Centennial 0501: Scrying

[thequeennadine 311]

 [[OOC: The events detailed on this thread are known only to those present for the roleplay! I have been incredibly sick for a little over a week now & have been taking time to slack off on my writing. This missed week (04) has been rather eventful for my character, though. Here is a story I wrote up & some art of a neat development she's had. ]]

Spoiler

 

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The blue sky, run through by the marching of scattered, lazy clouds. It seemed infinite to the onlooker, stretching out toward a waxy horizon, and ever onward still. Beneath it, a sprawling forest of verdant green, teeming with wild fauna.

 

Just as the dream begins to drag on into that timeless, peaceful expanse, her vision darkens. A flutter of dark wings. The creak of some wooden carcass, chittering out from below. And the slow descent of scattered, ebony threads, trapping her in a night-woven web.

 

Something behind her eyes, subdermal and insidious, writhes. The onlooker awakens.

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Blinking out of her reverie, the Oracle turns away from the mouth of the cave and begins to walk. Deeper, away from the unnatural light of that ever-dawn, and into the welcoming silence of an earthen tomb. A short flick of her hand is offered to the side, scattering her plying thoughts of escape, and the shadowy things that had risen to smother them. Silhouettes of sable thread, taking shape like many birds, spiders, hands and other crawling things. With the illusion dispelled, she pushes past a curtain, maneuvering between the doorway of tangled roots it protects.

 

There, she finds a pool.

 

Still waters gather at a basin of molded stone, enshrined by the entrails of some great tree of the world above. The barren center of it all is totally lightless. The Oracle kneels before the well, and places a small object into her lap. An orb of glassy texture, which is kneaded and rolled. Pulled and woven. Until it expands outwards into a banner, laid out over her legs with a care that suggests veneration.

 

Placing two hands flat to that standard, the Oracle closes her eyes, and begins to rest. She expels thoughts of the sky and the great expanse of its blue from her mind. She shoves off the memory of her right eye, and the aching sensation it welcomes when she considers its loss. She steels herself, ignoring the burn of cool droplets against her back, as they strike still-raw markings, tattooed by a too-dear friend.

 

The scars she bears, and their many fonts, eschewed.

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[[ OOC: Just some reference art I'm still working on for tattoos! @Evanurihas been a huge help. ]]

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Only then, does a second presence fill the space. It makes the Oracle tremble with fear. Something, terrible even in its indifference, looms over the pond.

 

From her side, the Oracle retrieves a dove’s feather. It is cast out over the water, and allowed to float down to the center without so much as a ripple in response. Her marked palms drag up and past the elbow of one arm, extending it out. A lash of something unseen in the air strikes across her forearm, forcing rivulets of blood to drip into the dark.

 

“Sanguine silk, the very essence of life. But a morsel of the bounty I offer.”

 

Below, the crimson red plunges into still waters, sending ripples across its surface. Just as the presence seems to radiate gloom, so too do the streams of ichor. They sour from red, to brown, to an unnatural, ebon black, swirling in towards the offered feather. The air grows thick with the scent of alder and rotting bark. The feather is consumed by the churning pool, until its stark down is dyed black, and burnt away into the air with an ugly hiss.

 

“The promise of hope, of free flight and pleasant days. Memories, turned to pitch.”

 

Watching the feather crumple in on itself, the Oracle tenses. Sympathy pangs cruelly away in her heart, contradicting her conviction. With a tremor in her voice, she continues.

 

“All this and more, I offer to ye. Teacher. Matron. Weaver of Lies, hear my plea.”

 

Shifting a hand to rest over top of the blackened feather, she casts her eyes upwards towards that presence, that visage of her distant, unknowable patron.

 

“Bestow ‘pon me your secrets, your darkest thoughts. The last wails and suffered cries of those I usher to fill your court of memories. Let none tread our domain unknown, and further so allow me to reveal those that do to your porcelain gaze.”

 

As her sight begins to dim, the Oracle exhales. That presence settles itself in her mind, and peels back a veil. She mutters distractedly in her last moments of consciousness. 

“I will rejoice mutedly in the boons ye offer, and…”

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Edited January 19, 2023 by thequeennadine

[Spoopy_Duck 1500]

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