Best Of

You are dead, perhaps you should "Pray for Salvation".

You hear a soft song, as if of crooning, and you feel rocked in arms so gentle that you cannot move a muscle.
((Indeed, emoting gets locked.))

Colours blossom in your vision: a dot of red; a splash of green; soft, fragrant rivulets of yellow; indeed, every hue that you had imagined or could imagine, speeding towards the future.

At your ears, the sound of rustling trees bend to a light breeze, so cool and refreshing, which touches upon your body, your own body, that blossoms as if out of nothingness.

Your mana drains away as you concentrate on maintaining a link with the living.

You are aware of a soft touch of Divine fingers on your arm, and a light kiss upon your forehead, with the whisper, "Walk well, little one," before you are deposited on your feet at a crossroads.

At a crossroads.
You stand amidst a thick, almost impassable forest, towered over by the looming shadows of countless trees. The fading light of dusk spills unperturbed through the canopy, sending dappled patterns onto the ground below, which is covered in a low-lying carpet of delicate flowers. Running through the forest are several paths made of little more than dirt tracks where the trees break. Each of these paths extends off into the distance, extending so far that they seem to blur and become one with the horizon, their destinations impossible to discern.

You feel again before you see again: vines of silver and black flowers, thick and alive, coil slowly about your limbs, leaves tenderly brushing your face as grass tickles your palms to tingling life. Their fragrance is unlike anything you had smelled in your corporeal body: sweet, fresh, and invigorating, they stir something in the darkest recesses of your primordial memory.

Spirits dance in the spaces around you, their shapes wisps of energy given form beneath the eternal radiance of Mother Moon's pale light. For her power saturates this space, too, here in [--redacted--]. Your soul yearns to join in their games, to walk the steps it recognises though you know not how, but it must heal first, and so you rest in the solace and quietude of the obfuscating mists.

Neither distressing your respite nor allowing you to continue abiding it, an enchanting and timeless melody, laden with ancient and ethereal power, sings to you. "Return to Me. Return to Me. Zyaifa, zyaifa, return to Me." You understand the source immediately - you know that She calls you home.

How can you deny Her your awakening? Though your eyes have been opened, they somehow open once again, and you find yourself standing whole, Her blessings knit through your blood and bones, your flesh and breath. Then, shrouded in a lunar light too bright to see through, the Silver Goddess touches your cheek, suffusing you with a rush of power and energy - Her energy. The coolness of Her fingertips lingers even after She dissipates into a cloud of mooncloak butterflies, as does the watchfulness of Her two luminous eyes.

Within a moonlit tangle.
Mists spill with abandon into a thicket of vines and trees bursting from the earth in an irrepressible explosion of life. Infusing the air with their floral and clean perfume, clusters of pale blossoms adorn the tangled foliage, heavy heads bowing with exquisite splendour toward the mosses and ferns cushioning the land underfoot. Phantom shapes dart in and out of view - fae and mortal alike - basking in the moonlight which pierces the canopy above, bathing everything below in shafts of sparkling silver. Time sleeps in quiescence here, arrested in depthless, eternal night despite its natural passage without.