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These are form the Serenwilde wreath
You reach out and touch a pigwidgeon on a twig.
The sounds of thousands of hooves stepping recklessly over the forest floor rings through the area. You turn your attention to the heart of the wood, where hearty male voices ring out in joy and laughter. All around you, you see centaurs capering joyously around a ceremonial fire, their gaiety matched by hundreds of fully grown stags that leap and bound through the flames. One by one, men, women and children of all races join the festivities, their bodies becoming a tangle of spiritual bliss as they dance under the full moon. A rumbling laughter alerts you to the figure of a proud centaur God Who oversees the celebrations, His keen hunter's gaze protecting His people while they dance. As the vision shifts, the bonfire explodes with a wave of the God's hand, sending sparks of emerald light winging into the night sky, to the roaring cheers of the Serenwilde people.
You stumble forward into a broad clearing, the stench
of cities suddenly nonexistent. The air is clear and the sky is
blue, and all around you, nature spirits dance and sing in blissful,
unabashed abandon. Two smiling
Goddesses step easily from the forest, approaching the clearing with
Their arms outstretched, ready to
welcome nature into Their embrace. One, a tall woman of ethereal
grace and pointed ears, stoops to
hold a nymph in Her arms, joyous laughter spilling from Her voice.
The other, a tall, slender woman
with raven hair and skin tinged with silver, looks on at the scene
with a wise countenance, the
smile of a maiden's youth, the mother's love, and the crone's careful
guidance playing across Her
features. Together, They watch over the natural world, in peace and
harmony. As the vision shifts, you
feel a terrible longing for this moment of happiness to return, and
you realize in your heart
that this is what the fae wish for, too. Always.
branches and greenery, you find yourself before the Tree of Trees:
Her titanic trunk scraping against the
firmament and filling the air with the deep scent of loam and sap.
Resting upon the Spirit's gnarled
roots sits a quiet man of pale skin and coppery hair, His eyes closed
in contemplation. Time
passes - minutes, hours, days, aeons - and you watch the man
transform before your eyes: what was
once pale skin becomes hardened bark, His coppery hair crinkling like
leaves. As the vision shifts, you
feel your body pull away from the scene and your ears ring with a
sonorous, almost mantric
Your vision clouds, and is quickly replaced by a riotous mass of bodies. Blinking your eyes to regain focus, you slowly come to realise that the teeming horde is in fact a chaotic group of fae: several of every kind, in fact, from pixie and pigwidgeon to sprite and sylph. Each one wears a jauntily set crimson hat trimmed with fluffy white fur, and many carry half-unwrapped presents in their hands. Indeed, the presents seem to be the source of the anarchy, for the fae are squabbling over them incredibly passionately. As one triumphant leprechaun tears the paper from his present, you burst into understanding laughter - held aloft in his hands is a sticky shard of golden honeycomb.
Kneeling, you brush
your fingers gently about a curiously grey flower. Delicate blooms in
the shape of bells hang drooping
from its stem, the tips of their petals curling upwards, as if
reaching for the sky. The soft heads
are velvety beneath your fingertips; they remind you of a gentle
lover's touch. Melancholy fills
your chest at the thought, but as the feeling begins to cause you
pain, the grey blossoms fill with
vibrant colour. The bells become a peerless blue, the stems and
leaves verdant. At once your
heart lifts, sadness replaced with a deep and abiding ardour that
shall never fade so long as
A forestal breeze, enriched with the smells of autumn, billows past as you find yourself lost. In all directions, you find thistle and tree, flower and herb; subconsciously, you dig deep into your pockets and retrieve a golden compass - its arrow flicking back and forth in alignment. You begin to walk, watching as the woods fall to branch with winter's embrace and revive again with springtime resurgence. Each step is heavy and determined; each step feels like you span the world and back. As the vision begins to shift, you find a tall, burly man in the distance: pointing beyond the horizon with a massive tree trunk in His hand.
The bitter chill of a cold wind thrums through your bones, leaving your joints weak and shaking. Just as you begin to buckle under the weight of it, the distant sound of a crackling hearth meets your ears. Stumbling through snowdrifts, you come at last to a sheltered grove and bask in the blistering heat of the fire. Soon others have joined you, and merriment warms your heart along with your limbs, the harsh winter making you appreciate the cameraderie and comfort all the more.
And this is what it looks like!
The pointed leaves of this cheerful holly wreath have been carefully curved away from its centre, protecting the wearer from their sharp points. Thick and verdant, it is bedecked with countless red berries that sparkle with a liberal application of diamond dust. Their festive appearance is completed by the sweet scent of oranges and kafe, which rises from a viscid coating on the leaves. It is strangely weightless.
It bears the
distinctive mark of Princess Dakhamunzu, Keeper of Cadence.
It has the following aliases: wreath, holly.