Every Rose and Spiderling

SalomeSalome Member Posts: 677 Mythical
Salome has had trouble with her young pupil, @Damut. She begins to assimilate him into the ways and embrace of Mother Night, through a ritual of Changing. Enjoy.

@Viravain @Celina @Astraea @Tarkenton @Siam

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Promenade of roses.
The shadowy outline of a twisted forest casts a dark gloom here. Small paths of loose onyx stone
wind throughout the area, forming symmetrical loops. Lining each pathway are well-trimmed rosebushes,
an abundance of dark, red roses, bloom year-round upon each. In the centre, where each looping
pathway both begins and ends, resides a large fountain. The pool at the base of the fountain is wide,
a broad flat-topped boulder rising from its depths. Across its surface is an intricate forest of
trees crafted from dark marble, each sculpted in exquisite detail. In the centre stands a statue of
Lady Viravain, Her gaze turned down towards the forest and Her hand outstretched. A small stream of
water pours from Her palm, this source of life raining down upon the trees. Shadowbound Damut is
here. He wields a nature talisman in his left hand and a golden whip of the pious in his right.
You see exits leading out and through a clear pool.


You have emoted: Salome Nightshade quietly strides to the centre of the pathway, trailing Damut
behind her tall looming form as she gracefully stands at the ledge of the pool.

Turning, and gesturing with a crooked finger to you, you say, "Come."

Shadows grow longer in anticipation for the return of their dark mistress as Father Sun's chase
brings him closer to the world's edge.

As the sun passes below the horizon's edge, Mother Night unveils her terrible, shadowy beauty,
spreading darkness across the land.

Damut bows lightly to the statue as he slowly wanders over to you and looks to you curiously with
twitching ears.

Salome Nightshade rests her hand upon his shoulder, so that Damut may see their
reflections interact. In the brief flicker of the vision, Damut see that his form is taller, broader
and masculine, the picturesque image fading as soon as it had come. She bends to Damut, softly
speaking, "This is a place of reverence, and power, Shadowbound. I am bringing you here, because I
wish to expand your mind with a small ritual, one that I have been slowly working towards completion.
You are frustrated with your lack of grasping concepts yes? You wish to learn quickly, as Mother
Night does?"

Ear swiveling back, Damut puffs up his whole form slightly at the image of his improved self.
Considering your words for a few silent moments he looks up to you with a eager twinkle in his eyes
as he nods slowly twice and says, "I do."


You have emoted: Salome Nightshade points one long, black-tipped nail at Damut, her eyes flashing
demurely with a cold serenity as the roses, with their many vines begin to embrace Damut with their
silken vice, the sensation nearly tender and tingling upon his dark pelt.

With obvious effort not to panic, Shadowbound Damut asks, "What are you doing Weaver?"

Walking up to you, smiling, you say, "Be at ease, Damut. Nothing shall harm you within the Night,
unless, of course, you do not relax to embrace Her Motherly touch."

Damut exhales slowly and allows himself to relax, his eyes showing a eagerness as he glances about
and turns himself over to the embrace awaiting what is to come. Just above a whisper he softly
states, "The Night has me, I will not fight Her."

Pressing her palms together, Salome Nightshade whispers underneath her breath
before raising her hands high as the young, spider-children of the Lady of the Thorns descend from
the boughs of the bushes and the distant trees, their red eyes blinking through the shadow as they
gather around to observe the ritual. Dropping to her knees, she whispers to them silent things,
unknowing dark words that cause the air to shiver with tension and a sense of smug satisfaction as
the spiders, it seems, at her request begin to weave their webs about Damut and the shadowed flora
as a sheer cocoon engulfs the tae'dae up, up, and upwards until encased within, there is no light,
no sound.

The sky lightens and stars fade as Father Sun approaches the horizon in his neverending quest to
capture Mother Night.

Her voice mute through the spider-silk cocoon, you say, "Mother Night, I honour You. I am beholden
of You always, but let this child of Your faith grow stronger within You. Open his mind, make it
suspectible to Your will, Your wiles, so that he may honour You, as I honour You."

Through a thundering crash of whispers about Damut, Damut hears Salome Nightshade
let out a wailing shriek as something dark splatters the outside of the cocoon. The spiders
silhouettes from the outside begin to feast upon the strange viscosity dripping within, as the vines
around Damut enclose, tighter, and tighter until there is no room for air in the darkness.

Salome Nightshade watches onward, as the swift embrace of the darkness of Night
surrounds the cocoon covered within her own blood. Her forearms pouring as two streams along the
ground, as she watches the transfomation take place. Damut hears her laughter, high and cold with
the success of something to come as the whispers grow louder, now resonating through his very mind,
delving into the depths that keep him from seeing the true vision and power of the darkness and its
hunger.

From inside of the cocoon, Damut begins to thrash wildly, sounds of muffled horror barely audible as
the cocoon rocks. Realizing resistance is futile the rocking steadily slows down as Damut calms,
letting the transformation overtake him. A low content growl emits from the cocoon.

Salome smiles coldly as the shadows slowly seep from the cocoon as the last of the
dark thorns tear at the thin, spider's silk.

The shadows siphoning through her lips, the wounds upon her arms knitting in blazing, white scars,
you rasp, "Arise, child of Night. And look with your new eyes upon the world."
The apple is cold, crisp, and sour as the juices fill your mouth. As you consume the fruit, you glimpse, for a moment, a massive, shadowy figure, Her snow-white hair framing a perfect, icy-eyed visage. Beneath you, a vast, perfect web of silken strands lies - and, for a moment, you realize that you too are part of it, weaver and strand both - and home.
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