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@Czixi is a really cool god, and I'm glad people are sharing logs about her because she deserves all the love. Here's the log I had from an enjoyable interaction with her. It's a nice glimpse into the sort of personality she has and what she values as a Divine. Especially loved the end. I hope you enjoy!
The Fulcrux of Czixi.
Some Divine magic makes it possible to stand here, within billowing clouds that fill the air with thick, cloying moisture. There is a soft, springy texture to the misty platform that surrounds the suspended altar - though there must be an edge to it, somewhere...albeit one that bears little thinking about for those bereft of flight. Distantly, the shadowed form of Mount Avechna can be seen, towering over the startlingly beautiful vista of the Basin of Life. It is unexpectedly calm amongst these cinereous surroundings, peaceful as a pause - but foreboding, like the deep breath before an impossible leap. An ever-shifting column of wind descends from the edge of the cloud, reaching down to the mountain below. Hovering at the centre of the billowing clouds is a wide shrine made of uncut blue chalcedony, mist spilling from its surface. A rather strange looking green cup cake has been dropped here. Eddies of glittering frost swirl around the graceful form of a sleek snow phoenix with wings of amethyst ice.
You see a single exit leading through a descending gust of wind.
Then a voice: soft and clipped, with rolling rhotic sounds and a harsh bite to it. "A gift, you say."
You drop a bisected silver-and-crystal cyclone armband.
You have emoted: Sylandra lays the piece of jewellery on the ground carefully, kneeling as she does so.
"Mortal hands," the voice continues, echoing from everywhere and nowhere all at once, "crafted the Edifices of Power. They have claimed the Seal of Beauty almost a dozen times. They have created cities and structures that shall stand through many ages as a testament to their mastery."
The wind stills. It is as if the fulcrux itself has exhaled, and paused with empty lungs to contemplate the inevitability of another breath.
You say, "What You speak is true, Lady. Though we surely have painted no sunsets nor sculpted the mountain range. But I am glad that our efforts have their own strength and longevity, in Your eyes."
"Divine hands shaped the world, but mortal hands have saved it. Restored it. I do not think that it is right to compare the two."
You look on in astonishment as a bisected silver-and-crystal cyclone armband fades away into the ether.
Your eyes sparkle with amusement.
You say, "Very well. Then I shall cease in my flawed comparisons."
As mist pours from the top of the altar, it coalesces briefly into helical spirals that tumble down towards the clouds below.
You say, "I am the trademistress of the city's jewellery cartel, and I believe it should reflect the pantheon of the city in its works. This is my first attempt to see Your Order's symbols rendered in jewelled artistry. I confess being quite new to Your teachings and Your tenets, but from what I gleaned, this may be of some relevance."
"I am no Artist - but in years gone by, My Clangorum showed me that artistry held its place amongst function and form. He granted gifts to His kin that not only aided Them in battle, but reflected Their natures and in doing so granted Them great strength."
You tilt your head and listen intently.
You say, "Were You and He close, then? The Lord Clangorum, that is."
"He was one of Mine," the voice replies succinctly.
You have emoted: Sylandra nods in a similar clipped manner, her wings folding about herself in thought. "I do not know much of Warriors," she says at length, "but I have seen the bonds that take shape in battle. Their strength is incomparable."
"You are an artist, Winter Sonata. You know what it is to strive to capture an image despite the certainty that you shall fail to perfectly reflect the world around you - or your imagination. You know what it is to seek the impossible."
"A warrior fights because they must, even though their battle shall be eternal - for Destruction is as much a part of the world as Creation."
"You know far more of warriors than you think."
A wry smile spreads across your face.
You say, "I can see why my sister is drawn to You as she is."
Faint laughter ripples through the clouds, low and chuckling, carried away a heartbeat later on an errant breeze.
You say, "You are more interested in challenging the views of mortals than You are in shaping them to suit a certain perspective. It is a rarity among Divine, I find. Not an impossibility, mind You, but a rarity."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply exert My will in such a way that you cannot help but consider My thoughts to be of your own making."
You say, "That is quite insidious of You, my Lady."
You smile impishly and say, "Though I contend it is difficult to imagine You after this conversation interested in standing behind a pulpit or idling upon a pedestal."
"My Sisters and Brothers were and are fond of such things. I cannot claim to be free of the desire to be the centre of all things - but I am not so devoted to it as even the most unassuming of Them."
You have emoted: Sylandra cocks her head to the side and nods, considering.
You say, "Would You humour me, then? Were one to serve You, how would You desire that service to take shape?"
"There is no purposeful comparison to be made between the power of Divine and of mortalkind. And yet, it is the Great Tapestry that marks the shape of the world, and mortalkind who are its weavings. Those who devote themselves to Me do so by taking command of those Threads; of their Fates themselves."
You say, "That is an explanation that seems open to a wealth of interpretation."
"It is. And yet, all those who seek to claim their Fates are the same. All of them accept their impossible dream of perfection and strive towards it irregardless of its nature. They fight for it, with their every action and inaction, their every choice. And to this fight they give a Name - a Name for the mark they shall leave upon the world, a Name for the pattern of their Thread."
You say, "What of Your name, then? The Welkin? If it is not impudent to ask."
"I am not mortal," the Goddess chuckles as the light of dawn begins to illuminate the clouds with cinereous incandescence. "I cannot bear a Name in the same way. Welkin is what My Siblings called Me when We walked within the vistas of Our Creche, and so it is My title to bear."
You smile and say, "Ah, forgive me, I seem burdened with quite a number of false comparisons this day."
"Nonetheless, it is not an unreasonable question, else you would not have had an answer from Me."
Your eyes sparkle with amusement.
A swift gale of wind whips past you, stirring the clouds to shift like rolling waves, mist sparking from their peaks in a fine spray.
You say, "I hope that You have been pleased to see Your cousins in the pantheon upon Your return. The city is fortunate indeed to count You among its Divine. I am only sorry You did not get to see the Lord Elostian, or Lord Zvoltz, upon Your return."
You have emoted: An expression of sudden regret crosses Sylandra's face as she bows her head. "I am sorry. I forget, how jarring it must be to return to a First World so different than the one You left behind. To us mortals, that is all the world has been."
A wisp of vapour manifests before you, gently lifting your chin until it is held high. "The First World I left behind was dying - the sacrifice of Those who became mortalkind saved it."
Glancing up to face the column of wind at the beckoning of Your unseen hand, you say, "Yes, You are right. There is something to be said for a world where hope remains alive."
"For as long as we fight, Winter Sonata, there is always hope."
The presence of the Goddess begins to fade from around you, a pressure lifting from your shoulders. "Now tell Me again that you do not understand warriors."
Czixi, the Welkin has bestowed Her divine truefavour upon you. It will last for 7 months.
You curtsey gracefully.
You say, "Be well, Lady Welkin."