She could not get the sound of the heartbeat out of her head.
Lub-DUB, lub-DUB, lub-DUB.
It haunted Corr's mind and her dreams turned to nightmares that night. Her and Hāsta didn't spend much time exploring once the beating started. At first, it was almost like they could feel it inside their bodies and it was their own heart thudding in their chests. But then moments later, the heartbeat was much louder and it appeared to be from the berries somehow. Hāsta expressed her displeasure of the trip over and over and Corr finally agreed they needed to leave once this all started.
So, they had flown back, the sea creatures below churning in the water, waiting for their next meal. She saw them in her nightmare too - their fins and tentacles and sharp teeth. The whole place was like a portal to another world that seemed dreamlike and menacing at the same time. There was no way to explain it.
A couple days passed with the images and the sound continuing to haunt Corr's dreams. Finally, she rose one morning and headed back to the shore without a word. Hāsta didn't follow at first, but moments later, the crow joined the mare by her side with her usual grumbling. Someone had to look after the crazy witch, she had said to Corr.
Now the pair found themselves back on the island again, but it was vastly different. There was no sign of the ivy wall that covered the island and practically beckoned them to stay. The strange plants had all died and so had the berries. There were pearls littered across the bridge like pieces of lost treasure. The sand was white as snow and smooth-like with the waves calmly swaying back and forth over the shore.
Corr and Hāsta landed by the island's edge, taking in all the strange new sights. Birds flew overhead but they appeared to have unique mutations and abilities. Their song in itself was different and unlike anything either of them had ever heard before, even in Corr's homeland. She even had to turn back and make sure they hadn't entered another portal. It was hard to tell since there was just ocean and bridge, but at least everything out there looked the same.
"Well, you wanted to come back. Let's start exploring I suppose… but I don't like this one bit."
"I know, I know. I told you, we'll leave if it looks too suspicious, like we did last time." "Yeah and look where it got us - right back at the same damn spot!"
"That's because I couldn't stop thinking about this place. There's a reason it appeared and I want to find out what that reason is." "And it's going to get us killed."
"Not necessarily." Not if we're careful…
There was no telling what Corr had gotten them both into, but there was only one way to find out. The mare stepped forward, Hāsta perched on her shoulder.
Here goes.
"Speaking."
credits @Asterion - getting this thread up for when we're ready to branch off act III <3
There is a soft storm rolling in across the island and Lysander almost feels at home.
Thunder ripples gently through the cool springtime air, and the patter of rain on the leaves is a lulling sound (like the heartbeat of a thousand scarlet berries). Carefully he ambles through the undergrowth with the grace of a buck, the grace of a man with hair burnished golden by sunlight. There are curling vines he must be careful not to snare his antlers on, and the sense of being watched crawls like flies along his skin.
The last time he had felt so many eyes on him, it was a midwinter night and his blood had stained the snow. He had almost died, then, a sensation new to him in his centuries of existence. Now as then, a smile curls his dark mouth and his eyes shine like all the things that wait in the soft dark. Around his neck he wears the dagger that had saved his life, but it is not the reason for his casual calm.
Lysander has been reborn.
He is no god. But he is not quite a man - and the dark-haired stallion is not sure where it leaves him, but he is willing to find out. Once more his blood feels a little like ichor - a little like the pool that shines through the leaves ahead of him. Around him birds sing the way they do in dreams: thickly, long hands treading through deep water.
In the dim it shines like treasure, but it is not the gold he seeks. Yet soft, soft he steps, his green eyes bright, drawing his gaze up from that calm surface to a brighter color, honey-gold. Now his smile grows; he thinks wistfully of running fingers through her hair. One day, perhaps, he will again.
Only when he glances down at the ink-black flowers with their jewel-dark eyes does he think of Isra, and how this island seems like a thing she might have dreamt, before her dreams turned black and sharp as blades.
Lysander steps forward bold as a stag, and a golden leaf rings softly against the tine it is bound to. His hair curls darkly at his throat and his winter coat is shedding away, revealing the copper dapples along his shoulders. Not until he reaches her does he stop, and then he presses his muzzle into the juncture of her shoulder and throat and inhales deeply of her. It isn’t until it slows at the smell of hyacinths does he realize how quickly his heart had been racing.
When he withdraws he doesn’t wonder whether she knows something has changed in him; he is too busy realizing the change in her. Surprise is not an emotion often worn in his green eyes - they make him look young and bright as spring. Lightning writes a bright arc above the trees, and in the brief illumination of it she could be a goddess. The pool lies beyond them, forgotten.
“I wondered if I’d meet you here,” he says, and when he grins it feels brand new. "I knew you could never stay away."
There is a whisper in the back of his mind that tells him he should be going home - but Asterion forces it to stay there. Just for now, just for a while longer, just until he can see a little more. It’s a dangerous impulse, but the Dusk King is hardly the only one to follow it; numberless other horses are gathered with him on the beach, in pairs and threes and a few, like him, alone.
He was not always alone. Somewhere, he knows, is his sister, and Isra, and Juniper and Samaira and others, so many others (Moira, too, and at the thought of her his gut clenches with guilt and worry, by now a feeling familiar enough to ignore). But like him, they had each been seized by this place, driven to quiet by wonder drifting off to explore it in their own way.
The island is not what he had expected. Since the eruption, that first tremble that cried wrong, wrong, wrong, Asterion has been braced for war. His magic is still a roiling thing beneath his skin, though his control of it is advanced enough that it no longer shows itself in little rivulets down his shoulders, or along his throat; the only thing to give him away is the sea in his eyes, wild and dark. But even that is softening, a summer-night sky after a storm, as he walks on the gleaming beach and listens to the foreign birds and lets hope tremble in his heart, and it feels as unfamiliar as their wings, as their peridot eyes.
The bay knows better than to follow a bejeweled bird further into the brush of a strange island like a child in a fairy tale - but oh, hasn’t he always wanted to be part of a story?
The sun is just beginning to set as the king moves deeper into the jungle. It is cool and dim beneath the trees, filled with whistling, with rustling, with breathing he has never heard. He pauses to touch his muzzle to a bloom as black as ink; he lifts his head like a startled buck when one of those fire-birds (had they been the ones at the golden pool? he cannot recall; the rest of Novus seems so far away) dips overhead before vanishing with a song that sounds like a laugh. Up ahead there is a gleam through the trees, low and smooth, like water.
And it is still wonder and not fear that pulls Asterion deeper, and deeper yet.
Sol Bestiam soared through the skies, enjoying the world that had turned its gaze toward spring. The skies were calm, ash seeming to disappear from the crystalline blues of the air. He was still trying to understand what in the world had happened before he came; heck, what had happened while he was here for the last week and a half.
His flight took him near water, his golden eyes taking in the peaceful waves and the life that was settling into the natural order once again. A strange mass caught his attention and he turned toward where the dark streak left the land. Using his powerful muscles, he began to spiral down to earth, planning on landing just before the bridge that seemed to be made of cooled lava.
Using all four of his large ebony and gold wings, he back-winged until he could land gently on his golden hooves. A smirk crossed his face. For one that tended to be so grumpy, he was definitely a golden stranger in this land... Shaking his head, he tucked his wings against his body, rear set settling under the fore. Twenty one hands of draft muscle and heavy bones settled into the earth, his hooves steaming slightly as they met the damp sands. Striding forward, he investigated the bridge with careful movements and wary eyes.
Sol took a moment to look around him, searching for any that were near him. The world was quiet, the only sign of life coming from the scorched sands where his hooves had rested. Flicking his long tail, he decided to take a step upon the bridge and test it from there. It seemed solid and the heat from his hooves melted the top layer just slightly, leaving a heated hoof print of glowing lava.
"Typical, find something interesting and there is nobody around to discuss the intrigue with..." Sol grumped as he decided to stalk down the bridge a bit. The idea of being on water while not being on water unnerved him. Bridges made him nervous... Always had. But then, knowing that his hooves had a tendency to create tiny fires and most bridges that he had come across being wood... yeah... not the greatest idea. And the brute had never learned how to swim, never had the desire.
Open to anyone <3 Grumpy butt is more than willing for just about any plot lol
Sorren is no stranger to letting time pass - it has ceased to hold its meaning for her, so long has she existed. But now, oh, now, she knows a change is coming - she knows that Cassilyn is coming.
It is evening, dusk creeping along the rows and rows of books and boughs of trees, and all the lanterns are lit. The guardian is curled up atop a high shelf, red hands idly running across leather bindings, watching with calm owl-eyes all the action below. At first the Helpers, curious as the foxes they resemble, had all gathered around her, small and wary in her presence. For them she had given a glimmer of her magic, a few small orbs of light; it made her want to smile, to see the soft blue reflected in their dark eyes, and to sense their wonder of her.
But they had long since gone back to their work. All but one, who had gone out to find a pegasus pale as clouds at dawn, soft and kind as a spring morning.
Oh, she is eager, for all her wise patience! Sorren gives a little cat-like shiver and rises from where she waits; her wings stir the air around her, waft the scent of verdant leaves and musty paper. Down and down she flows, now, past shelves filled with scrolls of fairy-tales, a hundred worlds tucked away to sleep in secret (but none of the creatures as strange as her!) Down one level, down the next, past five rows of musty old trade records, past a stretch of ancient books of herb-lore. She melts like a pale shadow through the rooms, and all the Helpers turn to watch her go, and are jealous of her grace and strangeness.
Yet Sorren has no eye for them, now that she knows Cassilyn is near. All these books are wise and good, but she itches now for starlight on her skin; unerringly she follows the pathways carved from tree-trunks and branches, rugs and roots whisper-soft below her feet. Through one last doorway she passes, and now the sky opens up above her, a great dome that shows darkest indigo, little pin-pricks of stars like distant fires just lit.
One of her slender tuft-ears twitches and she knows her charge is close. The guardian is too self-possessed to be nervous, but still she smooths her hands over her coat of fur-and-feathers, tugs her red fingers through her wings. Her long tail whispers patterns across the floor; the night gleams off the blue markings that pattern her. And then she settles back, and tucks her tail around her paws, and blinks her calm blue eyes at the sound of hooves approaching.
This is how Cassilyn will find her: Sitting with unearthly, eternal grace in the starlight, the whole universe spread above her, her long, long wait at an end.
And when she sees her bonded, her companion, her charge - oh, then all the magic in her begins to shine, and puts those stars to shame.
@cassilyn will be summoned by one of the library’s helpers, a small, fox-like creature. Unable to use words to properly express itself, the animal will chitter and tug at her, attempting to herd her through the forest to the waiting guardian.
Should she follow, she will find herself face to face with her guardian - and something will simply feel right, as if their meeting has been a long time in the making.
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she was powerful not because she wasn't scared,
but because she went on strongly despite her fear.
Today Maerys was more elegant than she had been before, another season thrusting her further into womanhood. The feminine curves of her body filled more and more with each passing day though there was still something so youthful about Maerys. She had that bashful gaze juvenile women often wore, but it was never morose. Regardless of her age, there was an apparent swell of valor and potential that flowed through her veins. The brawn that swelled from her skeleton was not overbearing, though it was undeniably present. Carried at her side was an ax, pristine and deadly, that gleamed softly in the sunlight. Though poised and regal, her movements were swift and fluid, those of a warrior. Maerys seemed to be a juxtaposition, both an elixir and a poison, as she moved through the Arma Mountains.
The nature that composed this region was playful in essence; the skies, timber, and soil all thrived with distinct classes of life. The opportunity for exhilaration and reinvigoration was now more than ever as the frozen fingers of Christmastime were superseded by spring's embrace. Now the storms were life-bringing rather than frosty, liquids deftly delivered by the heavens to breed new promise in the ground. The flags of grass were fresher than they had been in moons, something that was soon to be echoed by the leaflets that budded carelessly on previously void branches. Birds trilled, sweetly high, their melodies as playful as the birds themselves. The perennials raised from the loam as powerfully as one could ever envisage, first developing one at a time before evolving into couples and crowds. These bodies of blossoms appeared to caress the sky so sharply and recklessly, raising themselves from the earth as if it was their obligation to transform the timid winter earth into steadfast and dazzling flares of vibrancy.
The solitary thing that kept Maerys from any springtime diversion was the route her hooves spurred her across. To leave the track was to descend down a precipitous incline of rock or to be lost for countless days, neither of which the girl sought. This pathway was not one that was convenient to follow, spacious in some areas and deficient in others (some points barely there at all, no more than a mild disturbance on the ground). It is as steep as it is inconstant, just enough to hinder her pace from ever evening out. Though the path was unquestionably treacherous, it showed Maerys the undeniable, absolute excellence the area possessed. She grew sure on this path that if the earth had a pulse, the tender throb of the heart, it rose in the peaks and fell in the valleys. Everything she witnessed now was the soft tha-dump of a beating core.
The sky looked different from the ground. Flat and finite, a strip of cold blue framed by the sunset gold of birch leaves trembling in the wind. Trembling and fragile and doomed to fall, just like him.
Odet tried to move his right wing again, up and down, up and down, only to stare sorrowfully at the drooping, iridescent feathers when the wing refused. Like it had the day before, and the day before that. How long has he been here, gazing up at the same unchanging sky, the same un-falling leaves?
His wing, cleanly broken, didn’t even hurt anymore. Just stung a bit at the joint whenever he hopped around gathering bits of food he found beneath the foliage, stored away by the squirrels (one had caught him pecking at his stash last evening -- Odet had dropped the majority of his seeds scrambling beak-first into a nearby tree nook, and had crouched inside hungry and shivering until he had dared to venture out in the morning) and the realization echoed blankly through his mind.
His wing would not heal on its own. He would never fly again. Never never never. Head drooping with exhaustion and hunger, Odet wove the words into a crooning song and drifted asleep wedged in the small space between a rock and a root, his broken wing ajar, his stomach curling in on itself like a woodlouse trying its hardest to disappear.
—
He snapped awake at the cracking of twigs beneath the talons (hooves -- Odet recalled sleepily how his mother had told her chicks all she knew about the hooved inhabitants of the land, which was mainly that they had feet-like appendages called hooves) of something massive.
Creak, creak, creak. Whatever it was, it was coming towards him. And he had nowhere to go. Shivering from the cold and the unpleasant clutches of fear, Odet closed his beak to steady his heart before he dared to stick his head up above the rock to see --
And chirped shrilly in alarm when he found himself staring into the velvet muzzle of one of them. The hooved ones. In his panic the jay jerked his wings towards him, only to chirp again, sharper this time, when a rush of red-hot pain assailed him. His wing, the broken one, had gotten caught between the rock and the root, and he couldn’t yank it free without hurting it even more.
So Odet chirped and chirped and chirped, weaker and weaker, warning the intruder to go away, go away, go away.
On one of his many adventures as a young colt, @ipomoea stumbles upon a bird in need of help. At first the jay is frightened, his broken wing leaving no means of escape. But perhaps Ipomoea can convince him otherwise, and take care of the wounded avian?
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seething leaves, whirling colors, tracks in the snow
It is dawn, the sun just peaking over the horizon. The Viride forest is blanketed in early morning frost covered with a blanket of dense fog. The temperature is cool on this very first day of spring. There is nothing overly exciting about this particular morning, nothing that would really set it apart from any other day. It is an ordinary morning for an extraordinary thing that is about to transpire.
Mateo can be found soaring above the treetops, casually and with nowhere in particular that his flight takes him. The morning is relatively silent, only the sound of the wind as it travels through his feathers. But unbeknown to him, this relatively ordinary morning is about to turn into something extraordinary.
And yet, there is the sound of a songbird. Her song is carried by the wind and reaches Mateo’s ears. It’s soothing and captivating and altogether beautiful. She flies alongside him, her body a bright and vibrant red whereas her wings contrast her body and remain jet black. Her ebony eye catches his as she continues her singsong. But in the beauty of this moment, Mateo will hear something. “Follow me…” It is nothing but a whisper upon the wind, but there is no denying that it has come from the scarlet tanager beside him. Her look resembles that of a smile, if she were capable of giving him one. Ad just like that, she continues her singsong and flies ahead of him.
As she guides him down into the forest, she continues to beckon him with her song, encouraging him to follow her. And as she breaks through the canopy, she disappears from sight. The forest is eerily silent this particular morning and it will leave Mateo standing within the fog. There is no more song of the songbird, no whispers, nothing. And it is in this silent that a feeling seems to wash over him. Magic envelopes him, washing over him like an ocean wave. The immediate affects are not known at this present time, but Mateo will know that something has happened, that something is vastly different than just moments before.
And out of the silence, he will once again hear the song of the scarlet tanager. And once again, he will hear “Follow me…” Although he cannot see the vibrant red of her feathers, he will hear her song and it will take him on a magical journey. Her song is the start of a journey through all his senses, experienced through his new magic. His hearing will be heightened and the sound that she emits will be seen by him through a different set of eyes (how Mateo perceives this song with his new magic will be completely up to you). She leads him through the forest on a journey, a journey that will take his senses higher.
And then, the song fades away and once again, Mateo is left in a world of silence. And as he looks around, he will see the silhouette of a doe just up ahead. Her eyes are settled on his own, her ears flicking quietly in the forest. The fog is beginning to dissipate and her full form is coming into view. She looks regal and at peace. And then she speaks. “Follow me…” Turning her head, the doe begins to meander through the forest, fully confident that Mateo will head her calling and follow her.
They walk for several moments before she steps into a clearing. She disappears from sight, where she has gone is unknown. But when Mateo steps from the forest, the sun will illuminate his position, the light assaulting him with senses unknown. His eyes will be filled with bright light (how he perceives this light with his new magic is up to you). As he stands in the clearing it is as if time has stood still. There is nowhere else Mateo needs to be.
And then, out of the stillness of the morning, there comes another whisper. “Look around you, experience the world.” The flowers that grow in the clearing seem to emit more smells than normal. Lavender, eucalyptus, and mint assault his nose, their oils fill his nostrils with an aroma he’s never quite experienced before. His magic will enhance these smells (and how he perceives them is up to you) and make them bold.
And then the wind comes. It dances over his skin, whisping through his mane and between each and every hair upon his body. It touches him everywhere as it flies by, making sure no single hair is left untouched. The wind wants him to experience what touch can bring him. It wants him to feel the way the grass tickles at his underbelly, the way the wind moves through his mane. It wants him to experience everything.
And then comes the taste of things on the wind. Magically, the wind carries with it the flavors of fruits that grow on trees in this very clearing, the taste of salty sea air, and the taste of fresh dew in the morning. And if Mateo chooses to dine on the grasses at his feet, he will taste all the flavors of a five course meal in a single bite.
His magic is brewing to life within his being. It is now up to Mateo to experience the world in ways in which he never thought possible. There was so much to learn and experience about this world and it was up to him to decide how he would walk through life.
Should @mateo choose to follow the strange, talking songbird, he will find himself led to a clearing. At first it appears to be a normal clearing; but magic runs deep here, saturating each blade of grass and weighing heavy on the wind. Magic that reaches out for him, that tempts him to lower his head and eat of a grass sweeter and richer than any other he’s known…
Does he dare?
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The pitiless sun beat down fiercely, its wicked heat unblinking, and the sky enabled it by contributing not even a single wisp of cloud to diminish the harsh rays. Though the Mors Desert was uncomfortably warm more often than not, today's dry heat in mid-winter was unusual. Most equine would take shelter from the unrelenting atmosphere, though a certain few would not- patrollers, wanderers, idiots.
Should those that traveled the desert in these hours be wise enough to not just watch their flanks, but the heaven above their backs as well, they'd notice an airborne figure tens of feet above their spines. The heat has made hunting rather difficult for the fauna of Solterra, forcing predators to search for prey with unrelenting determination. This figure, distinctly long-necked and gold-bellied, was no exception, driven by hunger and the carnal desire to shred through flesh and bone, it would never stop until satiated. From the ground, one may not be able to discern the well-developed, talon-bearing foot this particular beast had been graced with, nor the sharp teeth brimming its blue beak that thirsted for muscle and blood, but those knowledgeable enough would be able to guess that this was none other than a Teryr- one of the most feared creatures in Solterra.
This Teryr flew like a kite with invisible strings on this day, its eyes trained steadfast on the desert ground below. With each stroke of its bulky wings, the Teryr grew nearer and nearer. Unsatisfied, famished, and remarkably greedy, the Teryr diligently sought out its next meal. Perhaps ere its prime, the Teryr stood a few feet shorter than its elders, but this by no means made it less ferocious (perhaps only more arrogant). With the slightest tilt of its massive wings, the Teryr gradually begins to circle over a broad expanse of the desert, searching for its next meal with what seemed to be unending perseverance. When the eyes of this predator note a flash of crimson in the distance, the bird-like creature knows it is about to handsomely dine.
Let's play, it seemed to screech as it approached as quickly as it could. The plumage on its neck ruffled with excitement as the splotch of red defined itself as a great stallion and a falcon companion.
Something spoke to Senna and Nestor at this moment; something undeniable and definite. It whispered to the pair in a language they somehow both understood well but could never repeat, beckoning them to disregard the blistering heat and prepare themselves because they would be facing an opponent much greater than most had. The voice knew well what lay in the pair's very near future. The Mors Desert had confidence in Senna and Nestor on this fateful day as it watched with bated breath, the sky so still and the sun so strong that everything almost began to bake.
Without a second thought, the Teryr attempted to repeatedly dive for the stallion and falcon, only a singular caw to indicate the commencement of the onslaught.
A story straight from @Senna's past, while walking through the Mors the stallion and his bonded happen across a young Teryr. It appears to be in a particularly aggressive mood, for soon after spotting them it aims its talons directly towards the pair.
But the desert seems to favor them; perhaps the dunes really can sing, for something tells Senna to look up, tells him it is time to defend himself.
Will it be too late?
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It is just before dawn, in the quiet of the night before the world begins to awaken. The animals of Novus are asleep and it appears the mountain is asleep as well. Aside from the sounds of the footsteps of the nocturnal animals rustling through the fallen snow, the mountain is eerily quiet this morning. The wind is calm, not whistling through the barren trees at the base of the mountain. There is no sound of insects, of birds, or of animals.
The path that leads up the mountain has been freshly plowed by something unknown, making way for all those that wish to come up to its peak to pray. The path is marked, lit with small torches of fires as they guide Llewelyn through the forest at its base and all the way up through the snow-capped top.
Along the path, there is a steady thrumming of magic, something that cannot be seen or heard. It can only be felt as a sense of mystery, of need. It pulls at Llewelyn, drawing her towards the peak of the mountain without any real answers as to why it pulls her there today. That feeling guides her up the mountain, constantly pulling at her thoughts, her feelings, until she comes to the peak of the mountain.
Upon arrival to the peak of the mountain, Llewelyn will discover that the snow-capped mountain has carved away a small clearing that appears to carve through the mountain itself. The path opens to flooring made of marble and alabaster. There is a magnificent room lit with fires that hang from the ceiling. Thick alabaster and stone columns hold up the ceiling and are covered in a flowering ivy, something that should not be so green so high up the mountain. But despite the things that grow here when they should not, the temple is beautiful. It is comfortable and warm, inviting even.
But that feeling is still there, still calling out to Llewelyn, guiding her through the opening of the temple and towards something hidden in a back room. And as that feeling of magic draws her into the back room, something changes. The temperature is no longer warm because of the fires lit to guide her path. The temperature plummets, almost as if this temple has been visited by something not of this world.
And when Llewelyn get to the back room, she is greeted by a copper basin that holds a green fire. It flickers in the early morning light, just as the sun is coming up and over the horizon. It beckons for the mare to come closer, almost as if it is pulling an invisible string attached to her. As she gets but a few feet away, that is when things begin to get eerie.
A sudden wind whips through the temple, the temperature plummeting to well below freezing. All the fires within the room are put out, the room enveloped into darkness. Llewelyn is left standing there alone, wondering just what she is witnessing. Is it just the anger of the wind, or is it something more…something greater?
And then, the green fire erupts again, flickering life and light back into the room. And when the fire flickers to life, it is not the only thing to come alive. The small rubies upon Llewelyn’s horn begin to glow softly. They reflect the green light but even more so, they begin to whisper. It is hard to say what her jewels are saying, for they say many things and yet nothing at all. They speak of what has happened and what is to come. They speak of hope and despair. The whisperings continue until suddenly, they are silent and the green fire in the copper basin goes out. Llewelyn is left standing there alone with only the strange whispers to keep her company. What will she do with what she has seen today. Will she be reminded of her duty, of her life here in Novus? Will she ignore the whispers and the callings, or will she embrace them and use them? It is up to her now, to determine how she uses the gifts that the Gods have bestowed upon her this very morning.
On her way to Veneror, @Llewelyn will find herself in an otherwordly situation. Perhaps it’s the gods, or perhaps it’s simply the supernatural.
But whoever is manipulating the mountain has also brought her here. As she stands before the altar the basin of fire will roar to life, and the rubies decorating her horns will glow.
But what are those voices she hears, and what are they saying? Are they coming from her horns?
What is going on here?
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