Celebration of the Glomdoring and a Farewell to the Old Guilds

Before I get to the log, I just want to say thank you to everyone who took part in this. I knew I wanted something positive and unifying to close the chapter on the old guilds in Glomdoring and to open the chapter on the next guilds. What we pulled off together was even more amazing than I'd dared hope, and I can look back on the Harbingers and the Glomdoring guilds with such a sense of joy at the amazing things we built and did together.

Thank you so much to those who represented their guilds: @Rancoura, @Aetakyla and @Stratas (who went first and I think inspired everyone to up their game), @Tarken, @Xenthos. Thank you to those who contributed to this but couldn't be there, including @Jaspet, @Crek and @Lerad. Thank you to our charming new member, @Eselyte, who just dived right into this. And thank you to everyone who attended and participated.

Seriously. to you all.

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(Glomdoring): Eliron says, "Glomdoring, a new age has begun! Please, join us at the Master Ravenwood to celebrate the strength and glory of the Glomdoring."

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

Before the Master Ravenwood Tree.
The dark heart of Glomdoring Forest is almost audibly beating in this, its shadowy centre. Tall, blackened trees surround this clearing, pressing together into an imposing barrier of rotten vegetation. Moulds and fungi are smeared across the plants, their pungent stench suffusing the forest. The branches are coated in dark slime, slick tendrils that hang downwards. Although a variety of trees might actually grow here, the black tar that coats them renders them indistinguishable. A thin black mist creeps between the trees, hanging low across the ground. The floor of the clearing itself is simply bare earth, cracked and dry. Overshadowing all is the Master Ravenwood Tree itself, jutting into the sky like a twisted fist. The sound of laughing crows echoes
down from the treetops, a harsh sound for the ears below. The atmosphere vibrates with a palpable power.

(Glomdoring): Eliron says, "We begin!"

Aetakyla Ysav'rai says, "Apologies, Galael I think is getting fat with all I have fed him."

Aetakyla's eyes twinkle enchantingly.

Eliron simply nods at Aetaklya as he steps forward.

Rancoura's gaze shifts to Eliron, offering her undivided attention as she stands silently and still near the Ravenwood.

As he looks at each of those gathered in turn, Eliron says, "It is a time for great change in the Forest.  Such is a time for great opportunity."

Eliron says, "From the moment of our loss, already many of the Forest spoke of how the Wyrd shall always adapt, always overcome. We have our proof now, in the three guilds we have raised to carry the Glomdoring forward."

A warm smile flickering across his face, Eliron says, "Indeed, those who serve the Lord Nightmare learn to hone our focus on our goals, our drive to achieve them, and as always, our greatest lessons come from the Wyrd and those who serve it."

Eliron inclines his head in acknowledgement of those gathered.

Eliron says, "It is true that the Wyrd shall thrive, for is such not the nature of the Wyrd? Shall we not all seize this opportunity and make the most of it, for are we not of the Wyrd ourselves?"

Eliron cocks his head as he looks about the clearing, then nods.

Eliron says, "As we prepare to move forward as one, let us first celebrate the strength that has brought us to this moment."

Eliron says, "In the last year, we have all seen the strength and the glory of the Wyrd. Indeed, it was no outside force that could strike such a blow to the Forest. Only the Forest itself had such power!"

Eliron says, "Let us celebrate the strength that unites us, the strength born of all that was and is of the Glomdoring, nurtured by many of those lost, that shall only be honed by the challenges to come."

Eliron bows to Rancoura and then steps back to the edge of the circle made by the
watchers. His voice echoes around the clearing as he raises it and calls out, "Let us celebrate the witches of the Night, who have sacrificed for the Forest and serve it still!"

Rancoura closes her eyes and inhales deeply, absorbing the scent of her surroundings.

Rancoura drifts forth, a mere shadow across the ground; her tall, slender form is skyclad from the hips upwards; all that veils the elegant demidivine is a phantasmal shroud of shadows clinging to her pale flesh like a second skin -- it shifts and stirs with her movements, revealing glimpses of the fair form beneath.

Dipping her hand into a shadow cauldron, Aetakyla pulls out a long shadow and releases it into the air. The room darkens with the churning darkness.

Upon Rancoura's hips is draped an aphotic, silken long-skirt, delicate silver chains cascading from the hips and swaying with each step. Silver castanets glint from her delicate ankles, their gentle tinkling punctuating each step. Pausing, the demidivine gazes about the Ravenwood glen, contemplating each living being within; settling upon Aetakyla, the Last Queen offers her hand to the young woman, drawing her into the centre of the gathering.

A faint, inviting smile upon her lips, Rancoura whispers softly to Aetakyla as the churning darkness descends over the Ravenwood, darkening all within the shadow of its mighty trunk. "Allow the presence of our Dark Mother to fill you, child. Draw Her into your mind, your spirit, and your heart,  and lend me your magics, that I might honour our Coven, one last time."

With this, Rancoura releases Aetakyla's hand and steps a few paces away from her. Briefly closing her ethereal, shadowflamed eyes, the demidivine exhales a slow, fluid breath, and nods towards Stratas.

Stratas seats himself cross-legged, wings flared out behind him, then places a set of ravenwood hand drums before himself. With a slow, steady beat, he strikes out notes that resonate throughout the clearing, sending the shadows that lurk around the trees quivering and shaking as though excited.

The ghost of a smile passes fleetingly across your lips.

Wielding within her hand a long, jagged black-crystal athame as the pounding of the drums fills the air, Rancoura points the blade outwards as she slowly revolves in place, an aura of shadow surrounding her eyes and shrouding their ethereal lazuline hue. Nonetheless, the weight of her gaze settles upon each of you, drawing in your presence as her whispers brush against the edge of your hearing. "Trathona, dintala lainia," she breathes into the air, which chills beneath the substance of the simple prayer, rendering her words a fine mist of condensated curlicues.

Blade still outstretched, Rancoura steps lightly about the circle, evanescent curls of shadow tracing her steps like a memory. Gently, the silver castanets about her ankles clink, a high staccato amidst the beating of the tribal drums.

Passing with a bow of her head to Stratas as the rhythm of the percussion intensifies, Rancoura's steps quicken, carrying her around the circle as the tip of her blade carves imperceptible patterns within the air, trails of shadows tracing its sketch. Entrancing, her movements are wraith-like, wisps of shadow following her every move, nigh veiling them beneath their shade. "Emint'a Trath'ona, " she whispers breathlessly. "Scaatha mo'halia!"

A loud, wooden groaning sounds throughout the glen and a clacking precedes the descent of many ravenwood leaves falling from above, loosed from their branches high above. Rancoura continues her movements, the athame swirling behind her head, about her form, her figure revolving as it traces unknowable steps around Aetakyla.

(Shadowmaze): Please welcome Eselyte who has just enrolled into the Shadowmaze to learn the ways of the The Auguries as a Shadowdancer!

(Shadowmaze): Eliron says, "Eselyte, welcome to the commune. We are in the midst of a celebration of the Forest you now call home. Would you like to join us?"

(Shadowmaze): Eliron says, "You can speak on this aether with CGT (message)"

(Shadowmaze): Eselyte (from the Plane of Creation) says, "Thank you sir I was trying to figure that out. I would be honored to join the celebration. Thank you for inviting me."

(Shadowmaze): Eliron says, "If you TELEPORT NEXUS, you will find yourself at the Master Ravenwood, where we have gathered."

Hands raised to the sky now, athame twirling in circles and patterns above her head, Rancoura's hollow, voice echoes from the shadows -- "Trath'ona riarne, Trath'ona ciuinasa'la, Trath'ona sio'rai!" As the last phrase of the Fae dialect is spoken, the scattered ravenwood leaves now upon the ground begin to glow, ever faintly, with an inner shadowfire; the mauve iridescence upon their foliage fades, and a dark, mauve paleness -- the essence of the Wyrden flames spun with the intricacies of the essence of Mother Night.

Eselyte steps out of the Master Ravenwood Tree, trailing sparkling motes of light.
An illithoid scourge spares Eselyte a quick glance.

With a flourish of her arm, Eselyte bows deeply.

Eliron gives Eselyte a smile in welcome and nods at an open spot in the ring of watchers gathered around Rancoura, Stratas and Aetakyla.

Eselyte smiles nervously and steps between those gathered.

Eliron nods approvingly at Eselyte and turns his attention back to those in the center.

A pleasurable smile now upon Rancoura's lips as she tilts her head back, her steps slow as the spun shadows coil upon themselves. The beating of the drums relents to a soft rhythm, and the shadowflame-leaves glimmer faintly in the adumbration, each surrounded by a nimbus of unfettered darkness. "Our Mother is upon us, answering the last call of Her Coven," whispers the demidivine, as she gyrates gradually about the circle, retracing her steps.

Her steps taking her to the centre of the circle, Rancoura dips her head reassuringly to Aetakyla. Grasping her hand, the Last Queen traces one final pattern in the air with the tip of her stygian-crystal athame, as the atmospheric shroud quivers. Loosing a breath, the demidivine descends to her knees, drawing Aetakyla with her; and the blessed darkest descends upon each of you, falling upon your shoulders as a soft cascade of liquid shadow. A sense of reverence falls silently over the glen as a coolness -- vaguely familiar if not entirely so -- suffuses your flesh, the presence of the Dark Mother felt, as well as intimately known.

Eliron bows his head solemnly.

Stratas slows the beating of the drums, softening his strikes as the darkness falls. Slowly, he
folds his wings forward, covering the drums and silencing their sound.

A long, fluid breath slips from Rancoura's exquisite lips as she bows her head, before rising to her feet and encouraging Aetakyla to do the same. Bending at the waist, the Last Queen bows to the gathering, the shroud barely veiling her torso shifting and slipping over her skin.

Rancoura withdraws into the circle, hands clasped over her chest as the ecstasy of the Dark Mother's blessings lingers upon her.

Eliron bows to Rancoura, then raises his voice again. "Let us celebrate the monks of the Wyrd, who have sacrificed for the Forest and serve it still!"

Tarken ceases to wield a putrid thornvine whip in his left hand.

Tarken ceases to wield an athame dagger in his right hand.

Tarken begins to wield a black steel nekai in his left hand.

Tarken begins to wield a black steel nekai in his right hand.

Tarken steps forward silently, his gaze untrammelled as he looks across all of those gathered in
silent acknowledgement. His stance is easy and relaxed, but gathered around him is an atmosphere of meditative focus.

Tarken says, "The strength of the Wyrd supported, and was supported by, each of the old Guilds. The Cult of the Nekotai was no different - one with the Wyrd, and such will forever be."

Tarken raises his right hand, the three-pronged nekai he wields in it angled outward in what looks like a salute toward the Master Ravenwood Tree. With a slow, deliberate motion, he turns it inwards, so the sharp tips face towards his own face.

Tarken says, "Each Nekotai of the Cult swore an oath, as witnessed by the Wyrden Idols, to serve the Wyrd and the Glomdoring. Today, I will swear it anew, and for one last time, for all who take up the nekai blades, past and future."

Tarken deftly makes a cut between his own brows, a short, vertical incision. "The spider watches,
and waits, and bides its time. So too will the regrown Wyrd ever stay alert, vigilant, and strong." With practiced strokes, his nekai pricks two completely symmetrical, small cuts along both cheeks, "The bat stalks in silence, but not in vain. So too will the Glomdoring heed the wisdom of the shadows, and use it against our foes."

Tarken continues with two more symmetrical cuts on his left and right shoulders, and this time, you notice the very faint lines of scabbed scars in the exact same positions, almost, but not quite, hidden beneath his tattoos. "The beetle prepares and stockpiles for the winter in tune with the seasons. So too, will the Merciless Forest never rest in preparation for the next culling of the greev."

Tarken's next movement interlocks both his right and left arms, pricking the blades held in both hands into the underside of each arm just below the elbow. "The wasp strikes fiercely and
without hesitation," he draws his arms apart and away from each other, scoring long scratches on
both arms, "and so too, will the Glomdoring bring death, always, to our enemies."

Tarken turns a full round, his gaze stopping at every person in the clearing, and letting his arms fall to his side. "The scorpion is all of these, and more." He raises his nekai once more, above his head, locking them together in a kaife style. "And so too, will the Glomdoring always be more than the sum of its parts. F'ai Glomdoring!"

Grissom raises his nekai into the air, scratching them apart in a ear-splitting

Tarken raises his nekai into the air, scratching them apart in a ear-splitting screech.

Tarken steps backwards into the shadows, bowing his head to mark the end of the ritual.

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

Eliron bows deeply to Tarken.

Eliron says, "Let us celebrate the druids of Crow, who have sacrificed for the Forest and serve it still!"

Eliron steps out of the circle and picks up the body of a slain deer that had lain beside the Master Ravenwood.

Eliron carries the deer into the center of the circle and places it on the ground.

Eliron spreads his arms and tilts his head back to gaze up into the boughs of the Master Ravenwood.

Eliron says, "Brother Crow! We celebrate those who celebrated you! Who followed your wisdom,
strengthened themselves, and feasted on the fallen enemies of the Glomdoring!"

Eliron takes a knife from under his cloak, the edge bright for a moment as it
passes out of the shadows. He kneels beside the deer.

Eliron draws the knife along the deer's chest, just behind its foreleg. He lifts it
and thrusts it into the chest of the deer, and with a twist and an audible CRACK the ribcage is
broken and opened, the heart revealed.

Eliron drives the knife into the ground beside the body of the deer, the blood on it dripping into the soil.

Eselyte attempts to stand still and reverent, watching the deer and the Lord Eliron with wide eyes.

Eliron dips his fingers into the heart's blood and lifts his hand to his face, drawing a great sweep that resembles a crow's wing on each cheek.

Eliron stands and says, "Together we celebrate the druids of Brother Crow!" He stands aside, allowing others access to the deer.

Stratas follows the lead, dipping his fingers into the heart's blood. Standing he draws a wing on one cheek, and a beak on the other.

Eliron nods at Stratas, then looks around the rest of those gathered.

Tylwyth looks around and scratches his head.

Rancoura smiles faintly as she drifts forth, descending near the deer and, without hesitating, plunges her fingers into the deer's carcass. With a deep breath, the demidivine covers her bare chest with two long swathes of the carmine fluid, the semblance of wings upon her breasts. Standing, she withdraws as she traces also a strip of blood down the bridge of her nose.

Eliron gives Rancoura a small smile.

Eliron holds out one hand to Eselyte.

Rancoura bows her head towards Eliron in return, the hand smeared with blood pressed against her chest as she watches the others.

Eliron murmur to Eselyte, "Will you begin your life among us marked by Brother Crow, young one?"

Tylwyth flits down to the deer. Dipping his feet into it's wounds then uses his feet to deftly paint crow wings on his face.

Eselyte glances up to the Lord Eliron and nods her head reverently.

Eliron kneels again and dips one hand into the heart's blood, the other gesturing for Eselyte to step forward.

Eselyte steps silently to the Lord Eliron, and raises her chin while closing her eyes.

Aetakyla dips her dagger into the blood of the deer, drawing upon her milken-flesh in lush swirls and whorls upon her cheeks liken of curled feathers. She in turn draws with the daggers point an intricate feather upon Grissom's brow with the narrow dip.

Eliron stands and reaches out to paint a sweep of wing on each of Eselyte's cheeks and a single line down her nose.

Eliron murmur to Eselyte, "May your time among us be as auspicious as your beginning, and marked by the same courage."

Eselyte attempts to stand as tall and straight as possible, accepting the blooded wings on her cheeks.

The ghost of a smile passes fleetingly across Eliron's lips as he glances at Eselyte.

Alik looks about himself and those gathered. He sighs under his breath and steps forward. He touches the tip of his forefinger into the blood and dots it onto his head. He then steps backward, wiping his hand.

Eliron gives Alik the briefest of glances.

Eliron says, "May we all know Brother Crow's strength as we move forward!"

Eselyte grins crookedly and bows to the Lord Eliron, and then to the slain deer. She steps back into her place within the circle.

Rancoura observes Eselyte quietly, watching all the while. As Eselyte returns to the circle, the Last Queen's ethereal gaze lingers upon Eselyte, but before it returns to Eliron as he continues the celebrations.

Eliron says, "Let us celebrate the bards of the Shadowbeat, who have sacrificed for the Forest and serve it still!"

Eliron raises one hand to his viola, the blood on it marking the golden strings.

Eselyte trembles nervously under the gaze of the Queen, and attempts to slink down to make herself as small as possible.

Lysistrata smiles, revealing her thin, sharp and pointed teeth.

The ghost of a smile passes fleetingly across Rancoura's lips as she glances at Eselyte.

Eliron raises his viola and plays several long, haunting notes, which cut off abruptly, the sound hovering in the air as if waiting.

Eliron says, "In the beginning All was Void."

Eliron continues to speak as the notes from his viola strangely continue to hang in the air, and a strange ticking noise begins to echo as well.

Eliron says, "Form and function, beauty and reality came from the Song of Creation, wielded by the Keepers of Song."

Eliron says, "Such works They created! A mortal lifetime would not be enough to enjoy each pleasure. And yet--."

Eliron looks around the circle as the pause hangs in the music filled air.

Eliron says, "Such power and beauty always inspires jealousy and greed in those who cannot create such on their own. We know of the Soulless Gods, of they who devoured the Keepers of Song, leaving the world silent."

Tiny munching sounds drift up from the earth as a small shrubbery is sucked into the ground.

Eliron smiles faintly as the music abruptly stops, leaving only the crackle of branches and leaves under his feet as he paces about the circles.

Eliron says, "Long did silence reign, for who would dare to challenge the hunger of the Soulless? Who could do so and live?"

Eliron continues moving, and the strange ticking noise starts again, echoing about the clearing.

Eliron says, "We did. The Glomdoring did. The Taint came and consumed the Gloriana, and the Glomdoring rose in its place, proud and defiant, not broken, but stronger for the adversity it had faced!" The ticking sound increases as he speaks, until it almost drowns out his last words.

Eselyte twists her head to an odd angle, keeping her eyes upon the Lord Eliron as she listens in wonder.

Eliron raises his viola again and plays a soft tune that twines with the ghostly voices and he raises his own.

Alik takes a few steps backwards into the shadows and tucks his viola under his arm.

Alik leaves to the down.

Eliron sings, "There is no beauty like Glomdoring's dark - Insidious as whispers on the breeze."

Eliron singss, "And intricate as tendrils in the bark."

Eliron sing, "Shot deep by twisted vines that choke the trees."

Eliron sings, "The Forest Without Mercy works its way - Into the breast, the marrow, and the bone - Comples the heart, entangled, to obey - Until all fickle pride is overgrown."

Eliron sings, "Like sickly gardens by ferocious weeds - of virile root and redolent with flower. - Ensnared within the web, each creature feeds - the forest, and becomes part of its power."

Eliron sings, "For nothing else engenders such wild throes - Of longing as the filigreed array - the twining silhouettes of gloomy boughts - When shadows coalesce to birth new day."

Eliron sings the final verse, and the ticking erupts into a gale of deathwatch beetles shimmering with colors--red and black, blue and white, purple and yellow--that dance about the clearing, flickering past you, their wings brushing your face. "Upon the midnight hour thickening - alive with murmur, writhing obscuring shape - Incite an adumbrated quickening, weaving
the bonds no mortal can escape."

Eliron holds up one hand, allowing the dancing beetles to swirl around it.

Eliron calls out, "The beauty of the Glomdoring woke the Voice of a Dead Goddess. The strength of the Wyrd inspired her to grant us a shard of the Song of Creation! The will of the Forest shall see her duty carried out and the glories of the Wyrd sung forever more!"

Rancoura's head bows in reverence as she gazes upon the colourful swarm, her phantasmal wings shifting erratically as she beetles flutter through their spun darkness.

Eliron closes his hand and the last echoes fade away, the beetles swirling and fading back into the darkness, though their ticking can still be faintly heard.

Eliron draws his viola and bow in close to him, then bows to those gathered and steps back into his place in the circle of watchers.

Eselyte smiles dreamily and looks around for any straggling beetles to catch.

Eliron takes a deep breath, then says in a clear voice, "Let us celebrate the warriors of the Glomdoring, who have sacrificed for the Forest and serve it still!"

Lysistrata smiles softly.

Xenthos guides Ilistala closer to the Master Ravenwood, and he lays one hand upon its bark as his gaze roams around the clearing. "The Ebonguard... well. Above and beyond all others, we honoured Mother Night and Brother Crow. Both have been given their due. The Nekotai have offered their blood as they spoke of the Idols, and the Harbingers their dirge."

Spirit Warden Xenthos An'Ryshe, the Ebon Strategist says, "Thus, I will speak more simply of the Ebonguard. What is less known of that guild, perhaps, is that they also believed that other spirits of Nature had minor lessons to teach us, life lessons that would serve to enhance the strength of the Glomdoring and its members if well-absorbed."

Xenthos says, "The squirrel who hoarded its food to prepare for the hardship ahead." His eyes focus on the Master Ravenwood and the branch recently severed. The one eye remaining whole burns an intense red, while deep within the scarred socket the orb of shadowfire swirls in its new home.

Xenthos turns his gaze towards the gathering. "The wolf, a fierce member of the pack. Each a part of the whole, each with their own role to play. And any given one of them more than willing to rip out the throat of any who might threaten. Loyal to their pack, to the bitter end."

Xenthos takes a deep breath, turning his eyes upward. "I will not delve into each of the spirits of Nature. The Ebonguard are no more. Yet this is not a tragedy, for in truth, each of the lessons these spirits taught are already an intrinsic part of the Glomdoring. We are one. United. And not even the greev can tear us asunder, no matter how hard it tried, no matter how great its wrath grew."

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

Xenthos drops his gaze back once more to the gathering, eyes intense. "That is, I think, true for all of us. That which we honour may be gone, but... ahh. What we learned from them, what they achieved in making us who we are this day, will endure. We shall never forget. Undaunted, we stride forward, proud. For we are the Glomdoring. And Nothing Matters but the Glomdoring."

Eliron smile softly.

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

Smoothly, The Last Queen, Rancoura So'hthae, Adumbriata Incarnate whispers, "Glory be to the Glomdoring."

Along with Rancoura, Violyte Nightshade says, in Elfen, "Glory be to the Glomdoring."

Eliron murmurs, "Glory be to the Glomdoring."

Lysistrata Shee-Slaugh says, "GLory be to GLomdoing!"

The ghost of a smile passes fleetingly across Rancoura's lips as she glances at Violyte.

Grissom says, "Glory be to the Glomdoring!"

Ollie Feyranti says, "Glory be to the Glomdoring."

Aetakyla Ysav'rai whispers, "Glory be to the Glomdoring."

Stratas Shee-Slaugh says, "Glory be to Glomdoring."

Eliron nods at Xenthos as he steps forward one last time.

Eliron turns slowly as he looks at those gathered, meeting the eyes of each in turn.

Voice softer than before, Eliron says, "Let us celebrate all who stand here, who have sacrificed for the Forest and serve it still."

Eliron takes a ritual athame from within his cloak. Holding up the hand still bloodied from the deer, he runs the blade across his palm so that the bloods mingle and patter to the Forest floor.

Eliron says, "I am of the Glomdoring. My strength is the Wyrd's, and the Wyrd's is mine."

Tarken runs the palm of his hand across the blades of one of his nekai, letting it drip to the forest floor.

With a flourish, Xenthos slips a ravenous crow-beaked bardiche into the Belt of Klangratch.

Drawing a ritualistic dagger of Shikari out of the Belt of Klangratch fluidly, Xenthos thrusts it high above his head, saluting all around him before slicing it back down through the air to a ready position.

Tarken says, "I am of the Glomdoring. My strength is the Wyrd's, and the Wyrd's is mine."

Stratas takes his athame, striking his hand in a swift motion, and allowing the blood to pour out to the forest earth below.

Stratas Shee-Slaugh says, "I am of the Glomdoring. My strength is the Wyrd's, and the Wyrd's is mine."

Eliron turns to Eselyte and holds out the athame to her.

Eselyte glances from face to face nervously before biting her hand with sharp little teeth, drawing a few beads of blood that fall to the forest floor.

Lysistrata slowly brings her hand up to her mouth, and bites hard into her flesh, her fangs quickly drawing blood which streams down her arm and trickles to the ground "I am of the Glomoring. My strength is the Wryd's, and the Wyrd's is mine."

Rancoura gracefully sweeps the jagged edge of her crystalline athame across a delicate palm, wrapping her hand around the blade, almost lovingly, as her blackened-carmine blood drips to the wyrden soils below. "I am of the Glomdoring," she whispers in a low, reverent tone. "My strength is the Wyrd's, and the Wyrd's is mine."

Eliron smile softly at Lysistrata.

Eliron flash Eselyte a joyous smile.

Xenthos wraps his fist around the blade in his hand, and viciously jerks it free. He continues to squeeze, the blood running in thick streams between his fingers, small motes of shadowfire winking in the flow as it soaks into the floor of the Forest.

Aetakyla lifts her dagger, drawing it into her fleshy palm. Her warm, red blood rises quickly and drips in heavy splats against the already fallen blood. "I am of the Glomdoring." she squeezes her wound forcing more blood to fall. "My strength is the Wyrd's and the Wyrd's is mine." her voice barely above a subtle whisper.

Violyte reaches out with one hand as the ground splits and an athame rises from below. Taking it in one hand, she slices her other palm and allows the crimson droplets to fall upon the forest floor. "I am of the Glomdoring. My strength is the Wyrd's, and the Wyrd's is mine.

Ollie slices his hand swiftly with his athame, blood dripping in the soil.

Ollie Feyranti says, "I am of Glomdoring. My strength is the Wyrd's and the Wyrd's is mine."

Tylwyth puts his hands on his hips and goes "Hmmm!"

Tylwyth says, "I am of the Glomdoring. My strength is the Wyrd's, and the Wyrd's is mine.""

Grissom slowly draws his palm across the blades of his nekai, 'I am of the Glomdoring." he whispers as he turns his bleeding palm to the ground, "My strength is the Wyrd's, and the Wyrd's is mine".

Tylwyth draws his fingerblade across his palm.

Eliron looks around at all those gathered and inclines his head deeply in respect.

Tylwyth places his bleeding hand onto the Master Ravenwood.

Eselyte frowns down at her own meager blood offering and kneels. Taking up a handful of the bloodied soil, she echoes the oath quietly to it and reverently replaces the soil to the ground.

The ghost of a smile passes fleetingly across Rancoura's lips as she glances at Eselyte.

Rancoura inclines her head slightly to Eselyte in silent approval.

Raising his head, Eliron says, "Today we celebrate the united strength of the Glomdoring. Nothing matters but Glomdoring!"

Blood still dripping from his clenched fist, Spirit Warden Xenthos An'Ryshe, the Ebon Strategist says, "Glory be to the Glomdoring."

Eselyte gulps audibly, nervously biting her lip before pulling herself back up as tall and stoic as she is able.

Sweeping her athame out from her palm and pointing it towards the darkening evening skies, The Last Queen, Rancoura So'hthae, Adumbriata Incarnate whispers, "Glory forever be to the Glomdoring."

Violyte Nightshade exclaims, "Glory be to the Glomdoring!"

Tarken says, "Glory be to Glomdoring."

Stratas Shee-Slaugh says, "Glory be to Glomdoring."

Ollie Feyranti says, "Glory be to Glomdoring."

Aetakyla Ysav'rai says, "Glory be to glomdoring!"

Lysistrata Shee-Slaugh says, "Glory be to Glomdoring!"

Raising his cudgel to the night sky, Tylwyth says, "Glory be to glomdoring!"

Eliron smiles and says, "Thank you all for coming. May we carry forward this moment of strength and unity into all that we do."

Quietly, a vague smile upon her lips, The Last Queen, Rancoura So'hthae, Adumbriata Incarnate whispers, "For the fate of our Heart of Darkness. We must."

Eliron nod his head at Rancoura, showing his acceptance.