[SWE] Deliverance

Worse than the wrath of an indifferent god is the wrath of that same god once his attention has been roused.

And oh, but had the blight gotten Vi's attention.

With the brightest star in his sky at risk of winking out - and despite Safrin's thoughts upon the matter, that was a mighty weight upon his shoulders - and death and sickness upsetting the balance between his realm and Mort's, Vi had spent much of Longheat and Leafchange as a shadow upon Rae's doorstep.

For the twin gods of Nature wished to see how this panned out. They did not understand, no, that this was unnatural, that this did not occur, this had been caused, and by no less than the Voice and her ilk.

It had taken a long time and his temper had frayed more than once (causing some particularly spectacular lightning storms on those nights) but finally, a plan had been created, a verdict reached. Regrettably, there had been all too much life in Leafchange to commit to it then.

No, Rae had suggested waiting for the world to hibernate, for the cold and the dark to sap the energy from the Greatwood, and thus slow the spread of the blight. Now Deepfrost was here, and the Shrine within the Wildwood bloomed with blood red roses, their thorns glinting golden like treasure against the snow.

For any who entered the shrine, they would be compelled by some unknown force to tend to Vi's task, whilst the God of Life gave his energy to the flowers all around. Unless, of course, they were blighted. Then their feelings towards this panacaea might be little less benevolent.

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This thread relates to {SWE} Blighted - please refer to this for further instruction!

VI

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NEPHELE

down in the forest we'll sing chorus

Nephele is not the soul of the most devout faith in the Village. She is too enamored with the science of it all, with figuring out the earthly puzzles her Gods have encrypted into the smallest pieces of creation itself. Where they move mountains and make miracles, Nephele pursues the knowledge they leave behind for mortals to decipher. It had never bothered her before, still raised to cherish and worship the Gods of the world she has always known.

Now...

The Blight was an infection she could not parse, could not fight. And when Eriadne began to show signs, began to change in ways Nephele knew she never would, her heart plummeted straight down to the core of the earth. All her efforts had been useless. She was still so young, so useless. No magic nor mettle, no mind of greatness to find the solution she so desperately needed.

So here she is, desperation turning the scientist back to the soul-path. Neph had trusted the Old Gods her entire life, decades of passing devotion. Perhaps she had not been as devoted as they wanted, but she had no other choice now. Nephele needed their counsel, even just the strength of the Shrine that would drift over her like an ocean. And so she alights upon the earth, shriveling and decaying as it may be. Grips her own arms to contain the shiver of fear, of defeat, that crawls up her skin. And enters.

The world around her brightens with such bloodletting that it stuns her for a moment, wings fluttering nervously at her back. It is...well, it's gorgeous. A well of life, a sign of hope, and Nephele can't help the tears of relief that drip down her cheeks. Without questioning the pull that directs her forward, she falls to her knees more than kneels. Digs her hand into her satchel for her spade - a crudely but creatively made tool from a scapula of a deceased animal. And she begins to dig, carefully navigating around roots, working herself into a sweat that she ignores in her fervor. Whatever drives her doesn't matter. She believes in Vi, and whatever Vi wills, she will perform.

When she has three, palms bleeding and spade chipped, she heaves herself to her feet and rushes out, taking immediately to the skies.

She will help fix this.

the wounds are open and bleeding out

Ronin stood at the edge of the Shrine, his hands shoved in his pockets, darkened eyes flicking from rose to rose. His lip curled at the sight of them, that they had managed to bloom, untainted, from this wellspring of life. How he had come to feel such disgust for a sight so pure was no longer something he really understood. But it was disgust he felt, low in the pit of his belly, churning his gut and setting his hair on edge.

Too little too late. Where had this been a season ago, when they might have been healthy enough to do something about it? His teeth clenched hard, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Ronin stood at the edge of the Shrine... but he also prowled around it, too. His astral projection would make it seem as though he had not moved, whilst he sought out one of the beautiful crimson flowers - and crushed it underfoot. Crushed it until it withered and died, mangling into the frozen earth.

Exhaling a breath that clouded the air before him, unsure if he felt better or not, he glanced up at the sight of something - someone exiting the Shrine with an armful of roses. A growl rose up, low and furious in his throat. Silently he pursued, his projection flickering out behind him.

THE

FALLEN STAR

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LOREN

As an Abandoned, Loren was not one prone to praying. Indeed, the gods had never once seen fit to answer his prayers, which he supposed was justice for the Launceleyn abandoning those who the divine beings cherished far more than he. Still, that had not stopped the summoner from coming out to every shrine he thought might be linked to a god that could help him help those he cared about. He was rather good at setting his own fears and discomforts aside in order for the sake of others.

Mostly, he’d been going to a shrine in the Hollowed Grounds, a beautiful ring of stones nestled in the heart of a glade. However, he’d been asking around, and heard that there was one in the heart of the Wildwood as well. Willing to try pretty much anything at this point, Loren had decided to see whether the gods were more receptive in the heart of the Fae lands for some reason. There wasn’t much logic there, but religion was the realm of faith, something the summoner only really had in those he was closest to, not a higher power. But he was willing to believe in anyone and anything that could stop this blight.

As he made his way through the Wildwood—hoping all the while that he wouldn’t be turned away—Loren was saddened to see the once great forest reduced to its current state. Even though he’d never seen the woods in their prime, these blight-ridden trees could not possibly compare to the majesty the woods displayed when they were whole and healthy. It lent an urgency to his steps, and he picked his way through the trunks more quickly. Time to see if he was capable of following the directions he was given and navigate through this forest that didn't necessarily want him.

Then he emerged into the shrine and every other thought was banished from his mind. The shrine, which was covered in statues of beings of all sorts, was a riot of color and life, the likes of which the Launceleyn had never seen before. It took his breath away. But it also, strangely enough, filled him with a sense of purpose; he stepped into the shrine with the same sense of urgency in him, but now it was given direction and form, somehow, when before it had been at least partially wild.

Although he was loathe to disturb the beauty of the god’s work here (for surely it had to be the work of a god), Loren knew he had to call upon his magic. So he created a trowel, then looked around for the best roses he could find. Already, one had been crushed, whether by carelessness or maliciousness he did not know. Still, it filled him with a fury that he’d seldom felt, something again at odds with the serenity of the shrine. After that, he stepped more carefully among the blooms, kneeling only when he fond the ones that called to him. Using his tool, he carefully lifted them, dirt still attached in most cases, whole and complete and perfect, and placed them gingerly in his pack. Then he stood, and carefully hurried his way out of the glade.

Loren had work to do, and now that he knew what was necessary, it would be done.

A beggar's book

outworths

a noble's blood

what good is it live with nothing left to give?

There was some horrific juxtaposition between his blighted husband and the magical rose. Like blood from a unicorn there were simply things meant not to be, and yet as the hunter stalked away, the alchemist could see that indeed it was so; the rose crushed amidst the snow.

He'd not follow Ronin of course (not immediately anyway). Instead, kneeling down with a soft frown on his lips and nearly-ingrained sadness in his eyes, the alchemist's fingers reached out towards the crushed petals and broken stalk. Magic poured from him even as tears stung the back of his eyes. Biting on his lower lip to keep his whispery panic at bay, Remi forced the flower back to life as if this small offering could in any way be made global.

If I can fix this, I can fix you.

But he couldn't, and he knew it.

"Please.." Remi whispered as he picked up the rose, and then another, and another. "..please..don't go again.."

forget but not forgive, not loving all you see

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IANTO

sometimes love can kill a man

Ianto watched them come and go from a snow covered branch high above the shrine, his crimson feathers ruffled, cardinal's song muted for now. He felt it too, of course, Vi's call to action, and he was encouraged even more so by his godmother. Where the lady of the forest was currently he did not know, but with her presence so distant he was fully entranced by the God of Life and his instructions.

And so, fluttering down from the branches, the red bird became a puff of orange, the fox shaking snow from his fur and sniffing about the roses. Careful paws would dig three from the frozen ground, roots and all, taking them gently in his jaws before trotting off again, deep into the forest.

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The raven wheeled above the leafless branches, blue eyes sharp and hard as he sought prey far below. He wasn't hungry - hadn't been hungry for weeks now, each day bringing less and less appetite - but there was something intensely satisfying about the crack of bone and scent of blood in the air, watching the light fade from panicked eyes of mice and rabbits and smaller birds. Once the thought had been repugnant to him, but now... Now he couldn't remember why he had ever cared.

The movement that caught his eye was russet-orange, bright against the snow. A fox trotted away, carrying something red and green and gold in its mouth. Though he idly considered dropping down and trying to take whatever it was away from the creature, the raven's attention was drawn to the direction the fox had come from. Angling his wings he skimmed down, dipping through the skeletal fingers that stretched to the sky in endless supplication and backwinging to a halt as he found a garden growing bright and lush in the middle of Deepfrost.

It was a beautiful curiosity, a miracle of winter. The roses were gorgeous, bursting with life and vitality. A vitality that the bard had found lacking in himself for far too long now. The unnatural plants were not miracle so much as mockery, and the raven hissed as he dropped from his branch to tear apart the first one he found, shredding the petals with sharp talons and then turning his beak to savaging the stem, the hard bone of it impervious to the golden thorns. He sat panting on the snow when his frenzy subsided, but a field of the plants remained to mock him still and he let out a pained, angry cry, knowing that he lacked the strength to destroy them all.

He flung himself skyward once more, impotent rage not truly burned out but merely banked as he strove to put distance between himself and the damned garden. He might not be able to destroy all the roses here, but if I found them elsewhere...

Now, where did that meddling fox get off to?

AMALIA

meet me where the falling stars live

Vi.

Amalia feels the pull of him on her soul, the presence of her beloved god in the marrow of her bones. She has been waiting for this moment, for Deepfrost to fall, for the time to arrive when the world would be saved- and oh, she knows it will be saved, has faith and trust in Vi. She has spent her nights praying, her days preparing, the moments of quiet contemplating what will happen and what she must do, how she can possibly help.

Now that the time has at last arrived the girl is quick to answer the call, though not the first, it seems. On star-touched wings she flies into the Greatwood, Jyoti beside her and silent for once, the gravity of the situation not lost upon the starwhale. Together they make their way to the shrine, descending slowly to land on the ground, the Shield shifting to otter form as her claws touch down on earth, her dark eyes wide with wonder.

There are roses scattered around the shrine, red as blood with thorns of gold, the most beautiful blooms she has ever seen save her own flower of Vi. With nimble claws she tears into the earth, delicately uprooting three of the roses and taking them into her grip.

With a prayer of gratitude and a promise to do all she can, Amalia shifts back into an owl, taking the trio of roses with her

i will wait for you all day and night

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DEIMOS

Deepfrost loomed; a time for mountainous creatures and cretins, a spread of moments in which he’d otherwise thrive, used to the chilling, stark ruminations in his bones, used to the compelling, cold wind blowing through his feathers. Except now the blight plunged and bit, and Long Night pressed, and everything seemed to combine into harrowing efforts, courting, calling for strength, conviction, and persistence – some he had in spades, some he had in miniscule tandems.

But the Greatwood, the shrine, called to them, ink black and dying, a reflection of the diseased inhabitants, choking, cloaking, smothering, and suffocating, and he flew into the asphyxiating stretch with talons outstretched, with eagle claws and ambitions. Noble, blistering, part abandoned, part attuned, all stalwart and staunch, he landed along snow and rime, tucking plumage against himself to inspect.

Roses; flowers that otherwise wouldn’t signify anything to him at all, except they were blood-red, gilded thorns, and he could see others roaming, looming closer, hackles raised with their scalding intentions. Take them the void called, and without questioning the intentions, the reasons, his talons grabbed hold of three, ensuring they were taut, rigid, clutched in his grasp, before taking flight, striving to fulfill a purpose.

"who's gonna let you?"

they asked. i said

"who's gonna stop me?"

if there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes

i know you wanna go to heaven

He feels the draw, and it pulls him closer and closer, until he happens across a crowd gathering. Eyes immediately slip toward the roses that sprout around the shrine; red, like blood, like rubies, like tear-filled eyes. He inhales deeply, following the command, following the gathering, reaching the bushes where the roses are. He understands what they’re for, understands that it might be a fix, a cure. And he imagines that it’s the least he can do, to help keep this world he finds himself in safe.

After all, he has Lusea back. In a new place. Without his father. Without the world around them full of smoke, floods, and death.

He can’t exactly do any of those, if the world ends up crashing down upon him. And with that in mind, he kneels among the snow – recalling that this was what Phoebe had told him of before, that he hadn’t seen, that he hadn’t learned about in the depths of Korofi. He can feel it melt beneath the heat of his knees, and a chill crawls up his spine, but he doesn’t stop until he has three roses uprooted in his hands.

And then he leaves to fulfill the wish.

but you're human tonight

SUNJATA

BASTIEN

The Blight had been a tragedy that so far had only touched Bastien's life through Ronin, as far as he knew; though he knew as well as any how quickly and terribly an illness could spread. There was a chance to do something...even if he was Ascended, which he realised could be a dirty word at the moment.

But the people liked him, right?

With his usual cocky smile, he walked to the shrine, taking the roses as he was compelled to do. He took them gently, his fingers soft and tender as if the touch was an apology on behalf of his people.

We're aware they're trying to take away our dreams

MELITA

You can’t let them something in her blood stirred. You can’t let them an anthem, an echo, a reverberation beneath her skin, swallowing, consuming, devouring her movements. There was no little honeybee girl lingering on the surface now, too much fire, too much vitriol, too much blackened madness pulsing and pervading, like knives and daggers, like the staff held in her hand, Stygian and unattainable. She practically slithered and crawled along the ground, body low, a feral hiss on her tongue, below her breath, simmering, smoldering, in her brutal haze, mind too twisted to recall what she’d been doing when she wandered out into her yard and down into the pathways, barefoot and bewildered.

There was no compassion in her gaze. There were no heartfelt, exuberant ploys in her steps. Each motion seemed a little manic, a bit savage, ruffian, wild, Fangorn at her heels with vicious yaps and growls, too bonded and broken, fettered at the frayed ends just like his companion. She launched towards one of the roses – locked in her sights – impulsive and impetuous again, but all the more blistering and seething, nothing holding her back, animalistic, carnivore. Then she raised her staff and brought it down upon something beautiful, something pure, something vital, laughing when it fell apart beneath her power.

See I've come to burn your kingdom down

PHOEBE

The call came and Phoebe answered, feet pushing through rather than over the top of the snow. Cheeks stained black as her lips, streaked in her hair, staining the whites of her eyes. She is tattered and wet and unkempt, a wraith amongst the undead as she trudges towards the shrine. Ever at her side remained the pink dragon, eyes shifting, teeth bared, ever protecting the wraith of a woman at his side. She is feral but weak, yet he more than makes up for her lack of claw and fang.

Ghastly wide eyes scan over the shrine, feet pulling to a stop at the edge of the bastien of life. Her lips curl in disgust, trembling fingers tensing, prepared to rip and claw. Phoebe caught sight if the flowers and snarled, a puff of smoke flowing from her lips in the cold. Pim snarled too, glaring at the same flowers - not feeling as hateful towards them as his companion but following her hatred with aggression. Her eyes flick up, seeing people taking the flowers away, whole, alive, and in her sudden rage to see these bright read beacons of torment spread she stomped all over the nearest flower she could reach without drawing too close to them, before running back off to the woods to hide and watch.

When dark creeps in and eats the light

Bury your fears on sorry night

For in the winter's darkest hours

Comes the feasting of the Vours

No one can see it, the life they stole

Your body's here but not your soul

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KIADA

tell the boy you love that you are too dangerous to keep

take scissors to the strings tying you to him

There is a pull of something within her, and the dark tar that coats her now vibrates unpleasantly at the sensation. Yet, she goes, because she cannot avoid it – cannot hide away from the feeling that action must be taken. She doesn’t know what kind of event she’s walking into, but she comes prepared regardless – in her Caracal form, hidden away beneath the snow that collects beneath the pads of her paws.

She crests near the shrine and spots the roses, a hiss of a growl erupting from her feline maw as eyes narrow in on the blood red flowers. Stupid. She thinks, nothing can fix it. This is what she’s become. She’s become a monster – and she intends to show them that. She slides toward the shrine on the prowl, ears flattened and teeth bared, reaching those red flowers in the light of the day – and she lifts up her nose to sniff at one before her rage gets the best of her.

Another growl leaves her throat and she tears one off, crushing it beneath her paws. Dark eyes weeping tears of black as she makes sure it’s destroyed enough, before she spots Deimos slinking away – slipping after him with rage.

do not eat, do not sleep

perfection is not obtainable
by those who are weak