Honouring the Hallowed / Cleansing the Temple -- an improvised ritual

Rancoura · November 2018

Log of an improvised ritual recently performed by Rancoura and Salome within the Mae'vrai cree-Laes -- the Temple of the Hallowed (a.k.a. Auguries guildhall). Performed for dual purposes of cleansing the Temple by burning herbs and honouring the Hallowed with offerings.

*** Contains some minor NSFW content near the end ***

[[ Salome and Rancoura's descriptions are in a comment below ]]

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Derelict stores of spiritual implements.

Half-ruined tables and shelves of granite are strewn across the broken stone

ground here, covered with all manners of ritualistic tools and commodities. Fine

mounds of dust, presumably once bundles of dried herbs and other organic matter,

are scattered across the tables, the wooden crates which once stored them long-

since disintegrated. Athames, stone basins, now-brittle bone-knives and rusted

metal chests rest upon granite storage shelves, and within a collection of stone

crates are stored threadbare cloth bags holding runestones and and the remnants

of bones. The implements of shamans, wiccans, druids and other oracular

vocations are all intermingled, and sturdy tables provide surfaces upon which to

prepare further materials. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith

is on the ground. A massive spider skitters here, spinning her web.

You see exits leading northeast, east, and south.

Salome glides silently to one of the tables, pressing the hilt of her athame

along one of the edges of the basins nearby. It makes a grating, but musical

sound. "The temple always fills me with such peace," she remarks.

You have emoted: Rancoura sweeps easily through the chamber, paying visits to

several shelves to retrieve a crow-feather fan and a bundle each of dried sage,

horehound, mistletoe, hemlock and wormwood. At Salome's comment, she nods, a

faint smile upon her lips as she retrieves the last item -- a small wooden box

of ground ravenwood bark. "We are honoured above many, to have been found worthy

of its shelter," she whispers, returning to Salome and passing to her the bundle

of horehound and mistletoe, keeping the others for herself.

In smooth, silken tones, you whisper to Salome, "Which of our Hallowed shall we

begin with, my lady?"

Salome accepts the bundles, clutching them lightly as she makes sure they are

secured. "Let us consider the Idols, for often they are forgotten yet have the

rapport of the Wyrd," she says as some of the spider web's in her hair glint and

break loose into little filaments.

You have emoted: A small, but genuine smile upon her lips, Rancoura nods,

arranging the bundles and the fan in her own arms. "An excellent choice, indeed,

" she whispers.

[[ travel ]]

Encircled by the revered Idols.

Shrouded in gloom, the feral turmoil of wyrden foliage sprawls outwards from the

courtyard into this easterly niche, the ground soft and spongy with a thick

blanket of mauve and virid moss and other varieties of soft ground-cover. The

presence of a swarm of insects and small creatures is evident here, the buzzing

of wasps and clicking of beetles heard amongst the clapping of bat wings,

silvery spiderwebs catching the wan illumination of shadowfire sconces in every

nook and cranny. Against the fissured stone wall, a worn, partially-crumbled

sculpture depicts an awe-inspiring scene: entangled in a manner bespeaking an

unbreakable unity, renditions of a hulking beetle, a giant bat, an immense,

eight-legged spider and an enormous wasp surround the steady form of a

gargantuan, august scorpion, the majestic insect's massive tail arching

protectively over the idols surrounding it. A live scorpion, much smaller than

its portrayal in stone, perches upon the rim of an offering basin held aloft

upon a pedestal at the base of the statue, its sleek, chitin-ensconced form

still and waiting, ever watchful as it basks in the darkness of the stone. A

sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. A massive

spider skitters here, spinning her web.

You see exits leading north, south, and west.

Salome hums softly, the noise quiet but heard amongst the ticking of the insects

wandering. The shadows surrounding her whisper soft things, sneaking their long

fingers within the crevices of stone and ruin.

You have emoted: Rancoura's gaze trains upon the semi-ruined depiction of the

Idols, a slender hand pressed to her breast as she offers her respects to them.

To Salome, she whispers, "From the texts of our ancient athenaeum have I learned

a few properties of these herbs heretofore unfamiliar to my own learnings --

sage was often used for purification and spiritual health; horehound, for

restoring spiritual inspiration and clarity; mistletoe for protection and

guardianship; hemlock for consecration; and wormwood, to dispel negativity and

guard against harm."

In smooth, silken tones, you whisper to Salome, "Aid me, in choosing which we

might offer to the Black Idols."

Salome glances to those herbs procured within her arms, her eyes glistening with

something sudden and violet. Then softness about the thick, dark lashes of her

gaze. She looks to the scorpion, then to the beetle's icon. There is pause, as

she considers expressionless, then emits, "To blessed scorpion, we must offer

our bounty."

You purse your lips, deep in thought.

In smooth, silken tones, you whisper to Salome, "A combination of each, then,

perhaps?"

Her voice faint with a hidden warmth, Furiosa Salome Nightshade, the Sublime

Aphotia says, "I believe that would be wise, but I speak from intuition, not of

your own studiousness."

You have emoted: The faintest sense of amusement suffuses Rancoura's ivory

countenance, and without a word she drifts forth towards the unified sculpture.

Freeing a few sprigs of sage, needles of hemlock and stems of wormwood, she

places the herbs in the offering bowl at Scorpion's base, the Idol's smaller,

live counterpart scuttling backwards in wariness at the proximity of her hand.

Once satisfied with the herbs' arrangement, the Haruspex drifts backwards a few

steps to allow Salome to add the horehound and mistletoe.

Salome lifts the bundles in her hand to her nose, inhaling lightly each earthy,

loam-laden scent. She tears some of the mistletoe, careful of their thorns and

the horehound and steps forward toward the bowl. Closest to where the live

scorpion lingers, her hand passes slow and measured even at the temptation of

the little creature whose tail flickers in warning. She nods, and rises, looking

to you.

You have emoted: Rancoura approaches once more, her umbra-ensconced form passing

close enough to Salome for her shadowed aura to briefly meld with hers,

fluctuating with the joining. Opening the small wooden box, she scatters a pinch

of the powdered ravenwood over the herbs, proceeding to draw a box of tinder

from a silk pouch at her hip. As the demidivine strikes flame into the basin,

the mingled, rich aromas of the herbs rise immediately in curlicues of thin

smoke. The scorpion at the basin's rim releases a sibilant hiss, withdrawing

back into the shadows of its Great Spirit and curling in on itself, the

smouldering embers casting a dance of light upon its dark chitin.

You have emoted: Setting down the herbs and implements, Rancoura rises and lifts

her palms to the great stone depictions of the Idols. "Spider, Wasp, Beetle, Bat

and Scorpion -- here do we stand, embodiments of your wisdoms, in honour of you

and all that you have given unto the Wyrd," her whisper carries in the open

chamber, echoed from the crevices and ruined niches. "We ask that you continue

to inspire us with patience, innovation, surety, and decisiveness; endurance,

insight, discretion and poise; perfection, and unification of the many teachings

you have deigned to share with we of the Heart of Darkness."

As the sweet, semi-acrid smoke blooms in grey-white whispers above the basin,

Salome draws breath lightly, and with a lift of her hand whispers as you

invocation passes into the faintest memories of sound against the stone. "Come

forth, and cleanse this temple, where as old as time you've been given glory," her

voice sways with passion, as it resounds with many other voices that all come

from her. She bends, grasping the earth, gouging nails deep into the rich soil

and scatters it in a circle around the basin.

You have emoted: The crowfeather fan now in hand, Rancoura draws it back and

forth before the low burn, spreading the smoke over the pockmarked and worn

stone of the carvings. The clicking and chittering of insects grows louder, more

insistent, as the staccato squeaks of bats pierce the rhythm. The answer of the

Idols given, the Haruspex draws back, half-bowed as she presses both hands to

her chest in reverence. Straightening, she then beckons to Salome, leaving the

smoking herbs to burn as she seeks another chamber of the Temple.

[[ travel ]]

Within the thrumming melody of Mahalla.

The air swells with a steady beat, the chittering and scuttling of numerous

deathwatch beetles adding their staccato as the insects crawl too and fro across

the lichen-covered ground. Stationed between two thick granite columns, an eerie

sculpture of vaguely violet-hued stone stands upon a low platform, a strange

aura surrounding it in pulsing fluctuations. Clearly once a carving of

breathtaking beauty, the sculpture has been worn and weathered beyond

recognition, leaving an empty, forlorn form behind. Still, the steady thrum

emanates from the sculpture itself, filling the environs with the subtle,

pounding rhythm of life, the everlasting song of the Wyrd echoed within its

melody. At the feet of the sculpture, a shallow depression welcomes offerings,

the dried, crushed petals of roses elegantly blanketing the hollow. A sigil in

the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. A massive spider

skitters here, spinning her web.

You see exits leading north, east, and south.

Salome surges forward as she carries in her wake the stench of death, and the

smoke, almost too sweet that follows. She pauses in step, and in her eyes

resides a hunger rarely seen that sharpens her features as worn as the sculpture

before them.

You have emoted: Rancoura approaches the faceless, violet-stained sculpture

posed between the columns of the Temple, a sense of grave solemnity upon her

visage as she gazes upon its lost beauty. "Horehound, for the Lady Mahalla and

Her Shadowbeat," she whispers quietly. "Would you lead the reverence of Her, my

lady?" she asks, as her gaze wanders to Salome.

She dips her head gracefully, Furiosa Salome Nightshade, the Sublime Aphotia

intones, "I have sung of Her song, and gazed upon Her shadow and Voice. She

knows what I will bring."

You have emoted: Rancoura's gaze wanders to the featureless depiction of beauty

once more as she drifts to the side, allowing Salome to freely approach. Her

eyes close as she draws in the age-riddled scents of the Temple, the air thick

with the presence of the Shadowbeat thrumming in the very air.

Salome moves before you, her bare feet pressing now to the earth as her wings

flex against her spine. The gesture is somewhat warding, and yet, one of

annunciation. The melody of nature remains cacophonous, each sound melding

together under the beat of primal drums echoing beyond the ruins. The faeling

lifts her athame, its misted blade glistening in the light as her feet scatter

dried black rose petals as she steps once more. With a gentle tilt of the blade,

she kisses it and her hand slips purposefully, cutting the centre of her lower

lip, as she lowers the sacred utensil to her side, she tastes the coppery blood

of her own making. She sings in a dark, soulful voice, "We beseech you to hear

us in this hour, Harbinger of Death!" At this call, it sounds as if the whole

glade has drawn breath, holding it as an ominous weight gathers expectantly upon

the air. "We bear offerings unto You, who drives the rhythm of our hearts, and

that of the Wyrd which is destruction and birth, guided by Your Song and

Sacrifice," she chants as she pulls a stalk of horehound from the bundle in her

other hand. Pressing it to her lips, she continues, "May your Song fill these

ruins, in cleansing recognition of the newness we Augurs shall bring to the

worship of Your manifold presence."

Salome descends to one knee, and places the stalk across the sculpture's near

formless feet. Her gaze returns to you, encouraging her to approach in duty.

You have emoted: Rancoura's silent steps carry her to Salome's side, each taken

with an unconscious loyalty to the ever-present pulse of the sacred Drums. In a

cascade of feathers and spun adumbration, the demidivine trill falls to her

knees, grasping the ravenwood-powder box in her palms. Opening it, she casts

another pinch of the sacred dust of bark over the horehound, softly humming a

dark, haunting melody that barely rises above the rhythmic, percussive pounding.

Leaning in towards her sister in ritualism, the Haruspex delivers into Salome's

hands the tinderbox and crowfeather fan, leaving the honour of lighting the

offering to her.

In a brief intertwining of sisterly hands to exchange the items given, Salome

strikes the tinderbox and lets the match fall in one motion as violet flames

appear to burst to life, consuming the stalk and powder into ash. As the flecks

of ash rise, the drums beat their loudest as the ticking of the deathwatch

beetles returns almost like a raving fugue of exotic beats. The sculpture for

one sheer moment wavers with arcane power, rippling like air in heat, revealing

just the barest more features of the Elder Goddess - the lines of her face, the

edges of her hair, but it quickly fades into the gathering shadows that swallow

it up. With a slow hand, the faeling wafts the smoke towards the ground and

across her trill companion - Only then does the rhythm of the forest return with

vigor.

As she rises, head bowing, Furiosa Salome Nightshade, the Sublime Aphotia

murmurs, "Our gratitude, and respect."

You have emoted: Rancoura , having tilted her head back to gaze upon the lost,

looses a faint, suave breath from pale lips barely parted, from another

unmistakably a sigh but from the Haruspex, not quite so. Still, her lazuline-

violet eyes betray a vague sense of longing, the ever-present shadowfires within

them reflecting the wyrden conflagration oscillating above the scorched herbs.

As the vision fades, Rancoura's eyes close for a moment, and then she, too,

rises, offering a refined bow to the Lady and Her power here.

You have emoted: Rancoura dips her head to Salome in appreciation, casting one

last reverent regard to the faceless Goddess before she makes for another

chamber hidden within the depths of the Mae'vrai cree-Laes.

[[ travel ]]

Beneath the watchful gazes of the Dark Spirits.

A collection of flowing, phantasmal statues stand throughout this low chamber in

no particular sense of order, each varying in size but all depicting the

ethereal silhouette of a wyrden Dark Spirit. The depictions mere ghosts of

mortalkind, the figures illustrated within are mostly vague mimicries of elfen

and faeling, though other races can be barely deciphered amongst the others. The

sculptures are hewn not of stone, but of another substance not easily

identified; the essence of darkness itself has been hardened and shaped, living

shadows lovingly creeping over the faceless sculptures and coiling around the

enraptured limbs and torsos. Void of countenances, blazing red eyes gaze

nonetheless chillingly from the sculptures' featureless visages, eternally

watchful, eternally patient. The remnants of ancient stone plaques front each

blackened granite pedestal upon which the timeless sculptures dance, their words

long-ago worn away but perhaps once telling the story of their respective

spirit's mortal life. Weathered archways lead to the east and west wings of the

temple, whilst through the northernmost archway can be seen the massive, spread-

winged form of Crow, the Spirit's stone form looming beyond. A sigil in the

shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. A massive spider

skitters here, spinning her web.

You see exits leading north, east, and west.

You have emoted: Rancoura weaves between the foreboding figures poised about the

chamber, her form barely discernible in the utter gloom that surrounds you both.

Eerily, the crimson gazes of the manifested spirits follow your every movement,

and the air is thick with memory and no shortness of malevolence. The Haruspex

halts in the midst of the ghostly statues, where pressed into the ground is a

shallow depression. Casting her gaze around to the nearby sculptures, she

descends to her knees, resting back upon folded legs with her hands gently

folded in her lap.

Salome follows in silence, her eyes focused upon the ancient plaques resting

upon the pedestals. As she follows you, the shadows about her grasp and reach

for them, oddly moaning in revelations and unheard pleas with mouths gaping and

stretching until they once return to the form of darkness. She follows suit, and

prostrates herself upon her knees beside her counterpart as she looks to the

eyes smouldering in the abyss. Blood still dripping from her lips reflect across

her, illuminated her stained, pale flesh as she waits without fear.

You have emoted: Pressing a silken palm into the depression, Rancoura's breath

comes and passes slowly, the ethereal hues of her eyes vanishing as they close.

The blood-riddled gazes of the Spirits seemingly turn to her, drawn hungrily to

the sense of life within the demidivine, a quality so sought after by those who

breathe no more. Quietly, lessening the disturbance to the silent chamber and

paying no heed to the rising sense of menace conveyed by the throng of the

depicted dead, the Haruspex whispers, "Spirits old and new, ancient and young --

we cannot know the trials you have faced, nor the woes which have plagued you

unto your deaths. Still do you hold place within our reverence, for we have

acknowledged the great expanse of wisdom you have gained in all your years, and

through all your sacrifices." The Night-Daughter proceeds to untie the bundle of

hemlock, casting the needles into the depression and scattering the ground

ravenwood bark across them, a pause in her actions allowing Salome to offer what

she would.

Salome bows her head in reverence as she pluck mistletoe berries from their

boughs, and as well their leaves, she crushes horehound with them and smears

them across the depression. "You have confessed your Sorrows, you know well your

glory, the perfection of the Wyrd is yours and ours, and ours and yours," she

whispers, lips barely moving. "We summon your protection upon this Temple,

mysterious though it may be, spirits we call, come and whisper your secrets,

offer a prophecy to cleanse our way," she beseeches.

You have emoted: Rancoura strikes fire from the tinderbox to set the moist

herbal mixture alight, an acrid smell rising as the spitting flames burn red as

the berries themselves, the searing hues staining the darkness in scarlet and

crimson, nigh blinding in the darkness of the enclosing chamber. The flames

twist and coil upon themselves in unnatural whorls, patterned with the vague

forms close-standing trees. The Haruspex's eyes narrow, and she glances briefly

to Salome before returning her attentions to the flickering vision. Now the

edges of the flames have blackened, carmine to coal encroaching upon the

wavering fire-trees -- the blackness grows thicker, suffocating the crimson

beneath, a horde of individual flame-tips curling inwards towards the core of

the blaze until it has bled entirely black, the shadowflame turning cold as it

melds into the surrounding darkness before extinguishing itself with nary a hiss.

Salome gravely waves the smoke with the crow handfan, her eyes slipping half-way

closed as she searches for what may lie within the refuse of the ash. Her eyes

move to you, as she speaks quietly, "After we are concluded."

You have emoted: Rancoura rests in silence and contemplation, also examining the

ash remains. Glancing again to Salome, she offers a single, delicate nod, and

rises to her feet. "We thank you, spirits, for your vigilance, your initiative,

your perseverance and your sheer longevity," she whispers to the surrounding

forms, their ruby gazes ever trained upon the two Augurs.

You have emoted: Rancoura drifts towards the archway returning to the centre of

the Temple, beyond which spread the great wings of Crow. She bows her head to

the sculpted spirits as she passes, a faint, knowing smile playing upon her lips

now.

[[ travel ]]

Before the dark majesty of Brother Crow.

The southern reaches of the temple are dominated by the cracked and age-worn

depiction of Crow in weathered granite, the statue nigh rivalling the lofty

columns that surround it. Four great wings span over twenty feet, flared

outwards as the Great Spirit caws in triumph, His single eye a still-glittering,

cracked ruby that fixates on His surroundings with a keen watchfulness. One of

His thick-taloned feet crushes the pile of stone-carved bones and stag antlers

strewn beneath Him, the other gripping the edge of a large trough inviting

offerings beneath the statue. Scattered across the dirt and broken stone are

countless, oily stygian feathers and chunks of carrion left by the crows which

roost here in the vine-covered half-roof, their gleeful caws filling the air as

one of the birds occasionally swoops down to perch upon the statue of its

collective spirit to affectionately rub its beak against the stone. Behind the

statue, an archway leads to an enclosed section of the temple, shrouded in

darkness as shadowy figures flit beyond the threshold. A sigil in the shape of a

small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. A massive spider skitters here,

spinning her web.

You see exits leading north, east, south, and west.

As the two round the giant, spread-winged statue of the Great Spirit, you

whisper to Salome, "Another Whom you know so well, my Lady Arcum. The honour

shall most certainly be yours, in reverence of Mighty Crow."

Her gaze slipping to the crows that perch upon the statue of the Spirit's

likeness, Furiosa Salome Nightshade, the Sublime Aphotia says, "One may know,

but never know fully, that is his beauty."

Salome bends to scoop up the loose feathers that rest upon the ground, mixed

with dried leaves and worn bones. She plants her feet, and casts a commanding

gaze at the roosting creatures hidden in the vines. She speaks in the tongue of

crow, which sounds more like a mix of rasps and clicks, harshly grating at her

throat. She snaps her wings open, and almost appears to puff up as she raises

her fingers, and jabs them to those of the murder residing here. They stop their

chattering, and appear to take notice, their mocking caws ending with a low

croak of submission. They begin to dive to the ground, to clean the carrion and

bones littered around, and then, circling drop them into the trough. Little by

little, a strange, twisted nest forms, with a hissing click, she steps forward,

waving her wings in a looming dance, before coiling them around her. The murder

of crows all begin to caw loudly, as they land before the statue in oddly neat

lines.

Her voice recovering in composure, stepping through the gathering of crows,

Furiosa Salome Nightshade, the Sublime Aphotia says, "Mighty Crow, Glorious, and

Seeing-of-All. Father of the Murder, Keeper of Food, Seeder of Harvests, Reaper

of the Weak. We gather, to build a nest in your honour, so that your kind may

continue to dwell within our Temple." She drops the bones and leaves across the

old, carrion-spiked trough, arranging them as she sprinkles mistletoe and

horehound upon the top. "Under your Eye, we prosper in perfection, come, and

cleanse us in blood."

Salome crackles with a variety of sounds, then a resounding caw, as if in

translation. The crows chorus in response, their beaks click-clicking as they

hop from side to side. The faeling closes her wings, and nods to you curtly.

You have emoted: Rancoura stands in silent observation as the corvids flit about

their affairs, a note of appreciation upon her visage as the ramshackle nest

takes form, and as Salome's prayer is spoken. At Salome's invitation, the

ephemerally-winged trill approaches the offering trough, easily plucking a few

spun-shadow feathers from her own wings. The insubstantial plumes barely hold

their nebulous form as she places them in the nest, opening the wooden box once

more and peppering the crushed bark across the entire makeshift construction. As

she carefully steps back, mindful of the grounded crows surrounding her, one of

the small birds flutters up to her shoulder with a greeting peal of laughter.

Gently stroking the crow's side with a finger, the Haruspex gazes up at the

towering form of its Father, her whisper elevated to be heard over the

boisterous birds. "Mighty Crow, you are honoured, for beneath your wing have we

learned to conquer our Black Sorrow, to invoke our False Memory, to control our

Blood Thirst and to embrace our Dark Spirit. Your children are ever in your debt,

for beneath you have so many of us grown from fledgling to soaring masterpiece,

and the Wyrd flourishes ever the more vigorously for it."

You have emoted: With that, Rancoura once more bends elegantly at the waist

towards the Great Spirit's depiction, causing the crow to caw as it regains its

balance. Directing a faint smile towards Salome, she then sweeps her gaze over

the raucous birds, and speaks a brief version of their tongue herself -- a

simple phrase of gratitude, enunciated with a smoother tone. As she turns to

depart, the crow upon her shoulder caws in perplexity, soon launching itself

away once it is clear that the demidivine intends to part with its kin.

[[ travel ]]

Before the regal beauty of Mother Night.

Revelling darkness is most at home in the northern stretch of the temple,

rippling mists of shadow eagerly ensconcing the wing. Enveloped lovingly within

the mists is a sculpture of unrivalled beauty - the spirit of Mother Night

Herself is captured within the pure, onyx-like granite from which Her likeness

has been coaxed, the surface of the stone miraculously smooth despite its

obvious age. The Great Spirit's features are austere, but hauntingly beautiful;

depicted as a youthful woman, Her eyes are darker than the stone itself,

fathomless orbs of immense power only fractionally captured within the

sculptor's visualization. The statue's arms are outstretched, invitingly, coils

of darkness curling enthrallingly out from them in spite of the tangible,

chilled aura that surrounds the Dark Mother, Her terrible power surrounding the

sculpture as rivulets of coalesced umbration flow from small cracks in its

surface. An elegant, oval bowl rests at the statue's base, set upon clawed feet

and awaiting offerings to the Eternal Mother whilst Her gaze follows any who

pass, Her stare unwavering and keen. A sigil in the shape of a small,

rectangular monolith is on the ground. A massive spider skitters here, spinning

her web.

You see exits leading north, east, south, and west.

You have emoted: As the grand, haunting depiction of the Mother of Darkness

rises in view, Rancoura's steps slow, and she draws a curved, jagged athame cut

of blackened crystal from the folds of her robes. Balancing the ritual blade and

the last herbs in her grasp, the Night-daughter approaches the Mother's likeness

with veneration exemplified, her gaze lowered as she comes to stand before the

Great Spirit.

Salome exhales a silent sigh, the silver-white of her hair glistening as it

cascades against bowed cheeks. Her expression is serene, and almost appears to

bring colour to such pale cheeks, the rosiness of summer returning to the

daughter of Night's very form at the mere view of such an icon. The shadows

about her soften, bleeding into a starless, but glossy intensity fading into

blue-black about the faeling's form. She too draws her stained athame, and slips

an arm in you own, as their steps are as one, the last strands of herbs resting

in between her thing, spidery fingers.

You have emoted: Rancoura's form flows to the ground as she descends before the

offering bowl, the weight of the Dark Mother's gaze upon her Daughters tangible,

shadow growing heavier as the Great Fae's attention is drawn. Solemnly, with a

deliberate slowness and care, the Haruspex presses the last of the sage into the

stone vessel, upending the wooden box and casting the last of the ravenwood dust

within before setting the box aside. Raising her enthralling gaze at last to the

face of Mother Night, the demidivine slowly shrugs one shoulder, allowing her

diaphanous robes to slip from it. With meticulous fingers, she slides the robes

from her other shoulder as well, allowing the garment to fall until her breasts

are bared, their generous curves pale in the darkness as snow beneath a wintry

eventide. Drawing a long, deep breath, Rancoura draws the tip of her athame

slowly along the inside curve of one breast, the thin crimson stroke left in its

wake soon filling with pearls of garnet, a shock of contrast against the ivory

of her flesh.

You have emoted: With a ritual cadence, Rancoura lays her shadowcrystal blade to

the side, tracing one finger over the crimson blood at the contour of her breast,

and then another, until both are smeared with the life-fluid. Wordlessly, she

runs the fingertips along the inside of the offering bowl, marking it with her

sacrifice. Deliberately does she raise her gaze again to that of the Mother of

Darkness, the latter's depthless orbs utterly black and inscrutable, eternally

observant of all that passes within her realm.

Linked at the hip with her sister in Night, Salome observes all that unfolds

with dark, colourless eyes, the sanguine crimson and flesh reflecting in the

glint of them. The shadows about her withdraw, like crests of silk, to reveal

her skyclad frame, etched in willowy, svelte lines as she is now free to the

open air. Many scars are revealed across such naked flesh, some knit in the

shades of bleached bones, others wroth and angry pale red - forming patterns of

mesmerising symbols in honour of the Dark Mother across her collarbone, her

muscled forearms, even along the dips of her slightly broad shoulders. At the

centre of her chest, she traces pale fingers upon her breast bone where deep set

shadows lie in a path, that moves across above her left breast. Clawed fingers

grasp one of the shadows residing there, like string - it struggles to remain

close to the faeling's bosom, yet the more the thread is drawn, the more Salome

appears to strain. A flicker of pain lingers in her face, as she bestows it a

kiss from her still bloody lips and drifts the wisp to the edge of the bloodied

basin, as the rapture across her visage remains, gazing to the icon.

Salome turns over her fingers and from her clenched fist, she drops the last of

the mistletoe and horehound. As it melds with her Coven-sister's viscera, her

eyes glow with a bright blaze of shadowfire, stirring the cold shadows that are

her aura about her. Frost crawls upwards across the statue of the Great Spirit,

blooming like flecks of lace upon glass panes.

You have emoted: Rancoura presses her hand against the side of the bowl, its

surface not bereft of the blooming frost-crystals, rendering it cold to the

touch, as if exposed to a Roarkian chill. Gazing to Salome, she silently

beseeches her to do the same, her breath drawn slowly, causing her breasts to

slowly rise and fall. Tendrils have been formed in fluid carmine as the remnant

beads of blood travel down along her skin, leaving traces not unlike the path of

fingertips along the sensuous flesh, its indigo underhues darkening it --

unmarred save for the blood-tracks and the faint symbol of a seven-pointed star

staining her chest just below the hollow of her throat.

The pads of her fingertips tracing along the edge of the bowl, Salome nods in

acknowledgment with a svelte dip of her head, her silver locks spilling across

her pale shoulders. She feathers her fingers along the opposite side of the

bowl, the cold of it equally numbing to the touch and the senses at first. But

past the cold, the passionate heat of summer, and the melting ice, forming to

dew - lingering like a mere distant thought of ages past. Her lashes flutter

downwards in concentration, pressed at the side of you unwavering composure.

You have emoted: With the two Augurs and Daughters of Night joined, both in

corporeal proximity and intention, their darkness interwoven, an energy swells

within the chamber. As Salome lowers her eyes, Rancoura raises hers, affixed to

the idol looming above in sacred awe. As the frost overtakes the stoic, terribly

beautiful countenance of Mother Night, her visage seems to shift -- head

lowering to gaze more closely upon those who swear by her name, even as the

sculpture seems to grow taller, limned in utter shade. A crackle of black

lighting suddenly spears through the air above the Spirit -- and an eerie,

feminine laughter cleaves the silence as the offerings burst into shadowflame,

the dancing darkness mirroring the flares in both Daughters' eyes. A strange,

alien scent rises from the bowl as the not-burning herbs are consumed by the raw,

primal energies of Wyrd and shadow -- dark, seductive, and utterly unknowable.

Salome's eyes slip open as the sable lighting ensnares the contents of the bowl

within, there are at least, for a moment tears of adoration in her eyes,

glossing the waterline of her sight. But the expression appears no more than a

shade, or a mirror of what may have been. Her full mouth lifts with quiet joy at

the acceptance of the offering, but does not reach or unravel from her

companion's embrace. Instead, the faeling bows her head to allow the tranquil

silence to consume her in a meditative prayer of gratitude before the idol and

sacred mark of the Dark Mother.

You have emoted: No words needing to be spoken, Rancoura looks on in silence as

the offerings are slowly dissolved within the ravenous shadowfires, hand resting

upon the keen crystalline blade on the ground beside her. Soon, the bowl is

vacant, its contents having been vanquished, and the black flames fade into

nothing like wisps of smoke in a meandering breeze. The heavy presence within

the chamber subsides, the Mother having accepted the offering withdrawing her

attentions from those who invoked it, though some sense of her remains, frost-

crystals still adorning her likeness. The deed done, the Haruspex's silken lips

move in silent prayer and gratitude, and she moves to rise, slipping the robes

over her shoulders once more and tucking the athame safely away in the folds of

the diaphanous cloth.

Salome remains upon the ground for a moment as you withdraws to stand, her

muscular form rises unashamed, her breath slow and unhurried as the shadows

return to her as if they had been merely awaiting the acceptance of Mother Night.

Each pools about her, concealing all that once was bare and weaves protectively

through her form. She crosses her forearms, athame clutched still in one hand as

she glides into the mists aside the sculpture.

You have emoted: Rancoura's hands clasp before her as she continues gazing upon

the frost-swathed manifestation, having risen and grown meditative in her

contemplation. Her attention is drawn away only by Salome's movements, watching

the shade-enveloped faeling with some thoughtfulness. "So shall our Hallowed

ever be honoured, within the walls of this Temple and without," she whispers,

her voice feathering through the air in the otherwise silence. "It is an honour

to delve into such rites with you, Lady Arcum."

Furiosa Salome Nightshade, the Sublime Aphotia rasps, "Until it is time to do so

once more, Lady Haruspex."

Salome bows her head simply, and takes one swirling, almost blurry step as if

pivoting. Instead her presence merely dissolves into a cold, glacial collections

of shadow that disperse from whence they came. The only memory of her lingering

is the perfume of dying roses that she leaves, and the cold bite of an unmelting,

eternal snow.

As Salome leaves to the south, the shadows shift and writhe in mute protest.

Rancoura · November 2018

[[ Salome's description ]]

She is a nimble shadowcaster faeling blood demigoddess changeling and is utterly

blackened by twisting, undying shadows that bleed a cloying, mesmerizing scent

of wyrden flora and fungi, laced with the underlying aroma of old death.

Unsoftened by such is the additional undercurrent of funerary headiness of dried

roses and hemlock balm that overwhelms and intimidates the senses. Visions of

moonless nights dancing in blurry frames of faceless bodies wander through the

shadows somewhere between past, present, and future. Her figure cuts a looming

shadow, taller than an elfen and belied with more grace than the common slaugh,

redcap, or korrigan. Divergent tendrils of shadow curl and caress about her bone-

white flesh which is drawn taut across zaftig, brutally refined features. While

each is finer than the last, it is the marbled sense of frozen untouched beauty

that truly epitomize the more savage visage of comeliness in her pupil-less

melanoid eyes. And those colourless eyes hold not even the twinkling light of

wayward stars, beneath shapely silver brows. Her hair is now but a cloud of

sterling viper-like locks streaked with the stygian shadows that pulse down her

skin, moving in and out in an eternal dance that is both ceaseless and haunting.

A small clutch of infant widow spiders crawl all along her form, spinning

filaments of prismatic webs. Wings as wide as those in crowform manifest with

spears of razor feathers sprout from her supine back in a violent burst of the

same milky silver of her hair. Each of those predator's wings house a dozen

clutches of dewey webs and white orb-weaver spiders that crawl and manifest

along her skin to form new strands even as she takes flight. Grand enough to

blot out the sun, her wingspan rivals some of the oldest of the Murder, her

silhouette when revealed from shadow dark enough to blot out the sun. Her face

is painted with dried blood, in the shape of wings spread wide. Ritual scarring

pulsing with mauve shadowflame course about her forearms, their turbid patterns

like splatters of ink punctured deep upon the flesh.

Voluminous waves frame her face in a crystallised mane of pure white, uncombed

and wild as the aslaran of the plains so oft are seen wearing theirs. Silver

tendrils snake throughout the feather-soft strands and petite snow blossoms peek

from within, their cold diamond centres reflecting fractal patterns upon the

velvety, alabaster petals that resemble wintry stars.

She is wearing:

an infested diadem of living briar chittering with beetles and spiders alike

atop her head

an ebon Night cameo warping with loving coils of shadow tendrils

a bracelet of woven thornbeast tendrils wrapped possessively about her left

wrist and middle finger

Wyrden Prayer Beads of the Lady of the Thorns dangling haphazardly along her

collarbone

a delicate forestal cloak of frayed silk bleeding into the aura of tortured

shadows around her

a living medal of thorned roses blossoming with new stygian petals at her

sternum

the Fingerblade of dha'Wyrden-cree digging into her razored obsidian nails.

[[ Rancoura's description ]]

She is a feathered trill nightwreathed demigoddess and is a demidivine of svelte

grace, guised with shadowy beauty as a nigh embodiment of the reigning darkness

itself, its ethereality reflected within every fluid movement. Skin paler and

more perfect than fresh-fallen snow is brushed with vague indigo hues, eternally

swathed in shadow and denying any attempt of the light to brush it. She stands

half again taller than her mortal kin and with perfect poise, her countenance

beautiful in its feminine refinement, surveying all with cool regard. The inky

blackness of immense, ephemeral wings cascade down her back in a fall of

otherworldly feathers, flowing ethereally about her form like an insubstantial,

adumbral cloak shifting in the slightest breath of air. Silken, atrous plumage

flows from the crest of her head as coalesced shadow; yet the ends move

sinuously through the air, as though searching for something unseen within her

aura, and bestowing upon her a vaguely unsettling, phantasmal air. Her

aesthetically stoic countenance is beset with striking eyes fluctuating betwixt

lazuline and violet hues, which while beautiful serve to enhance the frosted

nature of her mien. A wintry shadowfire flickers entrancingly within their

depths, intimating the traces of divine power within this daughter of Night's

being. Her skin shimmers faintly from a thin application of oil and smells

faintly of dragon's blood, deep and exotic.

She is wearing:

a phantasmal shroud of shadows woven about her neck

an elegant, fragile bracelet of threaded black crystal

a glittering, arm-wrapping spiral bracelet of stygian crystal

an aura of shadow surrounding her eyes

a black silk pouch adorned with curling silver filigree vines looped upon the

silver belt resting upon her hips

a silver-engraved black crystal ring of the Silent

a hallowed brooch of the Silent

a thin, delicate silver belt of the night

a translucent mark of the Silent One clasped to her silver belt

sensually elegant robes of a Night daughter

a blessed pendant of the Hallowed Dark resting against her breast

an ebon necklace bound with a shadowfire gem

a full-finger ring of woven, aphotic crystal threads

a feather-strung stygian satchel sewn of brushed spidersilk

the Fingerblade of dha'Wyrden-cree bound to the slender ring finger of her left

hand

a silver torc.

Dys · November 2018

Improvised? Wow, amazing!

Kalaneya · December 2018

YOU GUYS ARE AMAAAZING

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Honouring the Hallowed / Cleansing the Temple -- an improvised ritual

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