Linetheil - The Seer

[Jen Joy]

((Theme: Symphony of Lugia))

The Seer, the Shaman, the Fate, the WanderessSurprise! Eyes: Amethyst. Probably her most distinct feature, she often appears to look past her target of interest rather than at it: an absent look is a frequent visitor, an idle wander imminent. Twinkling hints of an emotional state, surrounding light is captured – or a glow of their own evident. Hair: Long, thick locks of light, dusky honey, with a golden hue to them. Her hair has by now grown down to her waist, though it remains well-maintained. In moments of comfort and peace it is not unusual to see her using a wooden comb to untangle her hair. Voice: Clear and gentle. When she speaks, for some it may dawn that Common might not be her first language; her speech patterns are overly clear and smoothly pronounced, something only attained with meticulous practice. Even when she does not raise her voice, her hum appears to trail about to those listening, almost unnaturally so. Build: Short, petite. She possesses some fitness about her, but it is rather clear that she is no warrior, a fact which she readily admits.

”I would say you have much the stars within you Linetheil. A balance.” – Nathem Ashbey

An absent gaze regards the space past the person of her interest. Warmth crosses her features; a bow of head is oft her form of greeting. Quick to inquire, even more so to listen – but less often she opens the veil that would show the shadows of her past.

Calm, even stoic is her demeanour: emotion is but a flicker of light in her eyes, a smile that curls on her lips – something one may find either soothing, whilst others speak of unease. She carries herself with a good posture, which one could even describe as regal – perhaps somewhat opposing of her choice of dress.

Grey robes cover her body in layers of three to five; a garments that have clearly seen their best days, yet are still maintained with stubbornness to a quality that allows ease of travel and avoids a further expense. Patches and re-sown bits are evident, and so is the frequent washing. A darker spot or three might be spotted; old blood stains that never quite faded away. Around her waist there is a belt, holding multiple pockets filled with knicks and knacks, also bringing some form to her body otherwise concealed. Her head is usually covered with the robe’s hood, though it appears to be more for the weather than a mean of offering concealment, features somewhat evident unless otherwise said.

Often seen carrying a backpack, this item too appears well-worn, yet maintained in kind. It is never seen far from its owner: if she is not carrying it on her back it is resting by her leg; clearly an item of importance she is reluctant to allow out of her sight. All inside appears to be in neat order, for when the woman would reach for something, she’d most often find what she is looking rather swiftly. Outside the backpack, there are two sticks attached, side-by-side. While there is clearly some enchantment on them, they appear more aking to branches of a tree one has cut out and fashioned into walking sticks. On the other side, a cast-iron frying pan hangs, and those attuned with magic might have a slight feeling there is a bit more than meets the eye to the household item.

In battle, she often appears to focus more on the defence than offence, directing the blows to the side and moving away from the harm’s way – often seeming to perform such a feat a bit before the blow even begins, as though a premonition was bestowed upon her brow. She is often seen holding her quarterstaff in her left hand instead of right, though were one to see her write, it might be noteworthy that this is something she does right-handedly.


A white dove, at times seen somewhere around Linetheil, more often than not soaring skies and delivering messages to those the Seer has encountered on her journeys. Those that have come across the winged creature might note something of a peculiarity, if so divinely attuned – a flicker of a soul burns bright, yet the light is shared with the woman whose companionship the bird has accepted.

”Don’t you want to know how I caught you? It was your eyes. They’re all wrong.”– Michael Dunn

Broken piece of red thread
This piece of red thread is most often kept by Linetheil in her left pocket, pulled out in times of contemplation. The knot which tied the string around something still remains, and the ends of the string are frayed.

”I think your gift is beautiful.”– Nathan Goldemane

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”...And yet, what is one, but a sum of those they have met...”

I play this character as a Seer/Spirit Communicator. If you have some RP in mind where such a talent would be useful, such as vision, emotions, dreams, spirits - please do not hesitate to contact me. See you in game!
BBCode by Nyssis!

[Jen Joy]

I. Prelude: May the Winds Blow in Your Favour

It was long after the sun had settled that the quiet forest felt the presence of two shadows. One of them hopped gracefully, landing on the soft moss patches covering the rocks so to muffle the soft click of their boots, while the other one stumbled after, maneuvering her way through branches and thin streams of water. A splash, a crack, a quick whisper, a hand raising in a command to stop.

“You are going to wake the whole tribe,” the soft, low hum of a voice was barely audible despite the silence of the forest. An owl hooted somewhere above them, perhaps this was its way of agreeing with the shadowy figure.

“I… I am sorry. It is just… I do not know. I do not feel quite like myself,” a younger, clearer voice spoke. “It is as if I was waiting for this moment to come for a long time, yet now that I take the steps my feet stumble, and I find myself unable to walk.

A heavy silence landed between the two figures. The owl above hooted again, and a fluttery of wings broke the eerie stillness off the night. The older shadow then breathed out a sigh as she turned to see the way they came from, but soon moved back to face the route they were currently taking, her eyes tracing the steps yet to come. “Change is… hard,” her voice hummed again in the dark, prompting the younger of the two to perk her attention. “But inevitable. You are still young. You have time. And you will see change. These are but the first steps on a long, long road.” There was a short pause, as if she was wondering yet something else to say, but decided against it, “Come. We have dwindled enough. The sun is not far from returning.”

The speaker jumped on yet another rock, while the younger figure proceeded to keep on walking on the forest ground. As if the words had gone straight to her feet and given them newfound understanding and stability, she now stepped firmly, and no another cracks of a branch was heard for the rest of the journey.

~

“This is as far as I’ll go. You’re on your own now, my - -,” the soft hum stopped suddenly, and she gave a small smirk towards the girl – no, young woman - now. “Linetheil.”
The two stood on either side of a stream, the older on the side of the forest while the younger’s back was facing a woodsy meadow. Flowers were still in their buds, but come the light there would surely be a rainbow of colours painting the ground with splendor. The terrain was slowly dusting off its grey, dull colours of the dark, replacing them with the early rays of orange and yellow.

“Thank you, Illeria,” Linetheil spoke, “For all you have done.” Her hands reached to pull down the hood of her cloak. The older woman mirrored her actions, revealing shoulder-length mane of hair, once dark but now silvered with time and a pale face bearing scars of battles fought long ago. One of her ears had long been torn off the tip. Crow’s feet crinkled at the corners of her steely blue eyes when she gave Linetheil another smile, and the two regarded each other for what seemed like a short eternity cut too soon, knowing that this moment could potentially be the last time they saw each other. “… I am sorry,” Linetheil said suddenly, a need for the apology coiling tight in her chest.
Illeria tilted her head to the side, her eyes gazing at Linetheil without prejudice, rather with pity. “For what?” she spoke, and Linetheil thought she could hear a barely detectable raspiness in the older woman’s voice. “Linetheil…” Illeria begun, then seemed to speak as if this was something she had had in mind for a long time, something that she had prepared to say upon their parting:

“I grew beside your mother. I watched her become our fenler when she was barely a child, and I rode beside her for battle when her form was yet fill out a woman’s clothes. And I served her, as her hand and even her foot at times, and did so with honour, until the day she died. And I would have done the same for you ‘till the withering of my days, but that is not who you are nor it is where your destiny lies.”

Linetheil cast her eyes down briefly. “But aunt- - “she barely had time to mutter before Illeria’s interference: “Your aunt tries desperately to grasp at the remains of something that no longer holds place in this world. Her and your mother’s views differed greatly. It is your mother’s spirit that I listen to by bringing you here.” Illeria’s steely gaze softened, and her tone became gentler again, “You know. She once told me that it was the greatest blessing and the mightiest curse that she had you. Greatest blessing, for you were her treasure, the light she saw in the world even amidst the greatest darkness. Mightiest curse, for she knew that in time you’d have to struggle your way out of the bonds that tie you, only because it was her you chose as a mother. She never wanted you to become a warrior.” Illaria paused, adding almost as an afterthought, “She loved you, more than anything in this world.”

Linetheil swallowed the lump in her throat. She blinked away the threatening dampness from her eyes, determined to make this parting between her and the woman one lacking tears.“I know,” Linetheil replied softly, a smile lighting up her expression. At a loss for words, she simply bowed her head to Illeria in respect, speaking the only thing that could be said in a moment such as this, “Thank you. And good bye.” The young girl turned on her heel, her eyes sweeping to look at the variety of flowers beginning to slowly spread their petals. Sun was slowly climbing up the horizon, spreading light across the lands.

Illeria watched as the form grew smaller and smaller in the distance, whispering her final words to be carried into the wind: “Good bye, my child. May the winds blow in your favour.”

[Jen Joy]

II. Vengeance in Fire

The man was red.

It was all she could make out at first, as the stiff form of the bald, red-robed entity glided just above the ground in the depths of the caverns, barely in her line of sight. Beyond her the sounds of brutal attacks bounced off the rocks, creating a horrible cacophony of screams, clashes and rough gruffs as warriors fought for their lives, and the death gasps of the Batiri as they were mercilessly slain.

She fired another shot, the arrow missing it’s mark completely. The man once again glided past her peripheral vision, and she could feel the hum that had long since become a familiar feeling in her body, the one that told her when they were near… and the one that told her where they weren’t going away until something they wanted had been fulfilled, even if they don’t know it themselves. She turned to regard the man and registered vaguely that for now, the battle had quieted down. Her comrades would certainly be able to hold their own.

He had stopped, she noticed. No longer ticking the edges of her vision, he was now fully standing – or lingering above the ground, however one could properly address such a stance – at the end of the cavern. His eyes burned with passion and fire, fire almost as bright as red in his robes, ones who were elaborately decorated with something akin to twining and twisting flames adorning his shoulders. A golden pendant, resembling the pattern on his shoulders, was hanging from his neck in a chain, the rings in it as thick as two of her fingers set side by side. With the size of thing, Linetheil couldn’t help but wonder how the man could have stood straight.

The man scowled at her. In a way, Linetheil thought, he appeared almost surprised that she had now managed to turn her attention to him. His burning gaze was prideful and haughty, and when he looked upon her there was a deliberate shift of his chin, as if he wasn’t already able to gaze down upon her from the whopping six feet of height. As they stared at each other in a battle of wills, Linetheil begun to realize, that while he indeed appeared to stare at her, it was also past her where his attention was. His lips had curled into a wry smile, almost as if he was revelling in the fact that many of the Batiri now laid dead, lost to this world forever.

Linetheil furrowed her brows at the man. “They killed you, didn’t they?” she found herself asking, but her mouth wasn’t moving, and the tone she used was oddly distorted. The man’s eyes quickly found her own again, the fire in them seeming to intensify with hatred. When she looked upon him, she couldn’t block the glaring vision assaulting her senses; before her flashed rapid images of him, trying to fight against the beastly creatures. He was magnificent, she had to admit as she saw his magic burn through them, leaving but charred bodies behind as he made his way through the caverns that were now lit with the fire emitting from his robes. Yet suddenly, she saw him stumble and fall on his knee, as one of the smaller ones managed to reach her, the bloody edge of a blade protruding from his chest as he was mercilessly impaled by the sneaking scout. He did manage to fight it off by the loud smack of his staff, but the damage had already been dealt: one after another the Batiri ran towards him from the depths of the cavern, and he was no longer able to fight them off.

It was Styrbjörn’s inquiry that brought her back from the violent visage, suddenly like her feet had been blasted deep into the foundations of the cavern, “Are you coming?” Linetheil blinked but could only nod, sparing a brief glance behind her. The man was no longer lingering where he previously was. She followed him, but there was now an odd tingling in her fingers; a burning that seemed to travel through her veins, spreading warmth all over the digits, growing hotter and hotter until she could have sworn her hand was on fire, yet the warmth seemed to valiantly remain just between the fine line of pain and comfortable. She eyed her comrades, noting the worried look upon Kara’s face as the woman asked her how she was faring. Linetheil’s eyes turned towards Kara’s blade. The polished metal appeared to live and move according to the heat she swore it had begun to admit. In the reflection, fiery eyes burning with fire glared back at her. Vengeance, Linetheil thought, but it didn’t feel like one of her own. As if seeing her from the other side of a mirror, the man placed a thumb against the blade. When his hand moved, it left a thin, wild trail of fire.

Now I see, a fleeting realization passed her mind as the man slowly faded from the surface of the blade. She regarded her comrades, “I think… I might be able to help us,” Linetheil spoke softly. When she did, the tingle in her fingers flared.

[Jen Joy]

III. The Boy with the Blond Hair

Rain was once again pouring with full fervor. Linetheil made her way through the beautiful courtyard of Friendly Arms Inn, her eyes set on the Inn door in a goal of comfort. How strange it was, that she was walking in the pouring rain, only to seek indoors to bathe in hot water, to which she would certainly drop some concoction to ease her aching muscles. The day had been long, filled with travel and danger.

She narrowed her eyes and blinked rapidly to see through the unforgiving rain that continued to soak her to the core. The wind was picking up, there was a feeling of an upcoming storm in the air. She pushed the inn door open and stumbled inside, feeling an ache beginning to settle into her head.

Something felt amiss. Linetheil glanced about herself, her eyes studying the inn. Dark, wooden board was now replacing the light colour scheme she had gotten used to at the Friendly Arms. There were no signs of the large, comfortable booths or the welcoming lounge. Instead she found herself in a tavern that someone had certainly invested their coin in. Her eyes carefully glided around. Pillows, ornate chairs and lush couches littered the floor, with a table or two here and there, the smell of incense hung heavy in the air in an attempt to cover the stench of sweat and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

She saw men, many of them holding ladies dressed in what she assumed was a local definition of bedwear, laughing and yelling praises of joy towards the middle of a circle that had begun to form in the side of the room. She made her way forth, passing a fallen drunk that was being hauled up by two rather sturdy men.

In the middle of the circle she saw a boy. The boy was very young as far as she could tell. A bright smile adorned his face framed by blond locks of hair. His gloved hands juggled knives, and with every knife added in the crowd would cheer loudly. Linetheil’s eyes travelled to a lone woman, sitting on one of the lush chairs instead of the laps of the men. Bearing blond curls, the colour a copy of the boy’s, the woman’s smile was fond as she watched over the little juggler.

Lightness begun to invade head, the image of the boy growing foggy and distorted. Crying, Linetheil thought. The image before her was like the misty gaze one ought to hold when they’re crying. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised by the sniff she heard. Somewhere far, yet still so near. She turned her gaze away from the crowd, amethyst orbs found a door halfway open. The sounds of sniffles grew as she neared the door. The odd light from her head crossed her face, neck, breast and ribcage until it finally sunk into her stomach. She lifted a hand, which she only now saw was trembling, but before she could push at the door it seemed to answer her will and open, but no creak was heard.

She recognised the woman immediately, though by what she was right now forced to look upon she wished she didn’t. The woman was hanging up from the ceiling, in a way Linetheil remembered seeing pigs strung up once upon a time. There was a large gash on her chest; she had even been cut open, like she was merely a practice piece before the finer delicacies. Linetheil made to look over her shoulders in the search for the curly-haired lady she had earlier seen sitting alone, yet when she tried to see it was only pitch darkness, and she felt herself being pushed on the room by the pressing dark. The door clicked shut behind her, but she barely registered the lack of noise when another door opened.

The juggling child ran into the room and was halted by what he saw. Though Linetheil couldn’t blame him: it certainly wasn’t a show for a child to see, but even more unsettling it became when she heard a faint, harsh breath. The hanging woman’s eyes fluttered open when the child reached to cut her down with the aid of a stool. She thumped softly against the ground, Linetheil’s eyes moved to see the boy rummage through his belongings. Dread filled her, as she knew from years of practice herself that the boy’s attempts at saving her life would likely go in vain, with the mere help of simple supplies for wounds. How are you still alive, she found herself asking as the child cradled the woman, tears streaming down his cheeks while sobs violently jerked his body.

“It is okay,” the woman whispered. Her voice was a melody like no other Linetheil had ever heard. What a twist of destiny it was that she would hear the woman’s voice, only for it to soon be lost to the world. “It is my time. You must go and live,” she heard the woman continue. She watched as the boy’s hug on the woman tightened, blood stained his clothes and his face pulled into a snarl, “I will kill them for doing this to you.”

An odd tingle of familiarity tickled at the back of Linetheil’s mind when the woman’s mouth gave away a weak sob. I have seen this before, she thought, but that trail of thought was briskly cut off by amazement as she saw the woman use the remnants of strength to raise a hand and give a slap against the boy’s cheek. “Never hurt anyone in anger. Never!” her voice was surprisingly strong, but it faded when her hand fell. The woman lay still, and in the silence of the room Linetheil heard a soft whisper, the last melodic words the woman would ever utter, “Do not be what fate wants you to be.”

The words echoed in the room, repeating over and over again, until they grew so loud and painful that Linetheil had to cover her ears with her hand. The ground shook like the earth itself had taken heed of the words. The disturbance made her lose her balance and sent her right against the door she had entered from. The door behind gave out under her weight, and Linetheil watched helplessly as she fell through, while the boy and the now dead woman were now still, unmoving, frozen in time and place.

~

“Ye alrite there, miss?”

Linetheil’s eyes fluttered open, the fuzzy image of the barmaid becoming clearer by she second. The woman was frowning down at her, an empty tray in one hand. Linetheil’s gaze swept around her surroundings. She saw the inn door open, the rain still pounding at the stone bricks laid across the courtyard and the familiar shades of light she had now come to associate with the Friendly Arms Inn. She saw a lady walk past a large potted plant, a man chugging down the last of his ale. She recognised the large booths veiled behind her.

She attempted to stand, but her body felt heavy, so she used the wall as her support. She saw the barmaid’s hand come up towards her as in assistance just in case, but staying a respectful distance away. A small smile graced Linetheil’s lips, she couldn’t help but feel the tightness in the muscles of her face, “Quite…so,” she managed, noting the tired tone in her voice she wasn’t certain she previously had, “You wouldn’t happen to have a room available, with a bath and some chamomile and red clover essence?” She paused, now finding the barmaid’s eyes. “I have had a rather long of a day.”

Kudos to the player of Nathan Goldemane for giving me these great visions to play around with! Also, updated the description.

[Jen Joy]

IV. An Open Book

“Shana… Spring Kitten… Styrbjörn… Adallan… Nathan… Natham… Kara… Gans… Ghost… Juno Serra… Anthem… Raganhar…” She kept on listing the names in a soft hum, her eyes traveling into the fire burning before her. She reached to simmer the mushroom soup in the small cauldron. The scent could certainly attract attention, was there someone present. Yet here she was, alone on the side of the cliff, the mighty Candlekeep outlined behind her in the horizon. Though, such was more than an overstatement, she thought watching the different shades of ethereal mist, coloured in all the colours of the rainbow, wander about the area. Truth to be told, she couldn’t remember the last time she enjoyed only the company of her own. They were there, always, no matter if she wanted them to be or not. And even when she tried, she couldn’t recall a time before them.

She reached for her backpack where all she had was now tucked in neatly. She liked to keep it orderly, so that come the time it would be efficient in a battle, and she wouldn’t have to spend valuable time seeking for any essential equipment, like the salves she had now grown used to using. Many of her… acquaintances, perhaps that could be closest to the word she was able to use when referring to these many travellers that had come upon her path ever since her departure from Li Qeluqhel, seemed to possess a knack for seeking trouble and injuring themselves in the process. Admittedly, now more than ever she whispered a silent thank you to her mother, the woman who had so adamantly insisted she should stay away from the battle and seek other pursuits of passion. Such had had an immense importance of development on her person, even if in the end things didn’t quite go as her mother had probably intended.

Her hands found what they were seeking for, and she pulled out a new, leather-bound book. She had bought it from Candlekeep when she first visited the grand place of knowledge. She browsed the book, amethyst eyes wandered through the empty pages she would perhaps one day fill with text of her own. How was it that Adallan had phrased it? I write down things I’d otherwise might forget. She contemplated on the words; perhaps he did have a point, though Linetheil knew as well as any that there were some things in the world best left forgotten.

She closed the book and, as if in a ceremonial gesture, opened it to meet the first page. Her eyes flickered into the fire to gaze at the spirit within, dancing joyously with the flames. Smile appeared on Linetheil’s lips when the spirit was joined by another creature of fire alike, and the two danced together, like two sparrows playing in the air, following the flickers of flames in a harmonious rhythm.

Her eyes travelled back to the empty page. She dipped the raven-feathered quill into a bottle of black ink.

This is for all of you who remember,
This is for all of you who’ll forget,
A tale like any other,
A path yet to be set.

This is for those with laughter,
This is for those who weep,
Here I’ll tell you a story,
This book is for you to keep.

Curious words were chosen, Linetheil thought. Like in response to her, the page turned. The right side of her lips curled up into half-a-smile. Such is what you think, too? She used a finger to trail the edges of the book, gently, in a manner someone would perhaps caress their beloved pet. Once again, she dipped her quill into the ink. Her Celestial letters were neat and elegant.

How is it, that we so readily raise our hands against each other? How we must think but a moment, for it to become a thought most dear?

Some ways of this beautiful world continue to perplex me. I struggle at times, to understand different concepts of the way people speak, act and talk. Yet I try, for I have come to understand that most of this is done without malice intent. The way one might say something completely opposite to what is the truth, or use metaphorical expressions, even calling themselves an animal while saying such. It feels odd, but I have come to understand these terms as a meaning to lighten the mood, or perhaps even joke. Then again, at times, like with many languages, it feels as though we do not always think the set phrases and mannerisms the language keeps within.

She paused, her eyes drifted back into the fire. To keep the flames burning high and mighty, she threw in a log from a nearby pile. The two spirits kept on dancing with glee, while the flames begun to lick the new source of energy with a greedy haste.

These lands, the lands they call the Sword Coast, are restless. It appears as if many are constantly on the guard, waiting for something horrible to happen. I have visited the Gate, walked around and seen beggars and thieves. I’d like to think that others do not commit such acts unless in grave need, but at times I am pushed to think otherwise, were it because of something I witness myself, or something I hear whilst walking.

Walking. Indeed, it is something I have done a lot. First on the journey from my people, then here. Restlessness is seen in the lands’ people, for many do not appear to settle, instead they rush and push themselves to their limits in the name of training and fighting for the greater good. It is something I find myself admiring, yet there is always a feeling of tense exclusion. As if those around me were connected by invisible threads, but none ever connecting to myself. I see glimpses of it, though. When I look at others, I see things. Glimpses of who they are, what they have experienced. Who they truly are. Adallan once apologized to me for such – but it wasn’t something I understood. Such is who I am, and even if I at times wish for some of them to leave, to go away, I am not capable of hoping that I would no longer see, like there is no usefulness for a blind woman since birth to wish to gain their eyesight, but to live with what was given to them.

And such is what I choose to do. I live with the sight, and even if sometimes there are things I find hard, echoes and cacophony of voices, feelings and sights… I would not change it. Not for anything. For it is a part of me, this is who I am. What I am.

She finished the piece of writing with a sigh. Her eyes retuned into the fire. The two spirits were still locked into a dance, though now their rhythm was more slow and sleepy. Linetheil found herself becoming drowsy as she watched them. She looked down at the text and and back. “Writing is odd,” she spoke, and saw the two spirits stop for a moment. The tiny faces turned to meet hers, but soon they returned into the slow, lulling rhythm. The book’s page she was writing on fluttered, the corner gently flapping like wind had breezed on it. “I feel… like I have no clothes.” She spoke towards the fire, watching the spirits dance, “With every word I write down, I reveal a small piece of myself. Even if willing, there is still an uncomfortable feeling of being stripped down, to be bared before something.”

The fire was dying, she noted. The two spirits appeared to move in circles now, lazily gazing back at Linetheil as she spoke. She closed the book, gave a last glance to the page she had just written before tucking it into her backpack. She laid down on the lush green grass, amethyst orbs reflected the light of the million stars. She closed her eyes, then, and listened to the soft whispers of the spirits that moved about the area. And it was in that serenity that Linetheil found her own peace for the night.

[Jen Joy]

V. Ice and Shadows

Vast halls of Candlekeep; grey stone and bookshelves. Small tables, where readers, seekers and acolytes worked, day and night and light and dark, in their pursuit of knowledge. Linetheil wandered the halls in silence, careful not to disturb those that worked. Her boots gave out but soft clicks on the stone floor, eyes roamed the endless shelves. Few topics she understood something about, yet moreso of those that said nothing to her.

”…gifts they were given…”

Linetheil’s step halted at the odd hum of a voice. Amethyst orbs now trailed around the halls almost eerily silent. There was a thin woman, or at least she thought it was a woman, hunched over a parchment. Three beewax candles burned at the corner of her scribing table. Other than that, the number of people within the halls had grown fewer the deeper she roamed.

”… since banishment proclaimed…”

There was an arch of a doorway, about fourteen yards away from her. Thick, red curtains hung over it, releasing only a sliver of light to illuminate the hallway growing ever darker.

”…for darkening the light?”

With every step towards the curtains, the air became thicker. Or so Linetheil thought, for her breath caught in her throat, and moving forwards felt as though one had walked through spider webs – she couldn’t help but wave at the air before her. Something floated about at her hand’s movement, like when one moves their hand through a cloud of dust and the particles separate. These particles, though, were black, even darker than the hallway.

Or yet another secret, forever withheld?

The soft hum slowly faded into nothingness. Her fingers found the edge of the burgundy curtain. The satin felt surprisingly heavy when she went to move it to the side. Gentle lights of hundreds of candles assaulted her sight. Amidst them, she saw an elfling – or at least she thought it was an elfling, but the Fairer Folks’ age was notoriously hard to judge by appearances only. The male elf held gaze glued into large tome before him. Stark black hair framed his face. Candles were gathered around him to provide the best possible light.

She walked closer to the man, no sound came from her steps. Linetheil leaned over to peak at whatever it was the elf was reading, but the text was blurry and completely incomprehensible. It was as though the letters she was trying to look at were trembling on the paper, causing discord that echoed faintly around the room.

Her eyes turned from the tome to the elf. She regarded him in an odd sense of familiarity. ”Who are you?” she found herself asking, but her voice sounded muted, like she had listened to her own words from another room. In a brief rush of curiosity, she reached to move the veil of hair from blocking his face, but before her hand could touch him, his face turned towards her, silver eyes glaring back at her in such a way that left Linetheil feeling pierced by two daggers, staring right into her the depths of her.

I know your face, was but a fleeting thought in her mind, as Linetheil looked down upon the elfling. She closed the distance between her fingers and his face, and as her palm gently pressed against his cheek, and when she did it was as if her hand had been a rock thrown against a glass window; his pale complexion cracked, beginning from where the tips of her fingers had landed, trailing all around his face, even the whites of his eyes, and down, across his clothing. The cracks spread on the bench he was sitting, trailed from his hands to the tome he had laid his hand on. The table, candles one by one, the stone floor they stood upon, the wall; everything was soon covered in the odd crack that had just begun from Linetheil’s fingertips. She pulled her hand away, and watched as the small crack she had caused on the elf’s face begun to crumble his form, like the man was made but of glass that was now breaking. The sound echoed in the hall, grew stronger and stronger as first crumbled the elf, then the tome, the table, hundreds of candles. The walls of Candlekeep came crushing down in a fanfare of breaking glass.

A cold breeze blew: Linetheil couldn’t help but rub her arms. Even if she was quite comfortable, no matter the temperature, this wind was freezing, like Auril herself had descended into the lands and given her wrath upon the terrain. She turned her back towards the wind to shield herself from the shards of broken Candlekeep. The wind shifted and tossed the remnants about; she felt she sharp pain of being nicked, saw her robe taint with her blood. There was no pain.

It isn’t real, the realization touched the edges of her mind, but before she was able to fully process what that meant, a soft sob was carried over by the still blowing winds, though as if whatever it was that brought them had calmed down. Linetheil’s eyes searched and she turned to locate the sound of the voice. It was only then when she noted the terrain she stood upon; snow, vast lands of snow, glaciers and growing bergs of ice. It was white, so white she had to blink to see, blinded by the lightness.

She walked, left first footprints into the powdery snow. She watched how sharp, large icicles rose from the glacier, small lights, like shining gems, trapped within. With every step, the sob grew stronger, and Linetheil soon realized that none but a child could cause such sounds.

Behind an especially large icicle, in a small clearing framed by walls of ice and snow, was a block of white stone. On the stone sat a child, hair black as the night skies, his ears pointy. His feet dangled over the block, his little form huddled and curled up while his right hand furiously wiped his eyes. He was wearing a grey robe, but the red sash that tied around his waist cut a remarkable contrast.

Slowly, she edged towards the child, and while she got closer she could hear the elfling wheeze and huff as the sobs shook him. She sat beside him, the supposed coldness of the stone escaping her mind as she gently placed her hand upon the boy’s shoulder. He stilled, yet Linetheil could still hear soft sniffles. “What is wrong?” she found herself asking, and noted how her voice echoed in the small space they were encased in.

The elfling slowly turned to face her. He peered at her with silver eyes, dulled and red by all the crying. His face still held the roundness typical for children, yet the look in his eyes was that of bright intelligence.

It was soon that Linetheil realized, the boy wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he held a gaze that trailed past her rather than at her, like he was looking at something behind her. It was only then she realized that her back felt warm, warmer than it should in this weather, and she slowly turned around, to follow the elfling’s gaze.

Above the ground, above all the ice and snow, even the winds, there was something. Perhaps, Linetheil thought, this was the sun of this world, whatever the world was that she was in. But right after the thought made way into her mind, it was replaced by that of a realization. It wasn’t something that was hovering in the air above her. It was someone.

Tendrils of something black, shadowy substance circled the unearthly pale elf’s naked skin, licking greedily along the glowing flesh, piercing it through and wrapping around his calves, middle and arms. There was one in particular Linetheil’s eyes turned to regard; a black tendril, mixed with the red of blood, piercing through the small hollow between his two ribs and the flesh of his back, slithering up towards his neck and curling around the base of his throat.

Yet, the elf hovered unwaveringly still. He had closed his eyes, and there was almost a serene look upon his face, an expression so unwavering it made him become statuesque to look upon. The tendrils around him tightened their hold, slithered about and reached out towards the surroundings. At first, it was slow, like the tendrils were lazily testing the air, but in a quick succession they pierced down, dug through all the ice, snow and rock of the surface, deep into the earth. Low rumble echoed deep within the ground, the terrain shook beneath them, and as it begun to break and turn into nothing more but shadow and broken ice and stone, Linetheil clung the boy close to her person, and closed her eyes.

~

The night awoke her to crickets and hooting owls. Her eyes travelled across the plains and finally settled on the edge of the cliff, beneath which she could see the sea reflecting the light of thousand stars. She felt warm and comfortable, yet there was a heaviness in her body she couldn't quite repel. Her eyes fluttered, exhaustion seemed to press her tighter against the soft grass.

”I cannot help but wonder… what made you who you are?” the lonely thought tugged at the edge of her consciousness, as Linetheil’s mind too succumbed to the exhaustion, and black sleep overtook her for the remaining hours of the night.

[Jen Joy]

VI. Aquamarine

Her line drifted across the water’s surface. A fish nibbled on it, but it evaded the hook just as she was about to tug on it.

Fish. Slimy little, twitching things. Reminds me of most of the population here, actually. The Thayan man adjusted the fabric of his rich, red robes. He leaned a bony elbow against his thigh, and placed his knuckles under a straight jaw. Amber eyes glared haughtily at Linetheil’s way. Do we truly have naught better to do?

Linetheil shifted her gaze towards the apparition, saw one of the coal-accented eyebrows shift slightly. Oh, come now, Tharos. Certainly, even you have once in your life relaxed. Or is it the years of tenseness and having a staff up your cute, boney bottom that still holds you up, despite your diet probably consisting of angry words and snide remarks? Linetheil shifted back, to see the woman gingerly shift the hem of her blue dress, while she stood on the water next to the cork marking the place of her hook, blue eyes turned to peer down. Besides, fishing can be quite fun. Oh, there’s one right there! The woman pointed down, then quietly lifted a finger up towards Linetheil. She waved the finger once, then twice, and on the third she made a wide arch, bending her knees and then rising on her tiptoes for the largest possible range of a wave. In unison with the woman’s movement, Linetheil pulled a Red Snapper into shore, threw it amongst the other fishes already caught and put another bait into her hook. She heard the Thayan sigh behind, loud and exaggerated.

Ngh. Who are you, anyway? Tharos snapped at the woman, before looking at Linetheil. I thought this Club was exclusive in its members, but it appears you drag in whatever you happen come across like a hunting house cat… He gave the woman in blue an appraising gaze, though it was more as if he was peering down at some rotten meat he’d just found on his plate.

“Sir Tharos, please,” Linetheil muttered while she lightly tugged on her line. “Refrain speaking from her in that manner – though, he is correct,” she herself would now regard the woman with a small but warm smile, “This one thinks she never received your name in that maze.”

The woman kept her skirts up with two hands, bare feet showing beneath as she walked towards the shore. She plopped down next to Linetheil whilst her eyes regarded the horizon. Does it really matter anymore? she then asked, turning her eyes to regard Linetheil, a small glint in them, It is only a remnant of who I was whilst still alive. I died that day, in that maze, and was burned and eaten by the bulls. And I would have remained there, trapped, had you friends and you not made right of what was wrong.

“And in return you gifted me with your power,” Linetheil spoke softly, and found herself bowing her head, in respect or humbleness, perhaps a bit of both. “For that, a thank you must be said.”

The Thayan stood up from his spot by the log, staff appeared into his hands from the thin air, materializing by the air’s thickening. He used it as an aid, albeit more for show than actual need, as he walked over to the two women. The woman does have a point, he pronouncend clearly, almost as if making a declaration of a rare occurrence. A pact has been made on many sides. I, too, gave you a gift in exchange of vengeance. Yet, where is my thank you? he halted behind the two of them, his willowy form curled to bend over them like a shadow whilst amber eyes gleamed at Linetheil. She shook her head mildly at the wizard’s antics, turned her gaze towards the sea when a fish tugged on her hook once again.

“Haven’t you already had all the gratitude? Besides, this one thinks vengeance is hardly a suitable word. We were in need, and you helped, even if it was to your own means. Truly, for that, a thank you is deserved,” she spoke to the wizard, her tone kind when she did. Tharos huffed and raised his jaw whilst his form straightened to the full six feet of height, and the man then proceeded to leisurely stroll around the beach in contemplation.

Linetheil turned to regard the apparition of the woman beside her. “If it is not your old name that you wish to use, perhaps it is a new one we must make?” she inquired softly. A fish tugged again on the hook, but she felt too distracted to pay too much mind on it. Perhaps the little creature would gain a bellyful of food. The other woman appeared to mull the thought over, yet soon nodded to the idea. Yes, I would like that, she said. The three fell into a silence, each of them pondering a suitable name to suggest.

To all of their surprise, it was the Thayan who spoke first, Aquamarine. The two women turned to regard him, confusion reflecting in both of their eyes. Excuse me? the woman in blue asked, followed by Linetheil’s incoherent humming in a questioning manner. The colour of your eyes. Aquamarine,the Thayan repeated, irritation seeping into his voice. He huffed and turned away from the two women, and soon enough his form withered into the air in mist of red and yellow.

The woman turned her eyes towards Linetheil, who responded to her gaze with a warm smile, “Aquamarine,” she said to the woman, her voice but a quiet hum. “That is a wonderful name.”

…Yes, yes it is.

[Jen Joy]

VII. Two Hearts

She found the two birds during the evening. One of them, a beautiful, white male, was cradled by some dead leaves, his neck twisted unnaturally to the side, an arrow still sticking through his body. The other one, also white but smaller and more petite female, danced around the male’s body. She cooed sadly, small head bobbing to the side in a movement that for the woman’s eyes looked more panicking than anything else.

Linetheil kneeled down on the forest ground, watched the still living dove take a quick flight to the side, though it didn’t spur far; instead, she landed on a tree nearby, black eyes gleamed as they peered down at the woman, who cradled the dove into her arms in a tender gesture. Linetheil pulled the arrow off with a swift movement, watched the dead dove’s body jerk and gently stroked the soft feathers.

“An adventurer must have missed their shot,” she spoke whilst looking at the arrow, the type of it one she had seen many times used whilst fighting. “I am sorry for what happened to you,” her tone was a soft whisper, while she held the bird in her arms. Amethyst eyes gazed at the other dove on the branch, met the black onyx eyes. Mate? she shifted her body, a soft coo arising from her throat.

The dove fluttered it wings and moved from side to side on the thin branch. Her feet clung comfortably on the bark, though as she sprinted into another flight the branch shook under the sudden shift of pressure. Leaves ruffled as though responding in the dove’s stead, while she landed just a short distance from Linetheil. The dove hopped again, from side to side, came forth and then moved back, cautiousness evident in her steps.

No hurt. Hungry? Linetheil felt another coo rise up from her throat. In a fluid motion, she set down the dead dove by her side, hand seeking the strap of her backpack which she pulled down her shoulder. The female dove took another step closer, head twisting from side to side as it found its way over to the dead male. A sorrowful coo erupted from the animal’s pink beak, while it again turned to regard Linetheil’s amethyst eyes.

The woman reached for the loaf of bread she had just baked in the morning, broke a piece from it and crumbled it on the forest floor before her. She indicated her head to the dove, a respectful and humble nod in the offering’s direction. Another coo, a fluttery of wings, while the dove made her way towards the crumbs and begun to feed. Neither of them made a sound.

Amethyst eyes captured the last remains of the evening sun; Linetheil regarded the dead bird by her side, though she couldn’t stop her eyes from drifting to the dove that was now hungrily pecking on the crumbs. In the distance, Aquamarine stood, the eyes that had given the woman her name trained on Linetheil and her bird companion. The two women exchanged a gaze of mutual understanding.

”I know,” Linetheil muttered, felt the unsaid statement linger between them, whilst her eyes turned towards the dove. “Zuo’hh celjeln brin ad elctonel hucelhicelll iterum,” the whispered words that left her mouth were like soft echoes of bells, ringing in the air as the incantation slipped between her lips, her heart yearning to make a companionship with the dove, now left alone in the world.

The dove lifted her head up, and when the onyx pearls gazed at Linetheil, she felt warmth spreading within her.

Celestial: “Zuo’hh celjeln brin ad elctonel hucelhicelll iterum.”//You’ll never have to endure loneliness again.
Also, tweaks and updates on the bio, information about the Dove added.

[Jen Joy]

VIII. Restoration

It was dark; an unnatural darkness that had swept over the lands, but despite small shimmers of light emerged, played with the senses of light and dark. He watched the coin-sized glitters move up and about, darting left and right, between his legs and around his head, form vague images that only remotely reminded him of something, or someone he was certain he should have known, yet the thought was as brief as the wind that fluttered the wings during winter – or was it summer? He couldn’t be certain anymore.

The disorientation made his legs wobbly: his body felt heavier than it had for a long time. Perhaps as such, it felt easy to give in to the pull. He sat down on the dark, earthy ground, spread a palm wide and felt the texture of the grass. It was only when his back touched the same grass when he found his eyes staring upwards, felt how the lands and skies rolled around lazily, spun around him like he was the centre of all that existed.

How long he laid there? He wasn’t certain. He didn’t know if he was sleeping, he didn’t know if he was awake. His eyes were open, or perhaps closed, while the darkness around him twisted and changed forms, hid him into the endless night of the plains. A rather comfortable feeling, her surmised. He wasn’t in a hurry. Or at least didn’t think he was. Where would he have gone? Had he always been here? The lines between then and now was blurry; he simply couldn’t remember…

It was naught but a soft, warming light at first. He probably would not have even noticed it, had it not grown brighter as the moments passed by. A lonely ember, moving in the darkness, forcing it to repel from its way as it grew. Wisps of light weaved around the apparition, like coloured smoke, creating a soft illumination around the surroundings. His eyes narrowed; the light was bright, so strong… Comforting, warm… The thoughts felt like whispers in the void wind.

It edged closer to him, and as it did he lazily rolled on his side, used the ground beneath as a leverage to push half of his unwilling body up. The light halted, only some three feet between them, and when it did he saw something extend towards him; at first, it seemed naught but a burst of light making its way over to him, yet whilst he kept on staring he realized it wasn’t just a formless light.

A hand, small and petite, was reaching out, palm turned up. It was an offering, an invitation. Heat spread through his bones, repelling the cold he hadn’t even noticed was there until this very moment: a peculiar warmth that begun from somewhere within the deepest parts of him. Perhaps it was this apparition, who had awoken such a motion within, or possibly was even responsible for it. He didn’t know, but to be honest he couldn’t find a moment to care either. All he could do was stare at the apparition, the extended hand, and feel.

The hand retreated in a brief movement, as though thinking the offer was in vain, but then extended further and came down; so did the light, like the apparition was crouching before him. Soft bells rung in the darkness, but it was the voice that finally moved his own hand to grab hers, a voice so soft, but laced with the greatest of affirmations,

“It is not yet your time.”

[Jen Joy]

IX. Aftermath

Linetheil’s step was deliberately slow as she strolled along the coastline, eyes directed at the sea; she certainly was not in a hurry to go back, not after what she had seen. The dream, it had been even more vivid than most. Even if trying to ignore the unpleasant nagging, the odd crawl that poured all over her skin, when she closed her eyes all she could see was the creature. The creature that was so… wrong, in so many dimensions it almost overwhelmed the woman’s mind. She saw the wings of limbs, smelled the rot that emanated from it, the rot it was made of. She could feel the gaze that trailed over her, a worthy opponent.

No, not her. Him. She had looked by her side, seen the glimmer of light, a lonely hope in the darkness of decay and twisted undeath.

She halted on the sand, eyes trailed into the pitch-black horizon. Mists of spirits, coloured in blue, purple and white, trailed above the water’s surface; they manifested into a bodily shape, though as it often was the effect lasted but a short moment in time before their forms whisked back into the vague mist.

You are disappearing again, a feminine voice called out, the tone soft, yet there was a firm statement in it. Linetheil didn’t have to look to see who it was that approached her: she had already felt the woman’s presence as she had begun her walk. Yet, while the words were said, Linetheil’s gaze turned to look down upon her right hand. Perhaps she should not have been surprised, to see the ground and the foam of the sea through the petite fingers and now partially transparent hardel.

She turned her hand palm up, but as she did her fingers clutched tightly, and they met the fine leather of a grip, whilst light illuminated from the holy blade her arm gripped. There was a booming sound of groans, moans and screams, the sound of a heavy, dragging step, a slush when the step smacked against a pool of blood.

Linetheil’s eyes shot up, yet they weren’t hers; she stared at the creature, eye to eye, a creature so fearsome – but there was no fear. Indeed, a strange serenity had overcome her, a peace arising from knowledge. The Dawn would always come.

And she attacked.

The disorientation was sudden, the world around her spun in a quick heap of lights and a splash. Amethyst eyes darted downwards, only to see her bare foot and the hem of her humble robe covered by the salty water of the sea. That bad, huh? the feminine voice spoke again. Linethil’s eyes turned to meet the woman’s. Her brown hair was still braided and rested over one shoulder, the luxurious material of her blue dress flowed in the wind. Even when she turned, the mists of her ghostly form swirled lazily about, telling Linetheil that she wasn’t fully manifesting before the Seer.

“This one is fine. She only needs to rest for a moment,” Linetheil whispered, the words barely audible. Aquamarine’s brows shot up. You did send the Dove to him, did you not? she asked, watching Linetheil as the woman sat down on the beach, still rubbing her temples from the sudden impact of the sight.

“Illeria. Her name is Illeria,” Linetheil managed to mutter. Her voice felt tighter than usual. She nodded once. “I did”, she admitted. Amethyst met light blue, and she saw Aquamarine shake her head in amusement. Little Seer, you are quite an oddling, aren’t you? Then, what is the worst that could take place, if only you requested to meet him, and asked?

Instead of responding, Linetheil simply regarded the horizon and waited for the sun to rise.

Tweaking, editing, profile refining, credits added.

[Jen Joy]

X. Flashes of Life

…A boy with the broken leg of a stool, fighting against someone who was supposed to take care of him. He might have won his battle, yet was now a soul, forever bound…

…A woman clad in dark clothes. She sits beside the man, stares up at him. He doesn’t see her. A ballroom, a dance. She was hung by her neck until she was dead…

…Shadows surround him. Dark mist, no beginning nor an end. She can’t see him, his form remains hidden, like he was never there at all…

… A man on a walk during a bright summer day. Dead leaves trail his footsteps, red leaves of a maple tree grow brown and quickly rot away…

…A pack of white wolves, howling towards the skies, celebrating the unity of being One. A lonely wolf wanders, reaches a comfortable spot upon a large patch of moss. He sniffs the air and curls up as the night takes over him…

…A woman, lying in bed, tended by a man with strings of red about his wrists. He leaves, another one comes. His voice is but a whisper in the dark room, "By my hand, your pain shall go away. Sleep now, my love."…

… A man in a ballroom. Lavish skirts, laughter and music that echoes deep into the night. He stands in a corner, fingers browsing through the pages of a book…

… A lion, translucent and glowing in bright gold, alone in the darkness. He battles against his own kind, locked in a fierce war for justice. Emerging victorious, the lion roars...

… Screaming children. Running women. A peasant boy trips, his body quickly succumbing to the hordes of shadowy imagineries rushing over him. She stops, looks to her right. A man, wielding a blade, but crushed under the weight of the world…

… A beautiful, blond woman hunched over a book. A single tear runs down her cheek, fingers clench the page she reads, tearing it off…

… Two children run in a lush forest of hundreds of shades of green, pine trees, stone and moss. One of then trips. A bear jumps from between two wild spruces…

… A flickering flame of blue, red and black. It bursts in anger, yet retreats. Another, smaller ember approaches. It is soothing, melts and calms the anger down, but then lashes out itself…

… A man resembling a mountain, unruly hair whisking about untamed in the cold Northern winds. He stands up from watching a fire and gazes South. His heart fleets before his feet walk…

… A woman before a portal. She reaches out, her hand obliterates by the shock of energy. She pulls back. A click, a twist. Her mechanical arm folds to allow her jaw to rest against the metallic fingers…

… A cry of a babe, born from a woman nestled between two branches of an ancient oak. The she-wolf of a warrior bares her teeth in pain and determination, fingers clutching on the grip of a bastard sword. Darksteel gleams in the soft light, the babe opens her eyes. They are bright amethyst in colour.

~

I think she’s gone again., a voice muttered quietly.

Well, isn’t that very… Linetheilisque of her, the snarky comment was made a moment after the first one. The woman in question fluttered her eyes.

There are times when we all need a moment to contemplate on the past and the present. Such helps us decide for the future. The masculine sound was smooth and soft.

Linetheil’s eyes flew open. Faster than she ever knew her body could move, the small woman turned around. That voice, an incoherent echo voiced at the back of her mind. A rush of energy, shards of memories flying together rapidly. His voice. A shock of warm, electric flow shot up her spine and spread through her body, the feeling of warmth, kindness and, most importantly, familiarity echoing all around her.

He was just like she remembered. Standing only some inches taller than her, the man before her was fragile of make. He still wore his white robes. His hand rested against the shepherd staff he had grown to use during his later years to aid when his legs begun to give out under his weight. Locks of light gold were tousled, some of them falling over his eyes, the rest reaching barely his shoulders. Age showed upon his face, but so did the ever-present light. It was the eyes, though, which Linetheil found most comfort with. One amethyst, clear and bright and twinkling, still able to awake that soul-piercing feeling when he looked upon her. And the other a white pearl, already grown dull with time.

Linetheil opened her mouth, but found the word there stuck. It came out in a strangled, hoarse whisper, a sound the woman didn’t even know she could make.

”Uncle.”

This is the tenth post, and while at it, a small tribute to all of you whom I have had pleasure RPing with. Thank you!

[Jen Joy]

XI. Unknown

”. . .She was no different than you. . .”

What had brought her back here? What was the catalyst pushing her feet towards the coast she had once passed? Into a territory which in all of its familiarity felt strange, unknown?

In the maze, two figures wandered, one following another. One seen, kicking rubble and avoiding the passing shadows. Another taller, unseen, standing between the boundary of two dimensions.

”. . .A practioner of divinations once. . .”

The words were a lightning from a blue sky – a revelation of soft words from the depths of the maze. She carried many names – the Seer, Mediumness, Soothsayer, and now a Diviner – yet those were but words used by others to give a name to something abstract that was easy to muddle even the minds of those most skilled. In her mind, she simply was, as there was no other way she knew.

”. . . Sadly through her study she learned more and more. . .”

Where did you delve, so that your soul touched the foresight that drove you mad with ambition – the will to have others listen, to defile the circles of life in pursuit of ears that would hear you?

What are these sights that you have seen? Delusions of a mind that touched too deep, manipulations of a greater force that clutched you into its black claws.?

A reality that is yet to take place?

”. . .of the dark futures that might dawn upon her and the world ahead. . .”

Are you a message for this one in turn? A warning of a potential path, if her feet do not step carefully now? A reflection of a mirror what this one might become, were she to stumble and fall and lose her road? Or an omen, a destiny of something that is to come – one she ought to embrace despite her unwillingness for such?

Maybe a contrast of colours, another side of the coin. What could had been had she not been blessed by the stars, the sun and the light?

Why had the fate decided to pull her here, to wander after a spirit haunted by the past memories of delving too deep into what could be?

"I have little doubt you had no choice in your place in the world."

Perhaps. Though how many did, in the end? How many were but the sum of those that had crossed their paths, an illusion of control formed by the determined feet that were seemingly decided by the mind that clung to the notion of I, me, mine? All in the end were but droplets in the sea, her own grasp of individuality included.

Still, she found herself pitying those who turned that lack of choice into a hatred of the self, for she struggled to fathom such a thought. All she could offer was the gentle salve or mercy – to believe when there was no one else there to do it for them. Hope that one day things would be different.

"You are content with this, but couldn’t that be because you don’t know anything else?"

Anything else? Your words are spoken so freely, yet you are quick to step back, fearing the words have struck like the blades you wield so skilfully. You have your companions on route – the fate’s strings have tied together the old and worn, the young and tender, the hurt and the invisible.

This one is but a messenger, a wanderer, a memory whose path has for now crossed yours.

"Everyone is a hero in their own story."

Perhaps this one should have realised the omen your words carried at the time, spoken from a table with a cup of nuts and parchments for days. The villain changes in accordance to who is writing the script.

Yet, would you slay the monster if it stared at you from the eyes you already knew – eyes that have stood by your side in battle?

. . .Would you kill this one. . .

. . . If she so asked. . .

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Everything is possible in the realms we live.

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((Also slight updates to the bio!))

[Jen Joy]

XII. Gone

For the next day or more, were one attempting to call on Linetheil, they would find the woman simply. . . missing. No Sending can reach her, no trace of her steps is present in the Coast she usually wanders. Her beloved dove, Illeria, can be seen flickering around, cooing miserably for the lost woman, yet she soars through the skies, at times setting itself to perch on various branches and fences, dark eyes peering about in search of a grey robe.

((Thank you, DM Bloodvine.))

[Jen Joy]

XIII. Not over yet

White wings flutter, a Dove soars across the skies. Spotting a familiar, grey hood, it lands on the lowest branch of a nearby tree, carrying a message – and something else.

The grey hood turns towards the bird. She exhales: a tired, relieved breath but a whisper in the winds. She reaches for the animal and unwraps the gift. Her fingers hold the long, black feather, and as she tilts the artifact between her fingers, the light of the morning touches the glossy surface. Unfolding the note reveals the elegant handwriting, the caring words within. A small smile touches Linetheil’s lips. The note is carefully folded, tucked into a pouch, the same that holds a wooden lyre pinned to the leather. The woman continues her wander along the Trade Way. The Dove takes flight, trailing her step in the joy that is to be reunited with one’s companion.

. . . Know that wherever you go, you are not alone . . .

. . . We all trust you. . .

. . . She will be, where she needs to be, as she does. . .

. . . I came to save you, but it was... the opposite . . .

. . . Thank you so much kindred . . .
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It is not over yet. . . but perhaps it will be, one day.

For now, this one must wander.

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((Thank you, DM Bloodvine, for making this moment so special. Thank you, everyone, who was a part of the events that unfolded. Without you, there would not be a story to tell.))