[SWP] another one coming

[Pavetta]

p a v e t t a - - - Pavetta possessed very little knowledge of the Novus gods. She now knew such beings existed, of course, after the strange owl messenger in Delumine, and the terrifying, unnatural events that had taken place three days before on the mountaintop—a summit of all courts. She held deep mistrust in her heart; for wild, corrupted gods of the woods and rivers and sky had desecrated and ravaged her homeland. They had been cruel, remorseless gods. Pavetta knew only they and so she found it difficult to open her heart to these Beings of Novus. No mortal knew their intentions, their end game. Perhaps there wasn’t an end game; only an endless cycle that had begun once more in Novus. In the Rift gods could die and kill other gods, but they returned. Again and again and again. An endless, terrible cycle of death and rebirth and destruction. So why was Pavetta here, lingering atop the tallest peak in Novus? Where the air was thin and the kiss of winter already embraced these windy heights? Where the regimes of the Courts had been trapped, all in a show of power (and who knows what else, really, because what else did gods have to wield but power?). While she could not find acceptance and faith in her heart, there was a burning flame of curiosity that no amount of rain could extinguish. It raced through her veins, unpleasant and ever compelling. Pavetta was not a particularly wise, level-headed unicorn. Her decisions were never rational, nor explainable. She was complicated and flawed—a contradiction in most aspects of her nature. And so she remained, despite her deep distrust of the higher order, exploring the various shrines and struggling to read what remained of old parchment and bits of personal scrolls on such shrines—hymns, worship, prayers, hopeless she thought. Although she felt sheepish for invading such personal devotions for a god whose name she did not even know—she could not stop herself. Some notes were written devotedly, others written in fear in concern for their immortal soul. Pavetta had chosen the sun shrine to linger by this bright, golden dawn. She did hail from Delumine, after all, and so she was naturally drawn to the sun, to the light—but part of her longed for the shadows, the darkness, the secrets of night and she did not wish to admit it, even to herself. A few others lingered near the shrine, too. She recognized the regent Bexley and regal Seraphina, Sovereign of Solterra. While Pavetta deeply admired the fearlessness both had displayed during the events at the Summit, she did not wish to bother anyone who might be worshiping (although why they would worship the very things that seemed to have trapped them in an earthquake was beyond her). And so she continued prodding the weather-ruined scrolls and parchments, reading smeared names, places, and hopeless prayers. At some point, Pavetta looked to the sky and for the first time, she wondered, a philosophical musing: Do you see them down here? They look to the sky, wondering why you aren’t listening. And so one could imagine Pavetta’s surprise—nay, shock—when the statues eyes glittered knowingly, and then stone hair shifted in the brisk morning air, and then nothing. Pavetta drew nearer, ears pricked forward and nostrils flaring in alarm. When the statue disappeared and a mighty figure appeared, no one but Pavetta seemed surprised. The tall, golden eyed mare with ear piercings praised the being’s entrance, vehemently, devotedly, promising to slay the stranger’s enemies if he would only bless her. Pavetta’s ear flicked back uncertainly (and in personal distaste) at such unquestioning loyalty to a previously stone thing that had never bothered to notice them until now. But she did not back or turn away, despite her heart that fluttered like a trapped bird in her ribcage. She decided to follow Seraphina’s lead, who was deadly calm and somewhat reserved. The still before storm, the silence before a hurricane. Solis. She seemed to know him on a personal level, but Pavetta could only wonder why or how, and if it was for good or ill. Bexley had a passionate opinion. There really was no other way to describe it. The golden woman glowed, sparking, spitting venom and acid. When all was said and done, Pavetta suspected they just might all get smote into barbecue crips for the wolves. What had transpired to inspire such anger, such malevolence? Pavetta could relate to the distrust, the deep suspicion--but when it all came down to one moment--one moment in the universe to approach a creature that had the power to destory worlds--she could only feel curiosity. “What are you?” she asked at last, after Bexley was finished ripping the god a new one--ears flickering back and forth. Not who, but what. It was not an accusation, or judgement, she would reserve that, for now—it was a desire to know, to understand. “Why do they worship and pray to you?” When you do not answer, she wanted to say, but did not. a pearl in pigshit, a diamond on the finger of a rotting corpse, creature in whom nothing, but nothing, remains of an elven woman ---