If the winter had suffered Delumine a kiss, then Veneror was the recipient of a passionate embrace. Snow lay thick and frigid upon the marble expanse of the cathedral, each frozen surface glittering with thousands of crystallized molecules. The sun did little to promote warmth amid the icy earthbound realm, serving only to cause a searingly bright reflection to burn its way into the eyes of any creatures unfortunate enough not to squint or avert their eyes.
One such creature was making her way toward the precipice, golden eyes shining rebelliously back at the glistening snowfall. Llewelyn refused to look down as she moved, not from practicality, but from plain principle; what sort of woman walked with her head bowed, eyes downcast, cowed by the world around her? A shameful sort. For while the mare adhered to her own strict code of femininity and ladylike behavior, there was nothing in that code that held the gentler sex as anything but powerful.
After all, it took a lot of time, energy, and patience to deal with a constant string of expectations and maintain one’s composure with such practiced effortlessness, did it not?
So she strode onward, posture upright and movements impeccably measured, her favored emerald cloak draped elegantly over slim shoulders. Throughout her travels, Llewelyn had taken pains to prevent the shining tresses that hung from her flexible tail from dragging through the snow or from taking on any unwanted passengers. As the mountain breeze ran freezing fingers through the hairs, she was thankful for her efforts, noting how wretched it would be to have one’s tail laden with icicles and twigs.
Entering through the brilliantly carved doorway and into the dim innards of the cathedral, Llewelyn allowed herself a short pause as her vision adjusted to the candlelit interior. Candles and statues of each god and a few saints peppered nearly every surface while tapestries and paintings reigned over the wall space. It smelled of different offerings left by the children of each nation - Honeysuckle and citrus for Dawn, cinnamon and cardamom for Day, lavender and clove for Dusk, and jasmine and primrose for Night.
And yet...
Beyond the melted beeswax scent of the candles and the always-present musty smell that accompanied old buildings, there lingered an acrid aroma. It wasn’t overwhelming, but after noticing it, Llewelyn couldn’t seem to get it out of her head. It was distracting, that smell... Like over cooked meat and charred bone. She wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips, stomach souring as she realized that in all of her visits to the mountaintop citadel through the years, it had never smelled any different.
What did it mean that now there was change?
Of course, she knew of the nonsense that occurred between the Courts of Day and Night - their cliche rivalry had been all the talk between the commoners and courtiers alike while it had lasted; Maxence vanishing in battle, a Warlord Queen taking over, blood baths and a coup from some silvery stallion who fancied himself a Raven or some such idiocy. Indeed, she had keenly listened in on every whisper or thimbleful of information she could get.
But what else had changed when the world was watching the sun claw at the moon?
What did it mean that Llewelyn didn’t know if she wanted to find out?
Elchanan is not sure what, exactly, he is looking for.
Even if he did, trying to find it would be an exercise in becoming overwhelmed.
Delumine’s library is the largest in all of Novus. Someone had told him this - it was, truthfully, the only reason he had altered his recent pattern of getting piss-drunk at night in the Denoctian streets and sleeping away his hangover into the afternoon - but the mere description could not have begun to prepare him.
The forest begins to narrow, and to show its age. He is walking slowly through Viride, the sun (thankfully) distracted somewhat by the webbing of leaves above so that it cannot be bothered to singe him. Frost crunches underfoot, beginning to refreeze as the day wanes. Small lanterns smile from the boughs. Anyway, it is almost dusk. How worried can he be? What light does shine through is bloody with sunset, as dead as it is warm. It has lost its bite.
Now he is in charge.
The ground turns from dirt to wood, the path inlaid with spirals of knobbed, gnarly tree roots: overhead the branches on either side of the road start to knit themselves together into a kind of roof: suddenly it splits into a cavernous circle, and Elchanan stops short to observe what must be the center of Delumine’s infamous library.
Small canine things scutter across the floor, appearing and disappearing from tunnels cut into the hard dirt. Scholars in green robes and eyeglasses drift quickly from aisle to aisle. (Elchanan presses himself, somewhat irritably, against the wall where the light does not hit so hard.) Intricately woven silk and canvas rugs line the floor, as do thickly knit blankets and pillows.Bookcases sweep from floor to ceiling, stacked with perfectly-organized gluts of scrolls, diagrams and hardback novels. Elchanan has never been too enthusiastic a student, but even he is unwillingly awed by the sheer volume of information.
He realizes, somewhat miserably, that even his homeland must have a story written about it here.
One of the little fox-things runs past him. Or tries to - Elchanan abruptly extends a limb into its path, and, as planned, it stops, though not without a hearty glare from its position crouched against the floor. Ugly thing, he mumbles to himself almost inaudibly, and then, to it, with a fakely cheerful smile, he asks, Where are your international scrolls?
It whips a tail toward a hallway to their right, and as soon as Elchanan turns to look, tears away and into the nearest tunnel.
Rat, he says dismissively, watching it flatten itself into the hole and disappear. A Deluminian overhears and gives him bitter side-eye.
Elchanan merely shrugs, and slinks in what might be the right direction.
The Night Court marketplace is alive with free spirits roaming the jovial streets as cobblestoned pathways are lined with merchants and entertainers alike. The night is young, and the parties are only just now getting started; a small festival in honor of Caligo is being held beneath the watchful eye of a full moon, its subdued shine gleaming down on those gathered below to celebrate. And oh, how they all flooded in and around and between, clogging up the paths to the wares and the rings that have formed around the dancers and fire breathers, musicians and fortunetellers. The performers put on quite a show for their audience, laughing and smiling at the eyes that glitter, the haughty, happy sounds pouring from those that are enthralled; children race each other to the next booth, painted faces turning them into something--someone--else. Their parents do their best to keep sights upon them, but they are not concerned, for what, really, goes wrong during such innocent festivities?
And he is there too, the magician with a body that glows brighter than any lit torch as he burns from the inside out, the center of attention with his magic tricks; and though he might have had some hidden reserve for engaging with so many others all at once--so much clamoring and shouting in awe--his introverted heart is soft that night as he appeased the guests with, perhaps, some cards and doves and even a dragon or two as they floated down to play. The atmosphere is warm as a summer's eve, fireworks shooting to bring color to the world, the clamorous and jubilant haze wrapping their way around all except for one...
One who has eyes for not just Azrael, but the necklace around his nape that twinkled against his light.
It all happens in a blur between the excessive activities: the small figure dashes through the crowd and snatches the chain right from the magician's neck, not stopping for a moment before disappearing down an alleyway. When Azrael notices (whether it was mere seconds or several minutes that brushed past him) he must excuse himself from his performance and track down the thief. An inkling of a feeling will drip into his consciousness that points him in the right direction, but he'll find himself faced with a challenge; the alleyway the slippery criminal went down splits into three side paths, and it's up to him to decide which to go through.
The necklace the robber possesses was imbued with magic as they ran (they can sell it for a pretty penny) and it now glows as determinedly as Azrael's own body. Will he recognize the radiance and find the thief, reclaiming what is rightfully his?
@Azrael will be in the middle of some performance--the details are up to you--when from a crowd a stranger springs forth and steals the necklace from right around his neck! Azrael will have mere seconds to excuse himself from his audience and confront the thief--but will he be able to find him again? But somewhere down an alleyway, a subtle blue glow is emanating, drawing him forward into the dark.
If he does, he may find that his necklace is not quite the same as it was only moments before...
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When Neverland had collapsed in on itself, Asha had come out the other side of that strange black hole alone in someplace entirely unfamiliar. No Rufio, let alone anyone else that she recognized. Only the faces of so many strangers and the facades of abounding new lands. Towns and cities with walls that surrounded them and reached for the skies, that she wandered, searching. She didn't know this place, didn’t know what it was called, but she knew one thing for certain.
Without Rufio at her side, the hyena felt almost restless. She trusted nobody the way she did Rufio, the way she'd given him her loyalty. But, something was there, perhaps the same way it would blossom inside her companion, wherever it was on the world that he walked. It was a magnetic pull, a sort of otherworldly beckoning, causing her to walk almost unknowingly on a path directly toward him. How he might find his feet carrying him toward that land in the northern portion of Novus; Eluetheria Plains, mirroring her own.
She crossed over cliffs, through swamps, meadows and water, into a forest. The same as he might walk through sand covered streets and sun-bathed desert, unwittingly, without thought, toward his bonded. Something changed, when Asha took the first step out of the forest and into plains with grasses so high they brushed across her head when she walked. And Rufio, too, drawn by some invisible thread, might step into the same prairie swaying in the breeze.
Something inside her changed. It was as though the Hyena could feel him, although she couldn't see him. Was it possible that he was nearby, just outside her line of sight? Over some hill, beyond a thicket of grasses? "Rufio? she searched for him with her mind, hoping that he could hear her. Hoping that whatever the feeling was that was inside her was also inside him. Guiding him along the same unseen path that would lead them directly to each other, reuniting them.
Asha moved more quickly through the winter-dry grasses, rustling, rustling, following the feeling in her heart that told her Rufio was nearby. Could he feel it too, the strengthening of their connection now that they were almost together again? Could he hear her calling to him, reaching out for him? All she had to do was find him, or him find her. All the seconds that Asha searched, she hoped to see a streak of red and black and gold in the sea of brittle brown surrounding her.
@Rufio will be drawn by some invisible pull away from the deserts of Solterra, and into the golden sea of grass that makes up Eluetheria Plains. Should he follow his instincts and step into the plains, where the grass grows tall and thick and bends like waves in the wind, he may become aware of a voice, whispering in the back of his mind, growing louder. A voice he recognizes, that he wasn't sure he would ever hear again.
At that point, it is only a matter of finding his Bonded as she calls out to him.
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This quest was written by the lovely Katherine. <3
but I'm more than just a little curious
how you're planning to go about making your amends
to the dead
There was an attic within the Scarab, but none of the workers knew of it. Save one, and it was his.
When the Scarab had first been built, the attic had been quite glaringly obvious. A single door set into the right wall of one of the rooms located within the towers. It was the only room built as far from the center of the Scarab as possible, far from the din of the Room and lucrative whispers of the Lounge, and Vikander had claimed it as his own immediately upon completion. No one knew of the attic. No one needed to know.
The door was sealed and hidden behind one of his many glamors, the enchantment hiding the door behind the facade of a solid wall. He had then shoved one of his worktables against it, knowing that no one would see through the ruse. It was impossible. Only he knew of its existence, and for years, when the darkness of his mind became too much, Vikander would lock his door, push the worktable aside, and spend his evenings in the attic.
Beyond the door and immediately to the left was a single set of narrow stone steps ascending upwards, curving around to the left at the top to reveal an open, empty room roughly the size of the chamber directly beneath it. The ceiling was low and dome shaped. There were no windows. Sunlight did not penetrate here, and the only light came from the four unlit candelabra within the room, one in each corner. The room itself was ice cold, even in the hottest of summer months.
Two mounds, one large and one small, rested within the center of the room, covered entirely with expensive black silk. They were situated an equal distance apart by exactly five feet. No one knew they were there, and for years that was where they remained. Until now.
Vikander was shaking. Sweat ran in rivulets down his brow, stinging his eyes. His heart was a tight mess of anxiety and hope within his chest, threatening to burst and cripple him. The tower halls of the Scarab were silent, the hour well past three. Those of sane and sound mind were sleeping, but he, well… It was no secret that he was neither sane nor sound.
Madness drove him. Oh, but its grip was tight, talons digging into his brain and manipulating him like a macabre marionette, the strings dripping ichor and sickness from the puppeteer; from the very hand of Death himself. He did not fight it. Instead, he willingly let it swallow him, the insanity causing his mind to race and his thoughts to scatter. Never had he seen more clearly.
Piece by piece he collected his wares, his movements quick and frantic but handling each item like they were a precious, delicate treasure. At this point they were. Nothing else mattered except these. Without these he had nothing.
The required items and components packed in his satchel, Vikander turned towards the door to his room and gave it a long look. He could not risk anyone finding him, not now. They could not know. Tomorrow he would face the consequences of his actions, should this work. Locking the door in a quick action, the warlock moved to the right wall and shoved the worktable aside, the wood squealing against the floor. He ignored it, and reached out to touch the secret door. The glamour immediately dropped and the door slowly creaked open, and Vikander made one final check to ensure he had everything before passing through. He shut the door behind him and then hurried up the stairs, his hooves scraping against the narrow stairs.
Turning to the left upon reaching the top, Vikander exhaled, his breath visible in frigid vapor as it escaped his lips. The sweat upon him immediately began to cool, causing his trembling to intensify. The room was dark and he could hardly see directly in front of his face, but it took no time at all to draw a candle from his bag and light it with a flint and tinder. Meticulously he went to each corner of the room and lit each candelabra and then turned towards the two mounds within the center of the room.
Ice blue eyes did not even look at them. Instead he removed the satchel from around his neck and meticulously began to pull out every item.
First, the incense. Mixed sticks of bay laurel, cedar, sandalwood, and bayberry were removed, positioned throughout the room in an exact circle, and then lit. Wreaths of holly and mistletoe wrapped securely around sprigs of sandalwood were situated around each stick of incense. Next, upon each veil of black silk covering the still figures, a single periwinkle flower was placed.
Vikander removed the three gemstone flowers he had collected from the Steppe, situating them in a triangle shape around the circle he was working in. Their magic was faint but had remained, and he breathed in deep upon a shuddering breath, nearly tasting the pungent incense that was beginning to waft through the frigid air.
From there he sprinkled the ground concoction of bone marrow, ancient soil, and birch around the circumference of the circle in a solid line. As he did so the temperature seemed to drop, and the warlock shivered once more in the cold, but he knew the low temperature was not the only reason.
Already he could feel them. That was how he knew that he was ready. The spirits lingered, drawn by the offerings he was preparing. Each component had its part to play, and luring the spirits from their wanderings was only a piece of the puzzle. He could feel the lost souls watching him work, staring at him through blank, empty eyes. They weren’t there, not that he could visually see, but Vikander knew that they were there just as well as he knew that up was up and down was down.
Completing the circle, the Friesian began muttering to himself, the rasp of his whispers echoing back at him upon the empty walls. He pulled out four candles and set them up in the cardinal directions of the circles; north, south, east, west, and then lit them. The souls surrounding him were even more intrigued, and he could feel them growing closer. Grasping the satchel with his teeth, the warlock tossed it out of the circle and then stepped between the two mounds, heaving on suddenly thin air.
Ice blue eyes closed, the mantle of oiled black curls shrouding him like a veil. Vikander lowered his head, breathing heavily, his mind racing.
Please… Please…
The sound of pulse pounding in his ears was the only thing he heard, save for the horrendous gasps of air he took. It pounded in his ears and threatened to break his concentration, but he could not falter. Not this time. He wouldn’t survive it. Pulling out his book of spells, Vikander opened it up and rested it on the floor just in front of his hooves, flipped it open to a certain page, and then began to read.
The words were ancient and guttural, the language foreign and rough on his voice, but they were laced with incredible power. The energy picked up, the flames on the candles around the circle swaying as a cold breeze began to dance through the room. The four candelabra in the corners of the room outside of the circle were oddly unbothered. His skin prickled but the warlock continued to read, the frantic beat of his heart continuing to increase, faster, faster, faster...
The energy swelled up and tousled his hair with a mighty gust, seeming to kick up the components and blow out the four candles without a single issue. Only the light from the outside candelabra remained, casting the attic in a dim glow. The components came to rest in a thin dusting upon the smallest shape beneath the black silk, where the single periwinkle flower remained, untouched.
Vikander held his breath, his eyes widening, mouth parted as large breaths heaved from his lungs. The air remained cold from years worth of enchanting, but breathing came easier. Still, he could not rip his eyes away from the small shape in the room, hope and heartbreak battling for victory. A single word croaked out, unbidden, from the Friesian’s suddenly exhausted body. A name;
It is the first time in a long time that Bexley is completely free, and the feeling is not, in the slightest, enjoyable.
She is free of responsibilities, and of torture, and of the way it felt to be part of something, and, too, free of love, free of desire, free of living-will, of blood: as the night closes in on her, both literally and figuratively, she finds herself free of purpose and is not sure what to say about it.
So what is left?
The sand has turned to a soft, liquid blue under the gaze of a dark and watchful night sky. Stars wink vaguely in the hard distance. In the not-light the dunes and the clouds melt into each other like so many braided ribbons. Bexley’s mouth is crusted with iron and salt. She wonders vaguely who or what is watching, if anything, and if it would be better to be ignorant of whatever does exist to punish. Only to punish.
Dear God, I hate you.
Her ribs are slatted and gaunt, too visible: her hips jut outward slightly: the ends of her usually pure-white hair are tinged with soot from a recent and particularly unpleasant visit to the markets. Dark circles bludgeon the skin under her eyes. A small pale sun bobs up and down at her side, fastidiously enthusiastic, and washes the path toward the Arma Mountains in thin rings of light. Bexley follows it with dead-eyed certainty.
Trees bristle hard against a deep-blue sky. A low wind moans against the rocks and the wood, bites and scrapes at the ex-regent’s skin. She locks her jaw against the chill. And from miles away, beyond the edge of the horizon, the sound of the cold, bright ocean crashing against the rocks mingles with the sound of a Denoctian horn announcing the arrival of the dawn and makes all the noise that announces something new, and Bexley’s heart slurs its beat in her chest until she cannot be sure whether she is alive or dead.
One moment, he is stepping into a magic circle on the forest floor, drawn in red ink that gleams like licks of flame. The next-
He’s falling.
For Septimus, that is an unusual sensation, to say the least. It isn’t as though he doesn’t have wings, and, though he seems to spend far more time on the ground than in the air, he certainly knows how to use them. He is flipped on his back, wings trailing up at his sides, and it strikes him, as he stares up at the dull gleam of pink-orange light through the cloud cover, that it is a very beautiful sunrise, inhibited as it is by the clouds. This is followed immediately by the observation that he is falling down toward spirits-know-what at a significant enough speed to break his spine should he crash, and he should likely catch himself before that becomes a problem. (The situation is too sudden for his sense of urgency or panic to kick in.)
His wings snap out – great, birdlike things, struggling against the buffet of cold currents –, and he writhes in the air, fighting the wind to flip himself over. His hooves paw at air, but he manages to turn onto his stomach, and, though he wobbles for a moment, wholly disoriented, tangles of mane flying in his face, he manages to straighten out, blinking at the landscape. He is flying above the sea. (And, silently, he thanks the steady fastenings on his satchel; if his materials had fallen into the water, there would be no fishing them out. And he’d been clever enough to leave his glasses in his bag while travelling – one too many close calls with cracked lenses had taught him the virtue of precaution.) Below him, the water is frothing and dark, and, above him, the sky is overcast – he smells rain in the distance. To the west, he thinks that he can make out the shape of dark, rocky cliffs rising from the sea. His wings shift, and he banks towards land.
By the time Septimus lights on the edge of a great, frost-crusted prairie, his wings are aching from the strong sea winds, and, though sweat runs rivulets down his sides – tangling in his dark fur and plastering his mane to his neck, mingled with sea-foam and salt – he is shaking from the cold, teeth chattering incessantly. Wherever he’s landed, it seems like it is in their equivalent of winter. (Or perhaps this is a land where it was always cold; he’d been to a few of those before.) Well. A few quick spells, and he’ll reorient himself and be on his way, though he thinks that perhaps he’ll explore a while first. It all depends on where he’s landed. He shakes his head, and pulls his satchel off, grimacing at the damp leather; his notebooks have remained blissfully dry in spite of it all, however, and he is soon flipping through his most recent one, frowning at the spell that brought him here.
A mistake with the coordinates. Of course. Well, never matter. Where is that navigation spell he spent so long on? He dog-eared it…
(He’s dog-eared half of the pages in his notebook.)
After a moment of fruitless searching, he realizes that he is looking through the wrong notebook and replaces it with another. And there it is, just a few yellowed pages in. (Goodness, how many years ago had he written it?) He closes his eyes, focuses on his earrings, and murmurs the words – just as he always does.
Nothing happens. Septimus’s eyes snap open, gleaming bright green, and he feels a sudden jolt of ice run down his limbs, quick and rattling as a jolt of electricity. He grimaces and tries again.
Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing…
And worse, he feels nothing. It is as though half of his bloodline has gone horribly silent, his fae-blood dormant and cold inside of his soul – his earrings feel dead, and he feels…
…mortal.
This revelation is processed dully, like the distant throb of a gaping wound; he immediately reassures himself that this can be righted, he needs only find the solution, and perhaps he is simply drained from that transportation spell anyways. (Though the aching silence says otherwise; his magic has always been so loud.) He stares up at the sunrise, barely visible through the clouds save for a dull hint of pastel at their furthest, palest edges. He needs to figure out where he is. And hope that the native population isn’t hostile. That should be his first order of business, shouldn’t it? But, for the moment, he is frozen in place, shell-shocked and freezing, unable to do anything more than stare at the sunrise and attempt to appreciate it. “It seems,” he observes, unable to suppress a shudder of melancholy and sudden nausea, “that I have made a miscalculation.”
home is behind the world ahead
there are many paths to tread
The borders of his own Court were closed - but he supposed those rules did not truly apply to him. After all, Somnus had sent him away once before, had asked him to be his eyes and ears both inside and outside of Delumine. Oh, how Toulouse had bit the inside of one cheek and willed himself not to laugh in the King’s face during that meeting, how he had begged his tongue to not give away his secrets so readily. He did not need Somnus to find out that he was the man that needed watching, not the harmless citizens he’d been charged with.
Not yet, at least.
Sooner or later he supposed it all would come out, and his time in Novus would come to an end. It was the way of his life, after all; if he never left a world, he’d never get a chance to explore the next. But each time, he was determined to suck the marrow out of every “home” he made before making an overdue exit. His flair for the dramatic knew no limits, truly.
The memory of his first - and last - visit to Terrastella floats idly through his mind. It had been nearly a year since then, when the sinkholes had devastated the land and their goddess had all but laughed in their face for it. Everyone had been so serious then, and so angry. Not that Toulouse blamed them for it, but it had been his first interaction with Novus’ southwestern residents, and the experience had left a sour taste in his mouth.
But now, it was a much different Terrastella that greeted him.
He arrived in the evening, but it was as bright as day in the capitol. Bonfires sprinkled the court like stars, with lanterns and candles alike illuminating the space between them.
With all the tensions spread out across the rest of Novus, it was strangely surreal to find one Court seemingly having a party in spite of it all - but Toulouse wasn’t one to frown at the festivities.
A glass of wine floats along his side, as deep a red as the fabric hanging along his sides, as he drifts down the halls of the capitol. He can hear laughter and music drifting in through the windows, the courtyard outside lively and bright. But for now only his own hoofbeats fill the corridor, and the whisper of his scarves as the wind catches them.
Toulouse is content to let trouble find him tonight. He's a strange man in a strange Court, with only a handful of names in his pocket.
But a woman catches his eye, leaning against the divider that separates the corridor from the courtyard. There's a tension in the way she stands, something beautifully tragic in her expression. And her color of her skin matches the hue of his blood.
Without stopping to question himself - to wonder whether or not it was a caged tiger he was about to poke, a woman wanting some time alone - he changes direction.
"Why so sad?" his voice is a murmur as he settles himself beside her at the window. "It's a party, you know."
@Moira
better late than never?!
this should be
interesting <3
Deep, deep in Delumine’s frosted wood, sits a small bird upon a white tree limb. It sings and chirps, the only song in this most silent of places. The world here, with winter weaving through the land, is painted in white and greys and blacks alone. There is nothing that the frost does not claim. Even the skies are cloudy and misty, pale as pearl. The sun is hidden and the time of day unknown for all is so silver and white and utterly timeless.
The bird is the only sound. All else is silent, as if in slumber, or, just simply gone. It sings and it sings and through its dark, black eyes, it watches and it waits. It waits for her and upon its foot, tied with string, is a small tag. ‘Targwyn, come’ is written in crimson (is it blood?) and white (is it snow?).
When she comes, the little bird turns his head, flitting to the next tree. There he pauses, looking, inviting her to follow. He takes flight into the white sky and deep into the white shadows of the forest. He flies and is sure she follows. He flies and flies switching this way and that. The woodland watches him fly, until, he lands amidst a clearing. Carved into a tree, bold and black upon the hoarfrost bark, is the name Targwyn once more and Look.. Above it hangs the blackest thing within the forest. It ripples sometimes there, sometimes not. Magic drips invisible and sweet. It tinges the air like metal and shimmers in the cold as mirages might upon the desert.
Blink, and blink again, the little bird sings, for as the wind plays the black silk ripples and is there one moment and then gone the next: here and then gone, here and then gone. Crimson thread drips like blood down its edges and the bird flies up, up to the branch from which it hangs.
Jerkily it pecks, worrying the chain that tethers it to the gnarled tree limb. Suddenly, with a click that skitters over snow, the black cloak unclasps and tumbles, black and gone, black and invisible, down, down toward the frosty floor. It lands, gone, vanished at the foot of the tree. It lies there waiting, waiting for its new wearer to come and claim it. If she can find it….
The bird chirps, beckoning Targwyn forward.
**The invisibility cloak, black and visible on one side and invisible on the inside, has fallen to the foot of the tree, its inside lining is face up, rendering the cloak invisible. Targwyn is invited to come and find the cloak where it lies, awaiting her upon the frosty ground.**
@Targwyn will find herself visiting Delumine's forest in the winter, when snow has freshly blanketed the ground. All will be still - except for a bird, that catches her attention. If she chooses to follow the bird, she will witness the following scene unfold - and should she choose to investigate further, the cloak of invisibility will her her's for the taking.
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