THE PYTHON RECOILS — PK

[MCVDK 2830]

 

THE PYTHON RECOILS;

and LYSANTHIR DIES.

 

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ℑn the dim recesses of time, darkness consumed all, gradually corrupting what it touched. He had been ensnared by the swirling thoughts in his mind, trapped in the solitude of his choices and haunted by the ancestors who had come before him. Internally, he embodied evil incarnate, wandering a path that sought balance while living a life devoid of it. He had never known true peace, never experienced genuine tranquility, nor had he mastered his craft.

 

Once, he had known the warmth of family, but they had perished, leaving a void that echoed in his heart. In his search for connection, he found another family, yet they too had slipped away into the shadows. He remembered his father, a figure in the forest, though he questioned whether that father was worthy of his time. With unanswered questions swirling around him, he felt a weight suggesting those inquiries were perhaps meant to remain unasked.

 

A druid by craft, yet a necromancer by faith, he delved into the teachings of the Widukin, the God-borne Oak, seeking to indoctrinate fellow druids into his darkened beliefs. His singular motivation stemmed from the looming end of the druid’s existence — the death of the Aspects, those deities that once graced the skies.

 

Among the shadows, Sonna had been his brightest light — his teacher and mentor during the twilight of his life. She kept him focused amidst the encroaching darkness of his mind, her words and craft a lifeline to that which she sought to protect. And Saeval, a stabilizing presence in recent years, was far less tense than he, carrying none of the anger that simmered within. Their son, Aerin, sparkled with joy, yet he felt the roots of darkness creeping within him, inherited from a father who had inherited it from his own.

 

Taeral, his father, lingered in the recesses of his mind; his teachings — though vague and distant — were deeply embedded in his thoughts. Through them, he found understanding of his path, his past, and the bond he shared with his father. Yet what lay ahead was unfortunate. Death, inevitable, loomed ever closer, and yet life had seemed so tender, so nascent — merely weeks after he had finally mastered druid-craft, diligently taught by Sonna. Life was taken from him unexpectedly, by those very beings whom his dark doctrines had served, the ones he had once praised so highly.

 

@Juno.

 

And so, to the Watchers Grove arrived his severed head, marked with a symbol upon his forehead: a flaming spider with three legs pointing skyward and an eye upon its body — a testament to a life both lived and lost in shadows.

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And thus walked the Ophidian Druid into the depths of the Eternal Forest, where ancient trees whispered secrets and shadows danced beneath the dappled light. Each step was a silent pact with the earth, a communion with the spirits lingering in the air. The air was thick with the scent of moss and damp earth, a reminder of life’s cycle — both fierce and tender.

 

As he ventured deeper, the canopy above intertwined like the fates of those who had come before him — those who had walked the paths of light and dark, of life and death. Here, in this sacred embrace of nature, he sought solace and understanding, a way to reconcile the tumult within his soul. The call of the forest beckoned him, a siren song of renewal and rebirth, urging him to remember his place within the grand tapestry of existence.

 

With each breath, he felt the pulse of the land, the heartbeat of the wild resonating with his own. In this realm, where the mundane and the mystical intertwined, he hoped to find clarity — a way to weave his fractured identity into the greater whole. For he was not merely the Ophidian Druid; he was a vessel of history, a keeper of secrets, and a seeker of truth amidst the eternal shadows.

 

[lemonke 6014]

The hag watched the corpse of the druid whitering. Her eyes widened, for she had other plans for him. She knew nothing of what she had done, and for once, for once, she slain someone that she doubted whether it was a good choice or not. Perhaps the rancor for the druids, no matter if good or bad, was consuming her. Nevertheless, she had be sure all would know of his death. The severed and battered head brought upon his home.

 

And yet... she did not feel proud about this claim. Hallowed to the core.

[Junoix 2301]

Shakey hands reached for the severed head, cradling it close to the Fox Druid's heart. The once tranquil and joyful Grove had then turned gloomy, the voices of Nature crying out in pain and anguish.

 

Sonna wept as she held her student's head, fingers gently running through the beloved Lysanthir's hair.

[Tav 4336]

There the Prisgoth found himself stood 'cross Taerel's grave, head shifted downwards, nature audibly struggling to conceal distant weeps. "O'Haelun, y'kae oerneh suliera," Heavy words stretched along the area, trembles and cracks notable with The Fox's voice. 
His whispers joined the prayer, uncaring if his elven measured to the likeliness of his kin. 
.. And there he wondered: How many dead kin would he have to suffer through? And, would he too be found with a heartfelt prayer, when his time came?

[christman 3529]

 

A woman wailed; a wife wept. 

She scorned the forest, the trees, the dirt.

A red tribute was erected. A bloody grave.