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Wreaths and Visions
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.
Slipping past
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
'hoom.'
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
bluebells grow.
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.
Comments
Spindly vines have been woven to create this stunning wreath, its small, delicate leaves sprouting outwards to shroud the complex knotwork in their latticework shadow. Fragrant amaranth blooms open their pristine white heads about the length of the wreath, lighting perfuming the air, while the polished, ashen faces of rune-inscribed bone shards peak from underneath, strung upon the vines. The entire ensemble is adorned with a festive silken ribbon, blood-red in honour of Solstice, which wounds about the wreath in eye-catching contrast.
You cross beneath the sculpted archways of the Palace of Prophets, gazing about the walls at the bountiful artwork displayed for all to see - the beatific visages of the Holy Emanations, the Three Fates, the sigils of the Great Houses, some paintings done by the y'Bolgari. A particularly lifelike landscape catches your eye, its canvas, however, bearing the signature of Vit n'Rotri, as you continue on. Hurrying on their errands for the Fatalists, people of various races pass you by and you ponder at the true amalgam of cultures to be found only in Magnagora in those bygone days - a diversity from which the best was chosen, and everything else discarded. A cheerful cry from below pulls your attention to a balcony overlooking the preparations about the gleaming Stone of Truth at the heart of the Palace. The air about it thrums with power and you, yourself, thrum with anticipation of the transformation that has been foretold and which brought you all here.
You stumble into a small plaza, dirt roads leading away in every cardinal direction. The unique smell of industry is gone, instead the air is fresh and carries the salty scent of the sea. Overhead, the sky is a pristine, halcyon azure, devoid of the smog and darkness that shrouds Magnagora and allows but only greyish rays of light to filter through the protective dome. A group of mugwump fishermen strolls past, carefree and joyous as they make it for the seaside. As the vision begins to fade, you briefly entertain the notion of longing for the brightness and ease of those days before Magnagora joined the Holy Celestine Empire, but as your sight clears, the reality that welcomes you back is magnificent beyond compare and you smile with satisfaction.
Your thoughts drift as the smell of amaranths lulls you into ruminations. You gaze at the pristine white petals, as silken and flawless as the white stone of the spring before you. Frezies of white marble carved with amaranth blossoms rise against the cathedral wall: a curving depiction of the Blessed Emanation Nifilhema, Queen of Illustrious Beauty, rises out of the flowers. Her hands are cupped in benediction, lips curved into a soft smile as tiny larks swirl about Her hands, their beaks open in trill praise of Her form. You close your eyes and inhale of the spring's fragrant waters and when you open them, the vision is no more leaving you wondering if such a spring still exists and what secrets it must hold now.
A merian woman strolls past, undeniably beautiful with her platinum scales and golden crests cascading to her shoulders. Her red robe trailing behind her, she floats by a group of ladies who point and whisper of how she turned down a proposal from the Emperor himself for her devotion to the church and spiritual needs of Magnagora had no equal. Their lilting whispered voices carry to where you stand as the gathering muses on how the teachings of Shallamar propelled the Empire into a spiritual renaissance and that Truth shall surely soon overshadow the teachings of Light, elevating Magnagora to usher the Basin into a new era. You snort with amusement at the irony which stirs you awake from the fleeting daydream.
A wisp of white smoke rises from silver-edged azure teaware, cloying the air with the delicate fragrance of cherry blossoms mixed with the refreshing sharpness of black tea. In the background, an irritated voice, his owner a man clad in the insignia of the House of Prophets. He paces about the study gesticulating fervently with the Magnagoran Chronicle in hand: "Optimistic and confident in this prophesy?" he mocks a piece of an article, "Is this a joke?". Those gathered in the room murmur their agreement and displeasure but uncertainty mars their features. There is too few of them to be heard, you realise, and the stakes are too high for the other side. "But the Verses..." a lilting voice offers in counterpoint but you are already gone, never having to contemplate a reality in which the Project would be cancelled.
A sudden ruckus pulls your attention to the side, a gathering of viscanti arguing in broad daylight at Atropos Plaza. You wade into their midst, instinctively recognising the white-clad and gold-embellished viscanti for their alliance to House y'Bolgari and their opponents in red and orange as the i'Xiia. Threats are made, demands set, they continue to bicker about y'Bolgari's gold mining rights in Angkrag until a d'Murani rushes into the plaza. The collected i'Xiia sneer but fall silent, respective of their status, and disperse while casting a handful of warnings over their shoulders. Curious, you turn your gaze back to the y'Bolgari but only one of them remains, sprawled in a widening pool of his own blood. The Bell-Tower rings for midnight in the distance, startling you from the shifting vision.
The scent of the sea wafts past and you turn to smell at the sudden freshness only to find yourself lost in a dark corridor. A sliver of light beckons to a doorway which you push as you step into a solarium overlooking the Crystal Sea. The waves mesmerise you briefly, the aquamarine waters a stark contrast to the tempestuous Sea of Despair. The murmuring of men pulls your attention from the sight and you witness a handful of mugwump mystics gathered in a circle in the middle of the room. Some are casting runes, some are meditating, while others pour over copious parchments. As if ensorcelled, you approach those with the papers, their like somehow familiar, and as you realise, your lips dry and breath held, that these are the Verses of Magnora... the vision casts you back out into the world violently, your curiosity unsated.
Ravenwood twigs have been twisted together into a vaguely circular wreath, the jagged ends of which
have been sharpened to dangerous, thorny points. Dozens of black berries, their skin decayed beyond
an edible range, collect on its protruding limbs like clusters of insect colonies, and the small
cobwebs that across the centre of the wreath act like an adhesive for rotting rose petals and
flaking bark.
As the scent of roses and spilt blood fills your nose, you glimpse an indistinct corridor in which a
golden-haired, green-eyed Goddess waits. In the shadows, a tattooed, scowling God waits, His eyes
glittering with feral, pleased focus. As the Goddess beckons a third figure forwards, a figure whose
eyes are lips are stained blue and whose eyes show nothing but lust, Her Brother descends from
behind, knife upraised and a feral grin on his lips. Blood splatters across your face, and the
laughter of the siblings echoes out as the vision fades.
A darkness tinged with red overwhelms your vision , and through this haze of shadows and blood, you
can vaguely make out the shapes of crooked trees rising in a perfect circle around a clearing. The
sounds of a whimpering animal reach your ears from somewhere in the clearing's centre, and your
predatory becomes sharpens into focus around one thought. As you charge forward, you hear the
satisfied chuckle of a powerful being. As you sink your weapon into the whimpering beast's side, you
know in your heart that you have passed His test.
Fingers stained with blood, you press the dark rose against the cocoon's skin, causing it to tremble,
glow, and eventually crack, spilling violet light from this open wound. Wider and wider the cocoon
breaks open, revealing the gargantuan creature, Mighty Crow, Mother Night, and the two Goddesses.
The trees around you spew darkness as the creature soars over the forest, consuming the omnious
brume with deep swallows; fine, mauve mist releases from its pores, blanketing the forest in a deep,
violet glow. In your ears, you hear a cacophony of fae: 'Fai! Fai! A wyrd has been created!' You
stare in exultant awe at the scene, knowing full and well that the course of history has changed.
Everything buzzes around you as you break into the Ethereal Realm, your skin thrumming with power
from the Coven's ritual. With each gesture you make, the shriek of the fae fills your ears like a
cruel symphony. 'D'or glom! D'or glom!' they say: leprechauns hiding behind pots of gold, willowisps
blinking dark. Mercy? They want mercy from you? A terrible laugh spills from your lips as you
squeeze out their essence. 'F'ai Glomdoring!' you shriek back. You have no mercy.
Estarra the Eternal says, "Give Shevat the floor please."
an eclectic wreath of odds and ends
Shaped in a circle, the wreath is formed with an exceedingly odd assortment of odds and ends. Pungent cactus weed has been woven as the base of the wreath, and decorated throughout are colourful scraps of ribbon tied in elaborate bows of various sizes. Affixed between the bows are tiny bells, bottle caps, diamond rings, wooden spoons and wakabi feathers. Despite the remarkably hodgepodge nature of the wreath, it is delightfully whimsical and can bring a smile to even the most taciturn of humbugs.
You laugh uproariously at the fool drenched in beer, banging your tankard upon the table in appreciation of the jester's antics. All around you, partygoers feast and drink upon a lavish spread set up in the shadow of the Great Pyramid. A rhythmic and flowing propulsion of bodies, stripped bare, made up a crowd of dancers, their sinuous movements drawing the eye of all nearby. Presiding over the feast, bloodshot eyes tearing with laughter, sits an armourclad Goddess with brilliant red hair.
You stand atop the Great Pyramid, blazing heat of the desert sun beating down upon a body glazed with sweat and dust. You gaze out over the sprawling metropolis of Gaudiguch; warm, russet hues of the city proper providing stark contrast to the brilliant gold of the pyramids. Even from this high vantage, the squealing laughter of children, the tribal beat of the drums, the roar of countless revelers floats upon the steady breeze. Eyes ablaze with Love and fervour, you clench your fist high in the air and proudly scream, 'For Freedom!'
The taste of liquor and bitter resins lingers on your tongue as the night gives way to dawn. From your perch atop the sand-eaten walls of Gaudiguch, you glimpse the shimmering of a vast, illusory market as it fades away with the stars into nothingness. Chants of victory and worship both rise from the city as you take a deep, dizzying drag from your long, ivory pipe. Curls of coppery smoke float upwards into the morning air as the sun begins its climb into the sky, and for a moment, you glimpse an alien sky through which something massive, something serpentine with star-riven black eyes, dances in the grasp of a crystalline sandstorm.
You lay on your back upon a low roof in the market, the scorching heat of day having finally given way to the gentle chill of the desert night. Though the shops and stalls have closed for the evening, there is still a steady murmur of voices and the soft sizzling of meat coming from below. Whiffs of a sweet incense or a pungent weed tickle your senses as small curls of smoke rise into the air. Far above, a pair of dragons twist and dance through the penumbral sky, their intricate synergy mesmerizing to behold.
You steadily pump at the ornate bellows, sending stream after stream of air rushing into the blazing forge. With each push, the flames flare and spark and shift colour, individual tendrils dancing through orange, to crimson, to emerald, to violet. Behind you, the deep *CLANG* *CLANG* of metal striking metal reverberates through your entire body. You pause for a moment to wipe the sweat from your brow and the flames change form... looking enticing, looking beautiful. You hurriedly begin working the bellows once more; there is no time for rest, there is still work to be done.
Turning the warm confection over in your hand, you glance over it with wonder and excitement. Hesitantly, you nibble at its edge, and are met not only with a warm spice, but also a delightful sweetness, a mixture of flavours not yet seen before. You hurry out of your kitchens, and rush over to a group of patiently waiting guests, who eye the tiny cookie with intrigue, and with a snap of your fingers, their plates are loaded with the treats and you step back, eyeing your creations with pride and joy. Your guests hesitantly dig in, but once the first crumb touches their tongue, they are drawn in by the bite, and they quickly devour the plate before them.
Seashells of pure white have been arranged into a star-shaped wreath. The outer seashells are spiral
shells pointing outwards and dusted with silver flakes. The inner rows are scalloped shells covered
in gold plate. Scattered about between the shells are tiny pearls that glitter with an inner
luminescence.
Visions:
Gripping the horned ridges of a dragon turtle's shell, you whoop with wild abandonment and delight.
A crash of shimmering elemental water causes you to duck and laugh, soaked by the crashing waters
but no more wet than you were before. You glance back and several more turtles race down the rapids
as well, those closest to you clinging to their shells, grinning. Looking forward, you whoop once
more, urging your companion forward, down the turbulent rapids of the Mystic River. This is a race
you intend to win.
Rippling, unending blackness washes across the ground about you, an endless nothingness painting
your surroundings, drinking in all colour and life and leaving naught but a pitiless and eternal
void that yawns into the infinite cosmos. A distant twinkle of light - far away, unfathomable in
distance, yet sparkling still. Within a moment a second blinks into existence, and then two more,
and then four. Ever-doubling, the pale pinpricks of light bring stars into the infinite nothing, and
the darkness becomes inviting and peaceful. A great star alights beneath your feet, shining and
resplendent, ten times the size of any other across the sky. It pulses twice before stilling, and
then thrice more. With a fluid quiver, the great star takes on the form of a brilliant woman of
starlight and, with her hands, pulls at the starlit night about you. With five great pulls the
darkness is all but gone, draped about the woman of light as though a shawl.'I am with you,'
whispers a voice, soft and feminine, piercing and eternal.'I am with you always. In your childhood
dreams I played alongside you, ever guarding them from fear. In your youth I challenged you, ever
urging you to grow. In your life I have loved you, as a mother loves her child. In your eternity
shall I embrace you, and ever shall your fair soul shine as a star upon my mantle.' Brushing one
fingertip across your breast, just over your heart, the Star Deva vanishes, though you know she is
never gone.
The soft chiming of a distant alto keens at the edge of hearing, gradually growing. A welling of
white light forms before you, angelic voices rising out of it from across the spectrum. One of the
figures takes shape, an elegant deva, her shining voice the source of the song. Soon, a tenor angel
joins her, his deeper voice underlying hers, entwining in harmony. One by one the figures become
clearer as their voices join the song, archangels, devas, and angels shining all about you as they
sing a wordless hymn to the Holy Supernals. At last, a piercing, powerful soprano voice joins the
choir, emanating from a swaying globe of brilliant white incandescence. At last the cherub takes
form, a rapturous smile etched across his face, as he begins to sing of the Holy Light and the
eternal beauty and happiness that wells in the very heart of Holy Celestia and the Lady of Eternal
Light.
The dulcet sounds of rhythmic chanting drifts up from behind you, carried on the same wind as the
tender scent of incense and sea salt. A gentle sensation upon your cheek causes you to open your
eyes, taking in the vast and white-capped Inner Sea as it stretches out before you, sprinkled with
small, gold-hued isles of sand and towering, wooden ships beneath broad, white canvas sails. Another
crash of the waves sends ocean spray upwards, caressing your face once more. A smile crosses your
face as the sounds and scents of the city below call at you once more.
The clear, clarion voice of a celestine priest startles you awake, singing the praise of the Holy
Light Eternal and Her Highest Servant. The fair-finned singer smiles at you as she passes you on the
shining streets of Celest, her lithe hand dropping a few shimmering coins beside you. You blink
twice, confused, gazing up at the towering spires of the Holy City, dwarfed only by the magnificence
of the Imperial Palace that pierces the sky in the distance. A cadre of Imperial Paladins pass you
in the street, and, taken aback by their dazzling, angelic wings, you find yourself only further
befuddled. Trying to get your bearings, you spin about, finally turning your eyes to the building
you'd been sleeping on the stoop of. 'The Emperor's Chalice Inn', reads the sign.
There are literally people walking around in Celest with angel wings and halos on their head. IRL, angels walking among us would be unheard of. So cool.