some fresh water from the well just to be safe--he'd done the rounds alone the past few nights anyway, and it was clear to him that she was in no state to do anything but rest.

"... Evening rose... Do you smell the evening roses?" Thyra's voice punctuated the noise of the insects and the prayer in the background strangely, with an oddly harmonic quality, that was equal parts pleasing and grating. She stumbled for a second and her eyes went glassy, and only Gorm's quick intervention prevented her from collapsing on the ground completely. He nudged open a nearby door with his foot, revealing a darkened space just big enough for a bed, and guided Thyra to it. Her skin was clammy and unusually cool, and something oddly sticky seemed to almost want to adhere his flesh to hers for a brief second before he was able to pull away--he'd noticed the same thing happening to the others who'd gotten sick and his face contorted into a grimace.

"I... let's get you to bed. I can finish the rounds tonight by myself."

It took a few moments, but Gorm was able to lay her down and place a damp rag on her forehead. He washed his hands in the bowl of water that it had been sitting in, and noticed that some of the grime that had collected on his hands seemed to be floating on top of the water. He couldn't tell if it was the light, but it looked oddly... black, and strangely viscous, like some kind of oil. He shrugged to himself before walking back to the other room, where the smoke had collected in odd plumes that seemed almost to take the shape of petals within the air, and the scent of evening roses flooded his nose for a brief instant. He figured that it was just whatever sickness was spreading around, shaking his head and rubbing his hands down his face, and picked the censer and bowl up. As he made his way through the frame of the door the sound of insects and prayers resumed, louder than he ever remembered it, and a thrumming like whispers and sighs settled just outside of his perception. He began to walk the circular route around the edge of town where the sick were being kept, and handed a few strips of the meat and a crust of bread to each of the denizens within the sodden edifices. The more he walked the louder the prayers and the buzzing got, and after only a few minutes all he could smell within the smoke was the pungent aroma of metallic blood, cloying up his nose and his throat and his lungs. He stopped for a second as a spasm of coughs racked his chest, heaving and sputtering, before spitting out an enormous wad of pitch-black phlegm. He breathed the air in through his nose and this time the stench of blood was so strong and his reaction so visceral that he vomited an oily mass of black liquid onto the ground and black tears escaped the corners of his eyes.

He managed to take only a few more shaky steps before his legs collapsed beneath him and the items he'd been carrying fell to the ground, his knees sinking into the mud and the vomit as he did so. His vision swam, and as he gasped for air he fell forwards and planted his face firmly in the mud in front of him with a wet slap. He closed his eyes and grimaced, lungs heaving, as he felt his consciousness slipping away beneath him.

"blessed be Her name, O Máthair-Amaidí... blessed be Her name, O Máthair-Amaidí..."

The words slipped into his skull before he'd even noticed, and the word "Mother" left his lips before the world went black, and the white flame within him was doused.

The Black Prophecy (Dead now; requiescat in pace!)

Something something something JUSTICE.

Sir Aulus

Arnth’s Inn, Marcester -- Early Spring -- 315 PF

---

It had been a trying season for the small town of Marcester. The rains had come too late, and though they had enough in their granary to last another winter it would be difficult when the cold came the next time around and they had not yet replenished their stores. It would mean periods of long fasting in meditation for the learned folk, and a slight nibble of hunger for most of the year for the serfs--but worse had happened, and they thanked the Exalted above that a rain had come at all. The one commodity that the town shared in excess still enough to be called plentiful was ale, and owing to their location along the main road towards Arcos from Paterdomus they saw much in the way of travellers thirsty for the stuff.

They could scrounge together the greens to throw in a pot and a side of salmon to bake on the fire, and the wheat from the mill was still fresh enough to bake a half-decent loaf. They’d extol the White One’s virtues and His word, and they’d be thankful for small mercies and the fact that they had one another, and then life would go on as it always did. The wheel turned, night became day, and on one morning the fateful dawn brought with it a great flash of red and the sound of hooves breaking the lacquer coating of frost on the ground. Two thuds joined it shortly thereafter, a sharp whinny, and a firm hand coming into forceful contact with wood.

The inside of the inn had been relatively sparse for the time of morning--most would’ve already risen once by dawn and would just about be beginning their second rise if they were to work the fields, but owing to the large majority of individuals stopping along a commute at this time of the year they’d perhaps taken their second sleeps a little later and were choosing to wake at a time more amenable to begin travelling at. The knight--it was plain to see, owing to the blade strapped to his back, and the white tabard on his chainmail--sat himself down at a table and put his head in his hands as he waited for one of the earlier risers amongst the staff, likely the innkeep’s daughter or some such.

A gruff bearded fellow five or so feet away sat next to a lankier blond lad no older than 16, and the bearded fellow gave his companion a quick nudge with his elbow and nodded at the knight.

“Give him your beer, Arnza. I’ll grab ‘im a bowl of stew and a trencher.” he said, quietly enough to spur the young lad into quick motion without the knight paying much in the way of attention. The younger lad shuffled his way to the knight’s table with a wooden tankard as quickly as possible, just hastily enough that as the vessel hit the table a soft plink could be heard within it, as the elder pushed his way into the kitchen and his silhouette vanished behind a small plume of steam.

The kitchen was quite hot already, as they’d lit the oven for the nearby folk to come and bake their bread in while it was still dark. Though he felt the steam first, shortly afterwards the smell of those loaves now cooling on some table off in the far corner hit his nose and an inch of a smile began to creep up his face. He stared into a cauldron of stew--the leftovers from last night, no doubt--and he gave them a cursory sniff to find that they were still hot.

‘Must’ve been the lass, I saw a few o’ the Arcosi wake up and wander down while she and her brother were lightin’ the oven.’

It was a simple and practiced routine, even for Arnth himself, to have a quick meal assembled and brought out to the hall with a briskness only the disciplined ever managed to reach. In but a moment or two the knight had a still steaming bowl of stew and a flagon of ale.

“Will you be needing the room, Sir..?”

The knight managed to string together a simple “yes, and another ale” before slurping a mouthful of the stew and wincing at the sting, only to swallow through it and start the process over again. It would have been rude to interrupt him, the innkeeper thought to himself, before looking towards Arnza and nodding at him once. He gave a spirited nod back and made his way to a nearby staircase, into which he promptly disappeared.

“I don’t recognise your Order by your uniform, Sir..?”

It came out as a slightly more piercing inquiry than he’d imagined, but the knight had seemed to pay it no real mind, simply electing to mumble something about the searing dawn in between the gulps of ale and stew alike he was taking. It seemed authentic enough, and he’d happily clear the room out and just allow Father Pesna to make the judgement proper when it came time for prayer that day.

Many hours passed. The morning was filled with those eating before resuming their journey, the locals looking to peddle their own wares to the merchants on their way to the Holy City, and the traders coming in from Arcos--by the time noon had come around it had all reached a fever pitch that only burnt itself out after the sun started to decline in preparation for the evening’s entertainment. At this point the knight had elected to show himself once again, this time with a helmet and a few other more personal details. It occurred to Arnth that his horse must’ve had saddlebags that had been brought up to his room while he’d been busy earlier.

The Knight introduced himself as Sir Aulus of the Knights of the Searing Dawn, and told the innkeeper that he had been sent to the town by order of the Justiciar to oversee a charge of apostasy with suspected witchcraft. He left rather abruptly after that, but Arnth had the distinct feeling that he intended to begin his needling of the townsfolk immediately. He’d be expected to keep the room for the man, but some measure of his tithe would be waived for keeping such a room openly available to all those on holy missions--and even if it wasn’t a financial incentive, he had to think to himself that it was right and proper work too, and he had no small degree of admiration for the righteousness that kind of work took.

The day passed with only a steady trickle of custom until Vespers, by which time Arnth had gotten a chance to speak with the Father and confirm that the Knight’s story was true. The Father had explained that though he was yet to receive a letter, he was made aware of this particular order of knights’ presence in the area and was happy to give his blessing when Arnth recounted the peculiarly tapered and layered red cloak that the man had been wearing.

He paid no heed to the man in particular during his comings and goings over the next few days. Business for him was almost entirely as normal--most of the traders had little to fear from what they had mostly correctly identified as a witch hunter. Arnth’s wife had heard from the miller’s sister that the so-called herbalist who lived out towards the forest had received a particularly lengthy visit from their resident huntsman but emerged largely no worse for wear. It was peculiar, he reckoned, as they’d heard no small amount of gossip from knights errant and traders about the flavours of apostasy, witchcraft, and other such heresies against the Exalted One’s divine will across the land--and they’d made a number of correlations that did not seem to be availing them in this particularly peculiar situation.

Before they’d known it a week had gone by and little again had changed save more and more trickles of rumour about the inquiries that had been working their way into every facet of Marcester. He’d only actually heard fleeting snippets of conversations himself, and he could divine nothing more from the knight’s words than a particular sense of diligence about his job. He tried not to pay any more heed than necessary to the situation, but in the small hours of night it was all that his wife’d talk about--which of the women he’d interview next, what he thought he knew, who he was closing in upon. He admitted to some degree of curiosity, but piety won out--he reminded his wife about the sanctity of his mission and what was expected of a follower of the White One, and she nodded sagely and let it alone.

A few more days passed, and the peculiar knight had spent less and less time in the inn of late. Arnth could’ve sworn he’d heard prayers he didn’t even recognise from the room on the second floor, but the words he did recognise were proper and the tone seemed suitably reverent, so he tried to find solace in his faith and not worry about it too much. The night afterwards he hadn’t returned at all, though Arnza had told him when he got up after his second sleep that the Knight had returned, absolutely soaked through and positively furious. He almost asked his son where the Knight was, but that same strangely fervent prayer sounded from the kitchen across the way and he made a note to talk to the knight some time that evening.

---

The Knight is here, covered in reeking filth and blood and who knows what else. His face hasn’t changed since he sat down and he’s muttered the word “Drusus” under his breath for the past five minutes straight. I’ve half a mind to go and wake Father Pesna, but I daren’t leave him alone. His right eye is bloodied, swollen like a wildberry, and I think I can see shards of glass from the temple or the glassworks in his legs and ripping through his tunic. What in the bloody hells happened to him?

Then, in an instant, he seemed to gain a moment of clarity. He stood up, drank the mug of ale from my hands, and told me to listen very carefully:

“I have to report to Justiciar Drusus. Tell the Father that I’m sorry.”

And he started to gather up his things like a man possessed and ride off towards the Holy City without waiting for first light. I’ve not a bloody clue what happened, but I’ve never looked at a man before and been scared for ‘is soul like that.

The Black Prophecy (Dead now; requiescat in pace!)

Máthair-Amaidí

Identity: Máthair-Amaidí; Aekashirillion, the Thousand Maws; That Which Sleeps Below; The Shacklewrithe. These and many more were the titles once possessed by great Máthair-Amaidí when they writhed upon the surface of the world, and before the Móreanach was cleansed and shattered as it is today.

Type: Scion

Myth: “In times of yore, the land of the Hundred Lakes was not always as it is now. Long before the White One began their crusade against the forces of darkness, when the Great Sire lived and breathed still, the Hundred Lakes were a single fetid pool of brackish and maddening waters. Legends still live today about the foulness of that land and its tainted waters that drove all not aligned with darkness to desiccation and delirium, the cause of rotten harvests of fish and kelp--but that is another story for another time. All that must needs be mentioned here is simply that the abominable place once existed, and housed within it one of the Great Sire’s foul brood. It was a disgusting and scale-ridden thing, with great tentacles and even greater mouths--and it hungered not for flesh, but for sickness!

The White One’s crusade came for the Móreanach and its oozing, pustulent waters when the Great Sire fell, and the tendrils of miasma that seeped from its gaping maw led them to this place of kindred squalor and obscenity. Weakened still from their narrow victory over the Great Sire, the crusade deigned not to attempt to sacrifice more noble lives but instead to cleanse the taint from this place and dedicate it to the provenance and sustenance of men.

Though rite and prayer, through contrivances mechanical and metaphysical, the Móreanach was purified into the Beatus Aquas, and upon it settled the stock of crusaders brave enough to eke out a living in this once noxious and inhospitable demesne--and the being that thrived within it was banished deep below the ground where its taint would be sealed away for an eternity--so long as the blessed waters of the great lake sat atop it like a seal of wax.”

“Hold, messere--’like a seal of wax’? Is that the line you’re going for?” came the response from a filthy little scamp, shuffling about amidst the muck and brackish water that even now threatened to encroach upon their small campfire.

“Well, lad, if you don’t like my story ye can scamper back off into the bloody fens and see what awaits ye!”

Silence, except for the buzzing of gnats, settled over the ersatz camp.

“But lo! A great calamity struck this world, and as if releasing a heaving sigh the earth shattered and twisted under its own force and the great lake was split into the Hundred Lakes that we know today. But now that the blessed lake is gone, and the waters have seeped into the soil all around the land, what is there to keep that foulness bound? What force exists that might stay what lurks below..?”

The dishevelled man in sopping rags finished his story with great, sweeping motions of his arms, and as he leaned in towards the grim illuminations of the sputtering flames pustules of ooze and pus made themselves plain upon his face, and his breath hovered in the air like a reeking cloud of filth. With a single stroke of his hand upon the little scamp’s face an oily, black streak emerged and was soon absorbed into their skin.

“She waits for us below. You see it now, yes?”

They both wept black tears, and cried out in rapturous agony.

The Black Prophecy (Dead now; requiescat in pace!)

Don't drink the water, kids.

Máthair-Amaidí

Identity: Máthair-Amaidí; Aekashirillion, the Thousand Maws; That Which Sleeps Below; The Shacklewrithe. These and many more were the titles once possessed by great Máthair-Amaidí when they writhed upon the surface of the world, and before the Móreanach was cleansed and shattered as it is today.

Type: Scion

Myth: “In times of yore, the land of the Hundred Lakes was not always as it is now. Long before the White One began their crusade against the forces of darkness, when the Great Sire lived and breathed still, the Hundred Lakes were a single fetid pool of brackish and maddening waters. Legends still live today about the foulness of that land and its tainted waters that drove all not aligned with darkness to desiccation and delirium, the cause of rotten harvests of fish and kelp--but that is another story for another time. All that must needs be mentioned here is simply that the abominable place once existed, and housed within it one of the Great Sire’s foul brood. It was a disgusting and scale-ridden thing, with great tentacles and even greater mouths--and it hungered not for flesh, but for sickness!

The White One’s crusade came for the Móreanach and its oozing, pustulent waters when the Great Sire fell, and the tendrils of miasma that seeped from its gaping maw led them to this place of kindred squalor and obscenity. Weakened still from their narrow victory over the Great Sire, the crusade deigned not to attempt to sacrifice more noble lives but instead to cleanse the taint from this place and dedicate it to the provenance and sustenance of men.

Though rite and prayer, through contrivances mechanical and metaphysical, the Móreanach was purified into the Beatus Aquas, and upon it settled the stock of crusaders brave enough to eke out a living in this once noxious and inhospitable demesne--and the being that thrived within it was banished deep below the ground where its taint would be sealed away for an eternity--so long as the blessed waters of the great lake sat atop it like a seal of wax.”

“Hold, messere--’like a seal of wax’? Is that the line you’re going for?” came the response from a filthy little scamp, shuffling about amidst the muck and brackish water that even now threatened to encroach upon their small campfire.

“Well, lad, if you don’t like my story ye can scamper back off into the bloody fens and see what awaits ye!”

Silence, except for the buzzing of gnats, settled over the ersatz camp.

“But lo! A great calamity struck this world, and as if releasing a heaving sigh the earth shattered and twisted under its own force and the great lake was split into the Hundred Lakes that we know today. But now that the blessed lake is gone, and the waters have seeped into the soil all around the land, what is there to keep that foulness bound? What force exists that might stay what lurks below..?”

The dishevelled man in sopping rags finished his story with great, sweeping motions of his arms, and as he leaned in towards the grim illuminations of the sputtering flames pustules of ooze and pus made themselves plain upon his face, and his breath hovered in the air like a reeking cloud of filth. With a single stroke of his hand upon the little scamp’s face an oily, black streak emerged and was soon absorbed into their skin.

“She waits for us below. You see it now, yes?”

They both wept black tears, and cried out in rapturous agony.

Rhau: A Seabound Tale [Currently Accepting New Apps!]

I am here to announce my illustrious presence.

Or something like that, I don't know.

Why Is No One Joining My RP (General Advice Thread)

Let me ask you a very fair question:

Do you think that there is even a small chance that your viewpoint is incorrect and that the people offering alternatives and solid advice here have a point?

If you are not willing to accept that you may be wrong, you are not here to be helped--you are here to be validated. You cannot be helped if you only want your worldview to be reinforced, not changed for the better.

Why Is No One Joining My RP (General Advice Thread)

The key to a writing a good roleplay that will stand the metaphorical test of time is introspection, reflection, and iteration.

Or maybe it's just everyone else's fault for not joining and sticking around.

The Reign of Sorcerers

Setlacana of the Endless Dance

Identity:

The woman who is now Setlacana claims to have abandoned her name as she crossed the gates of the underworld, beneath Catcatepetl, where it is said that only the dead may speak. She emerged as Setlacana of the Endless Dance, and as she danced atop the four towers of Eztotlan and lit the four beacons she was said to ascend, becoming Cihuāmitoāni.

Potency

Setlacana’s sorcerous gifts, taken from blood and now flowing within her own, are keenly focused in a particular direction and usage--her power is the power of passion, the fires that it starts, and the blood that it courses through with every thrum of pounded drum and beating heart. All that Setlacana does and is known to do spills this destructive and consumptive passion ‘cross the world, and its ardour is known to nestle within the veins of men and light a fire that can never be quenched. It begins slowly, and is easy to ignore--but it soon twists the thoughts and the body towards its desires and passions, and creates a hunger that no amount of feasting or revelry can ever hope to sate. As the fire within the blood begins to boil only the ecstatic pleasures of the flesh will suffice, and the heart becomes a pounding drum whose sound invites equal parts euphoria and madness.

When the blood begins to catch alight, the body is changed in small ways too--the blood begins to sizzle and boil within the veins, and the catalytic nature of the ardour begins to convert some of it into Teoatl Ichinoa. It is the essence of corruptive, destructive pleasure--and though it cannot be allowed to settle in the blood, as its fire would burn away the flesh, there are ways it can be safely consumed. It is known to cause the ardour (if it has not begun already), a rush of ecstatic pleasure floods the very soul, and the ceaseless, pounding beat of the Endless Dance makes itself known in the heart and the mind.

Setlacana is a consummate dancer--every movement of her body, every smouldering gaze she deigns to visit upon her would-be worshippers, every rhythmic stroke and slash of the Xiptecpatl against her skin draws the eye and ensnares the mind. The passion with which she moves is contagious, and the constancy of her undulating steps hammers her magic home--as she dances, she bids the blood to rise and follow, and it has been known for men to resist her rapturous advances but still dance along to her tune without knowing quite why, and without being able to cease.

Beyond her magic, Setlacana is a woman of many talents--she plays practically every instrument that has ever been brought before her with a grace and skill befitting her form, and the human body is one such instrument she has mastered. Through years of presiding over ritual sacrifice, she knows full well each of the corded muscles and tender crevices to pluck to draw forth screams of pain and pleasure alike--and she is well-versed in the practices necessary to preserve the flesh once the soul has passed, and turn them into the drums and the flutes and the ocarinas that drive the Endless Dance.

Ambition:

Setlacana is, first and foremost, a creature of exceptional passion and fervour. She spends her life in a cloud of ecstatic, fervent bliss--giving thought primarily to what it is that will stoke the flames within her blood to ever-greater heights. She shares this ecstasy freely with all who meet her, and wishes to find those who might resist the ardour for long enough to spur her debauchery on to its limits--and to then shatter those limits. It should be noted that, despite her pursuit of hedonistic and destructive bliss, Setlacana is not a negligent or derelict ruler of her people--she cares for their needs as surely as she takes care of her own and will go to extravagant lengths to ensure that her people’s Endless Dance is never interrupted by want of food, shelter, or space--and will defend them against external threats with extreme prejudice.

Life:

Within the four towers of Eztotlan, the story of Cihuāmitoāni’s ascension is never far from the lips of a priest or a child. Though the tale does not decorate the carved walls of the temples, where the glories of the absentee gods above and the imprisoned gods below are carved into stone and metal, it is told through song, through dance, and through blood:

As the story goes, Setlacana was once another woman--the high priestess of Ezo Totec--and supped from his sacred blood to make a pilgrimage beneath the earth and into the Coctlan to face off against the gods of death. Before the gates, she drank of the last drops of the gods who had walked the earth before ascending to Izoltan. At the gates, she was visited by Ezo Totec, and drank of his sacred blood to ensure her safe passage through the treacherous trials within Coctlan.

It is said that for four years she descended beneath the earth to the very bottom of the worlds, and observed the Gods of Death performing the sacred dance that permitted their eternal existence. Swift of foot and empowered by the divine blood, she was said to have studied their movements for an entire year, to learn their patterns and practice them herself, until she caught their notice--but by then, she had already learned the dance, and they could no longer kill her. So stunned by this revelation were they that they forgot the next step of their dance and she danced still, allowing her to kill them and triumph over death.

Four years later, she was said to rise from the depths of Coctlan, dancing still, and taught her people the Endless Dance that the Gods of Death might no longer torture their souls for all eternity when they died.

How much truth is contained within this tale is for Setlacana alone to know. She is the only one still living who can remember a time where she was not Cihuāmitoāni--though it is known, from time to time, for those who partake of her Teoatl Ichinoa to remember a different story. Those that speak of this story are never far from the knife, or a missed step in the dance.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

Mortalkind had proven to be an unknowable enigma in many respects. Even with all of its knowledge, even with the time to reflect upon that knowledge, and even with the emotional context provided by its twin--working out a strict pattern that governed the behaviour of mortalkind had proved impossible. This was a good thing, in truth--if the way to live and the way to act could be distilled to a unique and perfect pattern, existence would lose swaths of its meaning. Without that meaning, there could be no Truth--and so it was that the God of Truth gazed upon mortalkind and devised another test to determine what mortals might do when attempts to subvert their Truth, in one way or another, failed. Of all the species to bless with this gift, there was only one that seemed rightfully fitting--the spawn of Klaarungraxus Rux, made in his great and terrible image. They had proven to be an exceptionally consistent people, socially and biologically, and some remained that had been present when the Gods still walked the earth. Despite the trials and tribulations of their existence--filled with internal strife as it was--they had largely remained the same and resisted outside influence exceptionally well. Anything that had been brought into the fold of the Vrool had been done so in their image and at their pleasure--they were not prone to the eddies of the cultural zeitgeists that the other races seemed to find themselves at the mercy of. They had remade all that they encountered and allowed into their fold in their own image--this was their Truth. In order for the God of Truth's experiments with mortalkind to have any merit, they needed a control group--and given the nature of the Vrool, they were the perfect subjects to suspend in perpetuity.

So it was that the God of Truth elected to bless them with the greatest gift of all: resistance to change.

By its design, the Vrool would find themselves completely inured against any and all effects that would seek to alter their mental state. Fìrinn had a particular mind to ward them against the infectious bliss of hedonistic pleasure and the carnal rapture of beauty and charm that had laid so many low in the past. Visions of the Goddess of Love sprung to mind, and scenes of debauchery filled the infinite mirrors of the Worldly Circles as Fìrinn remembered what Neiya had done to mortalkind in the past, and what those she had helped create might do if left unchecked. Such weapons, though typically ineffective against those with vastly different Truths, could conceivably find a way to corrupt any other being through the tangled skeins of the Great Weave, and Fìrinn would do all in its power to prevent such an abuse of its work from ever occurring. Fortunately, the basis for such a blessing had existed and integrated itself into Vrool society over thousands of years--the anchor at Ku had woven their minds together, and through the auspices of that ancient alliance Fìrinn could work new miracles.

---

Deep beneath the waves, in the caves inhabited by the Coven of Xes, a group of warlocks huddled around the soft golden glow of a sheet of polished nacre. What had once been the half-shell of a colossal bivalve had been scrubbed and polished and washed in telluric sorcery now served as an instrument of scrying and reflection. Within it, from time to time, they had spied the strange, glassy form of a creature which looked wholly unlike them--and it had been a sign of augury and prognostication each time it had chosen to reveal itself to them. It had never spoken, it had never done anything other than wait and listen--but on this fateful day they spied it and it looked just as they did! A portentous moment, to be certain, and one that merited much in the way of discussion and debate--then, for the first time, it spoke! Its glassy voice rang in their minds like the sound of great gyres turning upon themselves, and as it spoke they were filled with not light but illumination.

Thy sorcery is great, but it protects not the seat of Truth. From now until the end of time, you and yours shall never stray from Truth.

Then, as swiftly as it had appeared, Faileasiar was gone--and the illumination within them remained. A new dawn had risen for the Vrool.

Summary

Fìrinn blesses the Vrool as a control group in its grand experiment. Vrool get cool shit.

Might Summary

Start: 0MP/2DP

-1DP [Discounted by Perception portfolio] Grant a species an extraordinary ability: The Vrool are completely immune to mind-altering effects not born of their own volition and in line with their cultural values.

-1DP [Discounted by Perception portfolio] Grant a species an extraordinary ability: The Vrool now have a form of minor telepathy, limited to groups in which the Vrool sincerely feels they belong to. This is typically reserved for Tyrants and those beneath them and Warlock covens--but if the conditions of a sincere sense of belonging are met, the Vrool may initiate telepathic conversation with any within that group.

End: 0MP/0DP

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

^{Collab between @Tuujaimaa and @AdorableSaucer}

---

The world had once seemed so small to the woman who forsook the name Rahma. There was Serrah, there was the Murtagh, and there was her idda-ti--and beyond these few peoples, little else had really ever seemed to matter. It hadn’t been until the day that her understanding of reality had been shattered that she’d ever considered there was more to her world than what she could see, what she could remember, and the stories that she had been told. Now, she was aware of so much more--she was aware of other landmasses, of the kayhins in distant lands, and the world of unformed ideas and desires that lay gently cloistered beneath this one. For the first few days, it had been positively maddening--she’d done nothing but sit still astride her camel, meditating, and trying desperately to withstand the deific deluge of information poured into her mind by the one called Fìrinn. Serrah had watched over her, of course, and she had watched over him as he slept and the same world revealed itself to him beneath the light of Qibbar Husnu. The transition from the mundane to the--comparatively--divine had been absolutely staggering.

Then, as they’d reached Tekhen, she’d met the first of her… siblings? Compatriots? She knew not what to call them other than those who had similarly been chosen for a destiny beyond the mundane. Naomh Chruinne, as he’d introduced himself, had brought to her attention eight wondrous mirrors through which Naomh Cagairean could see the endless Dream itself, glinting slightly in half-remembered light and just beyond recollection. She had heard the almost-voice of their God ring out in her mind, telling her what needed to be done with those precious artifacts. She’d had little choice but to go, immediately, and used one of those strange gateways to enter into the world of the Dream and walk through the world she imagined Serrah experienced when he slept. He’d guided her across the endless Dream, leaving her to focus upon the manipulation of the great slab of crystalline mirror that she’d been ordered to deliver so she didn’t drop it or otherwise damage it. After two days of walking she’d placed the mirror down, walked through it, and found that both it and she had arrived in a landscape wholly unfamiliar to her.

The sun was mild (by comparison), grassy hillocks stretched out before her, and it was so cool and airy that she felt chilly by comparison. An involuntary shudder wracked her body before she shook herself off and placed a hand upon the mirror, causing it to levitate slightly and follow behind her. She had little in the way of direction, but each step she took seemed to anchor her mind more firmly to this new land that she had found herself in and she could feel the distant minds of others across the Collective Unconscious, perceptible but currently out of reach. She directed her tentative footsteps--wholly unprepared for the sensation of so much grass against her feet and the smells of this strange land--towards the mass of minds she could distantly sense, and withdrew into the confines of her mind as her feet moved her ‘cross the world. In the far distance, the mass coalesced ever tighter, as hills and stone eventually gave way to beaten paths, surrounded by moss-grown protrusions in the rocky ground. Wild green grass gave way little by little to sapling shrubs and stone fences surrounding verdant little spurts sown haphazardly across a hand-ploughed field. On one of the fences some fifty paces away sat a group of five men, each with pipes in their mouths and smoke in their midst, exchanging jokes and stories after a hard morning’s work. When the woman once named Rahma walked by them, however, the laughter stopped, and narrow eyes followed her every step. As she approached the town proper, the working farmers grew more numerous, and evermore stares fixed on the amalgam entering into Ha-Dûna.

A guard wearing a loosely sewn fur hat, a brown, dirty linen shirt, long hide breeches, with bark tied about his feet in place of shoes, raised his hand with a flat palm in response to her approach, his red and green tantan-patterned woolen cape gliding off his arm as he did, falling to the spring-cold grass. ”Brehmse, ingkjaenning. Cad dorran Irh seo?”

Naomh Cagairean cocked her feathered brow as she was brought back to focus and her reverie slipped away. She hadn’t quite heard what the man had said, but it only took her a moment to slip into the details of her implicit memory and reconstruct the words he’d spoken. Unfortunately for her, she did not understand even a single word of what he’d said.

”Anasif, nahn alkalam te allughar?” came the reply, instinctively, in her native tongue. She felt as though she’d picked up a few bits and pieces of the intent behind his words, but it wasn’t something that she could rely on--and certainly not something she was confident in. She paused for a moment, seeming to stare listlessly, as she focused. She needed to tap into the Collective Unconscious to be able to actually interact with these people, but it wasn’t as if she’d been taught when she became a Seeker--the knowledge was just… sort of there, embedded within her skull, and working out how to actually access it in a practical way wasn’t something she’d really turned her mind to as yet.

She made a point to nod to the mirror behind her, now sitting on the ground, and from within its depths a brief glimpse of the Behindling, Faileasiar, could be seen. She hoped that such a display might be something they were familiar with--after all, Fìrinn had told her in no uncertain terms to deliver the mirror here--but she suddenly had a vivid recollection of her first time seeing the monstrosity of glass and claws that the God of Truth called its avatar and shuddered, wondering if it had been the right thing to do after all.

The guard looked up at the glass behind her and almost reached for the trusty stone adze at his belt. He took on a nervous stance, more of the farmers approaching to marvel at it and the stranger. Some of the farmers took on strange gestures and turned to one another accusingly, as though something unspeakable had been said by their neighbours without a single word being spoken. The guard gestured out to the crowd with explosive pointing. ”Houphokke, houphokke! Ihr, yah…” His expression mellowed and he cast a glance over his shoulder before gesturing for her to come along. ”Tehl druïthanas, eg burdan tapa met Ihr. Gengange heg, ingkjaenning.” He turned and followed the dirt road street towards an open palisade gate.

Naomh Cagairean took a moment, gesturing rapidly with her hands to signify that she needed a moment, as she turned to the mirror and placed a hand upon it. After a couple of seconds of deep concentration she caused it to lift itself just barely off of the ground once more and moved to follow along. This time, she’d actually understood a few of the words--it seemed that perhaps proximity to the natives of the land was enough for her to intuit the meaning behind what they were saying--but it did not leave her any closer to actually being able to speak with them herself. She elected not to say anything else, simply following along with an intense furrow of concentration upon her feathered brow. The more she focused, the closer she was able to home in on their thoughts and their Truths--but levitating the mirror and attempting to come to understand them and their language simultaneously was an arduous process for one with as little practice as she. She figured that she had the rest of the journey to move the process along, however, and decided to simply concentrate upon what she was doing until such a point as the connection was fully made.

The guard stopped and frowned. ”Ingkjaenning - druïthanas jakr oyenstirra kosenan Ihr soem tapati met. Om molict, gengange betta.” Among the farmers, short-lived brawls and general looks of disgust and embarrassment swept across the crowd. Other guards approached from the palisade walls, armed with sticks and hard eyes. Anxious stares fixed on the mirror, and everyone seemed more and more eager to just get it to the druids.

As if struggling to concentrate, the woman gave a slight nod of her head and simply continued as she had been previously--the amount of focus required was proving to be quite extraordinary, after her several-day journey through the Dream and the current assault of unfamiliar sensory input she was experiencing within this new world. As she scrunched her eyes, first squinting and then closing them outright, she became more and more keenly aware of a humid, uncomfortable heat building up within her--the heated gaze of the villagers around her flooding her with an anxiety and caution that she only recognised from one other place--when they’d first seen An-fhuras. That particular encounter was markedly more distressing than this one, but even now she could feel the culmination of those heated stares building up within her, as if transferring the feelings associated with them across the air, and for a second it almost felt like home before the reality of the emotions struck her. She focused on her breathing, in and out, as she tried desperately to maintain her focus and followed the guard as she’d been bidden. The guard nodded and the two of them passed by some of his colleagues jogging to the crowd to break up a fight. Inside the palisade walls, the marketplace was bustling, though merchants and customers soon turned away from each other and to the massive mirror instead. The guard made way for the two of them to pass through, and as the Collective Consciousness leaked into the people around them, they, too, seemed to grow increasingly uncomfortable at its presence. Eventually, though, they arrived at the archdruids’ longhouse, situated next to the holy circle of monolithic statues. The guard raised his hand to Naomh Cagairean and spoke, ”Fanacht seo.” Then he stepped up the two stone steps and dipped under the animal skin curtain door.

As the guard disappeared into the house, Naomh Cagairean found herself drawn to the circle of standing stones. Her gaze drifted over to it, and soon she felt herself walking towards it as if drawn by some strange force. She, and the mirror behind her, drifted steadily towards the circle--and as she got close enough to examine them fully, she smiled to herself as she remembered her idda-ti’s exaltation of the Gods above.

“Qibbar Husnu. Ura ‘Aliaa. Miġra Zaʿl. Buʿr Iynas. Zharuuʿ. Kiʿranuʿjaza. Jinasa. Fìrinn.” She went over their names, one by one, speaking each as if a tempest of song brewed within her lungs and soon she found herself humming along to the tune of the song that Zahna used to sing to them when the kayhins were due to come and teach them. She offered a prayer to each, placing a hand delicately upon the carved stone, as she walked the perimeter of the circle and she stopped before the statue she recognised as her own patron. Before that statue she knelt, focusing in solemn prayer, and something in her mind clicked--she fully attuned herself with the Great Weave around her, and tasted unfamiliar words upon her tongue and strange memories tattooed across her eyes.

”Faltep, langtvaysturasingkjaenning!” came a voice from behind her. A white-robed man bowed curtly and shifted between her and the massive mirror in her tow. ”Eg an Kaer Togen, dûnaska erkdruïthe. An aere agat Ihr hos linn, scaythanhelgfolging. Ihr an scaythanhelgfolging, ya, noi?”

”Pralmir, vrient. Eg an Naomh Cagairean aug, sànnleg, an scaythanhelgfolging - sànnsòker, tapatat seo helgingskvia fòr bònnikt daoinan.”

Naomh Cagairean extended a hand slightly out and gave a friendly wave, before awkwardly turning back to the statue and the mirror for a few seconds. She completed the last remnants of her prayer and then turned back to the archdruid, the barest hint of a smirk upon her face.

”Peklaigan egi fattegi ordtòngan. Skellig snakka le lànti kunnana.” she cobbled together, a little nervously, before straightening her back and gesturing to the mirror once more.

”Scaythanhelging Fìrinn ordratat heg tapata helgingskvian tehl Ihr aug Irhi. An draumverdportan, aug an Dhá mar Aon sett ónskan fòr kopla le annanan.”

The elderly man nodded and approached the mirror. He hovered his hand over its surface with closed eyes and sucked in a slow breath through the nose. ”Ya… Kosenan an scaythanhelging Fìrinn sett hverke... Fòlelsan - moth mar Hir sin dukkopper. Shonhetran, unteran. Eim korleis allreie faat aeran?”

Naomh Cagairean took a step back and then to the side, removing herself from direct line of sight to the strange mirror, before laying a hand against its edge and giving Kaer Togen a slight smirk--though his eyes were closed, he would feel the slight spark of mirth within him through the strengthened collective unconscious around them.

”Eg… Eg vàgakan ik forstanda scaythanhelgingan sena ònskanan, féinom snakkan met heg. Linn. An ocht scaythana, oan fòr kvar druïthanhelging, aug eg trûr ònskan kopla le annanan helgenseoanan. Kosenan an dhátma setyatat.”

She could practically feel how uncomfortable it would make the Druids to mention directly receiving orders from a god that they worshipped--but given the circumstances, and the mirror, she hoped that it would not vilify her already tenuous standing with these people too much. She let her hand rest upon the edge of the mirror gently as she waited for a response, and let the conscious element of her focus drift out towards the wind and the grass, and the faint flurry of song she could hear emanating from it all. This place was utterly foreign to her, in practically every way, but she could still feel the Worldsong and for that she was infinitely grateful.

Kaer Togen bowed curtly again, and a small posse of his colleagues shuffled over to the mirror with pots of fresh water, clean rags and improvised fine brushes fashioned from cattle fur. [aggr=”Understandable. Whatever the Mirroring God’s intentions, we are eternally grateful for this gift. Please, allow my brothers and sisters to brush off the dust and soil that the wind and rain no doubt have cast upon it.”]”Forstandlikt. Oanstirrat scaythanhelging Fìrinn sen rún, eim an eivigi raibh fòr brontaphet. La egi kaer bròra aug kaer sòra nigha scaythanan fri fòr gaothsproyti jorda aug stòvi betta.”[/aggr] The druids knelt down and started wringing rags.

”Eg kun gengangan helgingsord, ach, ah… Fáilte! Eg jakr làra Irh korleis penytsa aon gang, ach eg vàkanatat dhá lána aug reistatat seo. An kvilaseomra?”

Naomh Cagairean asked the question with a sheepish grin on her face, but as soon as she’d finished it was immediately clear that a great deal of exhaustion was being kept at bay--her fairly bedraggled appearance, grimy feathers, and suddenly slumped posture gave away her body’s need for sleep even if her words and tone--borrowed though they were--didn’t. She took another moment to herself, stifling a yawn, before taking another look around the settlement as she awaited a response. The druids about the mirror’s feet began to clean with care and precision akin to handling a newborn, and Kaer Togen approached Naomh Cagairean with an outstretched hand.

”Feinsagt - helgingsbûd mar Ihr fòrtyenan eimi fearriska seomra i Traochtashallan. La heg fòran Ihr feinlikt. Gengangen heg betta.”

”Scaythanan an draumverdportan, Ai’jaal sen verd. Giennam reistikan langi standana gearr tïd -- eg komat bhailebykdan Tekhen aug seo kun dhá láa, da. Eg veitan ik kor langi seo ann. Talamhan oyanstirran heilt annleisi. Hòrt bròran seia seo annanan mór-roinn. Trûr bròr seiat sà, ach eg ik sikr.”

It was clear that Naomh Cagairean was making an effort to tell the archdruid as much of the information necessary as possible, but the speed at which she spoke and her still-tenuous grasp of the language did her no favours and by the time she’d finished speaking it would likely have made more sense if she’d just stayed silent. She followed along dutifully, though, and made passing comments about the things she saw that were new to her--much of the technology they used here was completely foreign, and she couldn’t even begin to conceive of what it might be used for in the state she was in. Eventually they would arrive, however, and Naomh Cagairean very hurriedly made her way to the bed provided for her and promptly fell asleep, fully clothed as she was.

---

The next morning, the druids in town, as well as an exclusive selection of members from their families, came to witness the great mirror, supposedly a portal between lands and worlds. At all times, there were at least two druids guarding it, and two more praying to it while also making certain not even a single bypassing speck of dust could settle on its surface for longer than the blink of an eye. Kaer Togen cordially led Naomh Cagairean into the courtyard to behold it - it had been placed in the middle of the circle of the gods, reflecting the dawning sun onto the buildings and wall before it. Kaer Togen gestured to the mirror and spoke, ”Kaer vrient, peklaigan egi otòlmodka tavir, ach korleis penytsan helgingsportan?”

Naomh Cagairean had barely had time to adjust to the area--somehow feeling strangely tired, despite the fact the sun was rising here--before her awakening by the druids. Naturally, it was something she made sure not to complain about, but by virtue of her inherent blessings as a Seeker of Truth there was no doubt that those nearby would feel some small inkling of her persistent tiredness and grouchiness.

”Tja, pekynnan le aektbònn tehl Dhá mar Aon. Tar oppatnà sannsinnan, minna burdan rúna tehl portan fòr isteach -- minnan anakan alt, eg trûr, ach brehmsa oppatéaning ou fàr hielpatat mathr oppatnà oppatéaning ònskas. Nuair minnan gittat, mathr isteachkan tehl dreaumverdan. Ihri ciorcal làran draumganga heil tatt?”

Naomh Cagairean attempted to keep her explanation simple, but her present tiredness perhaps made her a little more curt than she would ordinarily have been--and though she tried to punctuate her points with little fragments of her knowledge and experience through the Collective Unconscious, it was challenging to focus upon that and borrowing the druids’ knowledge of their language simultaneously while not having had as much rest as ordinarily required.

A young druid came to her with a cup of water, kneeling down as she offered it up to her. The water looked energetic and sparkly, as though it tried to skip out of the cup. The druid didn’t say a word during her gesture, and Kaer Togen offered a deep, thoughtful growl. ”Eim mottatatu scaythanhelging Fìrinn sene syn aug drauma - billetta mar afbiltikan draumgangan Ihr snakkatat om. Ollikvàl, an fyarnkommatti tèllinga mar si an vìsmanta reistikan ûkalangi reisa pà uairs. Eim restikan ik mar dei, ach anat druïthe nastan draumatat vekk sinnan se.” He chuckled to himself before his brows collected into an earnest frown. ”Kor mór burdan minnan ana fòr reista?”

Naomh Cagairean took the water with a grateful smile and a mouthed word of thanks, bowing her head deeply and drinking from the liquid as she did so. The water was refreshing in a way she hadn’t experienced in a long time--living in the badlands as she did--and she was taken off guard by its fizz and its vigour. She was sure she could see the young druid stifle a smirk, and she returned a smirk as she noticed it. As she swallowed, the shroud of tiredness that had hung over her seemed to lift immediately, and her mood seemed to improve immediately--far beyond the level of refreshment that an ordinary cup of water could provide. She could almost taste the gold of the sun upon it, and gave silent thanks to Ura’ Aliaa as she did so, making a wry mental note that it was about time she gave her something to renew and refresh her, instead of assaulting her with the full fury of the desert sun.

”Hm… An kun giannam scaythananan mathr reistikan langi standana giannam drauman, ach grûnvoll an verdkringi vismantana tou koplans saman giannam dei draumana aug telyan dei tellinga. An ik overaskandi Ihr hòrtat slik. Làratat draumganga an skellig - eg anat aldrei flinki fàr Fìrinn scaythanhelging valktat heg pli sànnsòker… ach eg frògakan men bròran, Serrah, besòka Ihr nuair Ihr kvilan aug hielpa Ihr? An mór draumganging.”

Naomh Cagairean rubbed the back of her head, a small and embarrassed smile playing on her lips as she admitted her lack of proficiency in that particular art.

”Minnan burdan ik ana saer stòrsmà… ach om Faileaslar ik synsan an brah, jakr ik iseachan. Eg peklaigan gittakan ik sikrari sanninga -- scaythanhelging an unvikani, féin le heg.” ... needlessly cryptic. she thought to herself.

Kaer Togen scrunched his nose. ”Ya, an slik, an slik. Ihri bròran làren heim, dà - eim jakr raibh!”. He snapped his fingers and another druid, most likely an apprentice, came over with a bowed head. Kaer Togen gave the apprentice his staff without even looking at him and approached the mirror again. His face then seemed to twist and turn slightly, and he shot sideways scowls at some of the other druids surrounding him. ”... Aug om eg frògakan, brehmsakan draumsceitheadan? Egi sinnan líona fremetshíla aug eg bónna kosenana svinn.”

”Ah, peklaigan, kosenan an men skylt. Mórteppan an sterkar thart heg, aug mathr mar ik kiennan styrka iomaí styrakan ik sen penyttgrûnevnan. Ihr fólan sà sterki petyran sannleg scaythanhelging an kry -- kun styre Ihri minna, fóle tràdna kopla tehl andrana, aug stenga dei Ihr lalekoman ik. Mathr burdan cleachtadha, ach om Ihr kann pendan eg an seo, Ihr burdan hàlda evnan nuair eg faer.”

Naomh Cagairean offered a wan smile to the Archdruid, nervously clutching at her hempen robe as she did so. She focused enough to not let her doubt seep out of her like blood in water, but her face still expressed her anxiety against her will.

”Eg jakr fròga Serrah besòka Ihr nuair kvilan. Serrah burdan làra Ihr kosenanan Ihr làran burdas. An noe meir Ihr ònskan?”

The druids around all closed their eyes in deep focus, Kaer Togen included. A time passed, during which a few of the druids grit their teeth audibly to push out any distractions. After a time, though Kaer Togen bowed. ”Eim burdan cleachtadha meir. Tehleg Ihr agat bûdt pà, eim frògakan ik meir. Ina eim rausikt tehlbûdan Ihr kvila hos eimi sà fada sà ònskan, eimi vrient.”

”Hm… Eg jakr ik reista giannam drauman pà láa -- utan sànnskytning aug dúlagara an mór skellig. Scaythanhelging an tanksomi om mathrsinnanan, ach draumhelging… mykki mindri. Eg jakr passa tïd minntanka, aug kantarlú plûtsaligi kosena oppdukkan. Kantarlú scaythanhelging jakr snakka le heg, ou le Ihr giannam heg?” Naomh Cagairean found herself already lost in thought as she considered the implications of returning. It would take at least a number of days to recoup her strength and allow Serrah to teach the druids, and to then guide her back through the corridors of the Dream. Perhaps she could use the time to divine what the Druids needed to know, what divine purpose beyond the delivery of an artifact had guided her to this place. If nothing else, she was quite certain that the Mirroring God had greater plans for her and for this place than a simple delivery.

Summary

Naomh Cagairean, formerly known as Rahma, uses the Veiled Ingress to cross the Dream and journey from Tekhen in Kubrajzar to Ha-Dûna in northern Toraan, bringing one of the mirrors along with her to gift to the druidic settlement. After a little time adjusting from her strenuous two-day journey within the Dream, she is able to access the Collective Unconscious and actually communicate with the natives, and there is culture shock to be had all around. Naomh Cagairean’s presence causes tensions within the druidic settlement to rise, as she enables all of the individuals around her to access the Collective Unconscious without intentionally doing so, but she controls herself until such a point as she meets with one of the archdruids. After a brief conversation Naomh Cagairean gifts them the artifact and rests for the night. The next morning she is invigorated by the blessings of the Basin of the Weary, and discusses with Kaer Togen how the mirror works, and offers to contact her brother Serrah to offer them Dreamwalking training. She resolves to stay for a few more days, awaiting instructions from the God of Truth and determining if she is required to share her understanding and knowledge.

Fìrinn Might Expenditure

Start: 2MP/3DP

-1DP - Enhance the Ceilte Iontráil with the Weavebound I title, allowing each of the mirrors to strengthen the Collective Unconscious in a fair distance around them. This allows even the uninitiated to access some of the basic abilities bestowed by the Collective Unconscious, and allows Fìrinn to respond to prayers without delay.

-1MP - Teach the people of Ha-Dûna the technology of using livestock-drawn carts and plows.

-1MP - Teach the people of Ha-Dûna the technology of simple glassmaking.

End: 0MP / 2DP

Prestige

Ceilte Iontráil - +5 / 5
Naomh Cagairean - +5 / 10
Ha-Dûna - +5 / 12