(In the Age of the Godkind Men) - 25 Caën ot’Thir, 614 (Restored)

Behind her, the russet tom gives an aggrieved mew as the sharp cry of an osprey filters into the room. Momentarily resigning her undertaking, Jisreen glances about to find that the abating morning has begun to darken. She crosses the room to run a comforting hand over the tom’s soft fur, sighing as she peers through the fenestra’s glazing. “Rain,” she quietly attests, unlatching a pane and opening it marginally to draw in the scent of the approaching deluge. For a small measure, she looks out over the expanse of natural glory which unfolds before her. The northern division of the palace grounds alone are comprised of a number of components—among them a granodiorite terrace whose highlights are elaborately crafted mosaic fountains and marble statues, a sprawling garden of vivid and multi-hued bloom, and a terrifying maze of extravagant proportion. Leaning forward slightly, Jisreen expels a hard breath as she takes in a scene that is nothing short of nightmarish.

Quitting her rooms then the palace as hurriedly as its size and her speed will allow, she makes her way toward the Tragic Maze. Under the gray light of the now heavily overcast sky, she comes alongside the perplexity’s widest lane. Long ago styled its Path of Mourning, the arched hedgerow which adorns the maze’s southernmost entrance towers over those gathered before it, casting them in despondent shadow. Some, these frightened nobles and anxious servants, cling to lighted torches. Others, these palace guards and armored knights, cling to swords. Yet others—these the flaxen haired, violet eyed Consigned Fierce Maidens knowns as the Ǣlferen, and the white haired, storm eyed knighted Windstrikers called the Sylferen—cling to enchanted blades which vary in scope and size. Yet more—these the fey and jade eyed mystic Wielders of the Natural Force who collectively are Ǣilfrin z’th Caën—murmur quiet appeals to any god or goddess with an ear to listen.

“The Duchess Lyria and the priestess Dryta have been drawn into the maze,” an accented voice apprises Jisreen.

Nodding, she moves to stand before Wintus. “Follow, but not closely.”

Planted decennia ago by an Ǣilfrin Good Woman, given up of the specter of virgin priestess hood in favor of ascending Ana’s seat—then later transformed, by that same Good Woman’s grief and torment and despair, into a sentient, malevolent thing, unnavigable in its complexity—the maze, welcomes her as she enters. The hedges sway and dance and two thick tendrils of wisteria snake their way towards her, blooming mid-slither. They rear up to coil themselves forbiddingly, and all the while, those lavender blooms seethe in purple delight, shaking themselves at her until the sound of petal striking petal becomes akin to a knell which tolls merely for the pleasure of Jisreen’s impending death.

‹ Ĕlī’īr! › Jisreen cries in Ă’shvĕlsūrin, sweeping her left hand widely—the bronze bands upon her wrist resonating their own brightly lit distinction in response to her use of that brand of spellcraft—and for a good fifty meters the mass of livid life which has raised itself against her is instantly incinerated, leaving nothing more than ash and dust to sway upon the stiffening breeze. At even that small expenditure of her darkly Sourced abilities, she feels the gorge rise into her throat and she clenches her teeth in aversion of the bitter bile.

“Jisreen—”

‹ Fîéūn, › she utters, ignoring her lover and clasping her hands together in a supplicant pose, one reminiscent of entreaty to some singular deity. ‹ Î’tūl, › she invokes, extending her arms, palms still pressed firmly together, and flinging her limbs wide, exerts, ‹ Ĕlī’īr! ›

Power courses from the tribeswoman in a severe arc and those standing in silent sentry behind her reel backwards at such possibility, their meager perceptions overwhelmed. Swallowing with difficulty, lissome form trembling, she watches with a grim sort of determination as, for a space of nigh on two hundred meters, the malignant life attempting to hold them hostage to its will disintegrates and the earth from which it has been drawing its sustenance becomes scorched and turns scarred. Thrice again she casts the spell before attaining the heart, by then her body is a mass of nerves stretched much too thinly. Racked by uncontrollable tremors, she falls to her hands and knees and retches, great heaves which leave her yearning for the privacy of her bedchamber and a pot.

Shaking her head impatiently at the inane want, Jisreen asks at large, “Do they live?”

“Aye,” Eran Alamide responds, having been drawn into the tableaux by its reaching commotion.

“Though, the priestess Dryta—” falters one of the azure eyed mystic’s kindred Sisters. “Her coloring—”

Rising, Jisreen staggers toward that inert form. “Gods,” she whispers, for normally the younger woman’s complexion is but a few shades lighter than the dusky set of Jisreen’s own. Is this, then, the Harvester’s hand upon you?

Sinking gracelessly to her knees beside the pale, bruised and bloodied Ǣilfr, the tribeswoman reaches a shaking hand to press a thumb to the priestess’s forehead. Cold sweat dampening her chemise and staining her gown, Jisreen allows her essence to fracture. Quickly propelling a portion of her spirit across the confluence between realms generated by but one of the priestess Dryta’s many mystical Rights, she crosses into the fourth realm. A brilliant noonday sun greets her shard as it takes shape within that otherworldly plane known as the Lea at the Core. Slowly, painfully, Jisreen’s metaphysical sight accustoms itself to the radiant light and she takes in the expansive lea, which is at once familiar—for its similitude to that majestic wonder, that Living Garden, which stretches from the foothills of the Andivans—and strange, for copious within the lea are spectral, metamorphic insects.

How fragile the pneuma of mortals.

In the distance, a dark wood rises almost unnaturally to border the bloomed stretch, an achingly beautiful wood of monstrous evergreens. She takes a step in the direction of the wood, drawing short as an osprey swoops into her line of sight then wings off with a series of piercing trills in an opposing direction. Heart pounding fiercely with the sense of having averted tremendous folly, Jisreen turns from the Depths of Death, and follows the Ever Anagar’s lead. The midday sun a bright and ever fixed constant, she walks for mere minutes or perhaps endless days or simple hours—time seeming to hold no real sway in this realm—before eventually coming upon the Temple Abode of the one called Gift Giver. Scaling its wide, well-crafted, highly polished steps, Jisreen drops to one knee at the temple’s threshold and tenders the goddess a devotion.

The gentle aromas of honeysuckle and passionflower, along with crisp traces of dried rosemary and heather—bundles which slowly smolder from the shallow abysses of splendidly worked copper basins—buffet her as she becomes ensconced by the temple’s massive, ivy covered walls—ivy so iridescent that it effectively chases away every shadow, every possible pocket of darkness that a fugitive Glomenen or Shade might have thought to take as residence. The considerable effigy of Tala, Goddess of the Surging Seas, looks down upon Jisreen as she approaches the altar set before its immense feet and dropping again to a single knee, the tribeswoman tenders the divinity another devotion.

~ So you have come to impose your will, ~ this from the esoteric variant taking refuge within the temple. ~ You dare too much. ~

~ I feared you overcome, ~ Jisreen delicately concedes, her voice boasting the same peculiar tonality as the variant’s, giving it a muted yet resonating timbre.

~ Know you my end? ~

~ Nay, ~ Jisreen softly grants.

~ Know you yours? ~

~ Nay, ~ Jisreen tacitly accepts.

~ What use Destiny if those uncommonly Prescient know all? ~ the priestess reflects, stepping into view.

An ethereal quality clings to the forlorn figure, sheathed as she is in the cheerless garb of the Ǣilfr Ǣlaÿn—a gown of a neutral hue cut with no waist emphasis, adorned simply by pleats which fall from its draped neckline and rows of wooden buttons which line its tight sleeves from elbow to deep cuff, all overlaid by a long, grey, rectangular veil of chainsil that is secured upon her crown by an unadorned band. Too, rather than their usual, resplendent azure, her eyes are murky opals—black and haunting, they are filled with a wrenching sorrow.

~ Skirt the base, ~ the priestess instructs, removing a small pewter vessel from the altar.

Rounding the Gift Giver’s likeness, Jisreen comes to the edge of a large reservoir whose waters rest so still they call to mind a looking glass.

Now alongside her, the Ǣilfr bends to ladle a few sips of the mere’s mercury like drink into the small dish—and despite the act, not so much as a single ripple disturbs the surface. ~ The drink will quieten the ill-effects borne of your use of Source Magic. ~

The scent of caraway seeds wreathes around Jisreen, teasing her senses, as she accepts the offering and brings the vessel to her lips. Though the water is bracing, it settles coolly within her principal core, carrying none of the burn associated with those waters of life, those vitriolic cordials, brewed by mortal men. Turning, her gaze alights upon Tala’s semblence.

~ She has abandoned the realms, ~ the priestess musingly expresses, and though uttered in a gentle tone, her words echo stridently about the temple, rising, only to perish against the vaulted ceiling. ~ This and the eighth. ~ With that, the Ǣilfr lowers herself to sit beside the unnaturally still waters of the paradigm, and resting the weight of her upper body upon a stiffened arm, leans slightly forward to ponder its peculiar depths.

Restoring herself within the Elemental Realm, Jisreen rests back upon her heels and, with a weary sigh, says faintly to the Ǣilfr gathered so concernedly about their unconventional Sister, “She dwells in sanctum.” A burdensome rain begins to fall in response to her consolation. Yet, the blasphemies that suddenly seethe upon her palate dwindle away unuttered, for as the Weather Mavens—those contentious sprites—gather their strength, a rapidly paced metallic refrain draws her gaze to the object still curiously, still benevolently cradled in her left palm.