Apotolofo

Hera sweats.

Hera glances down at her arms, and the many tattoos there. She looks in the mirror, tilting her head to better see the faded brand upon her neck. The mark of Azdromoth. It had been decades since the brand had been in use, she had disconnected it over half a century ago. She thought of the strange patterns she had seen upon Sermi's skin, all those ages ago. . . "Well, I guess I see the reasoning." Hera murmured to herself. ". . . Meh- I'm already seen as a heretic anyways." With that, the Sort-of-Canonist Shaman cleaned off her altars, lighting Akezo's candle, then setting a sprig of blissfoil before Saint Amyas's shrine.

Aveline Kazimira's jaw hung slack as she read the missive. Her brows furrowed deeply- she wanted to deny it all, but in the end. . . She knew it to be true. She scrunched up her face, and the paper in her hands- refusing to let the angry and hurt tears fall. A liar. A player. No one can fix him. She was also quite aware of the other much more serious implications. But she wasn't too focused on them.

Hera is actually blind right now, but she appreciates the sentiment. Edit: Hera, being canonist, would probably be sweating at being called an 'Icon.'

For the third time that week, Hera awoke in a cold sweat, sitting up in bed as the remnants of prophetic smoke and embers left her mind. The room was left dark- her countless candles had not been lit in many months. So many visions, and yet- what good did they do? When they finally came to pass, she was left utterly helpless to lessen the blow. After all, thought she, bitterly. I am pathetically blind to the present. How many times must I be manipulated? Lied to? She paced her room, wringing her hands together. The azdrazi, Remon, Sermi, Laelia, Nehtamo- the list was never ending. Those that I loved and trusted- those that I gave more second chances than I can count. More than they deserved. Like a sick puppy, crawling back to its owner no matter how many times it's kicked. I am a fool. A blind, cowardly fool. She paced until she passed the mirror. She sat down before the unused vanity, her eyes closing as she massaged her temples. Humming a tune, that she had heard some days prior within Numendil's tavern. A sad, nostalgic song, that brought forth many memories. Her eyes opened, and watched idly the reflection she had grown accustomed to. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep- or perhaps she was finally going mad. But there, in her reflection, she saw them. Her friends. Her past. Each one silently waltzing across the room, to a song Hera could almost hear the piano play, reminding her of those imperial balls- dancing in Orenian halls. That was where it all began, wasn't it? The war. The descent. She could still hear their whispers. But she couldn't turn away. Just like every other time- she couldn't let them go. Join us. They enticed. Help me. They begged, with a sick smile on their lips. For they knew, as well as Hera knew- no matter what they did, she would always come back. Why do I always come back? And there, behind those ghosts, was another figure. One of shadow, that watched her always. The feeling brought her comfort. But why? This man, this figure- He and His followers, the dark horsemen of death, bringers of chaos and ruin. It was everything she stood against. But their sweet, sweet words. . . Their honeyed view of the future. They murmured softly in her ear, speaking of rest, and healing. They urged her to lay her head down, and close her eyes. To do nothing. To say nothing. To be used. How did I get here? She watched that shadow, as it lurked in the back of her mind. She remembered that fateful day, when she had joined Him. The way His followers had droned, preached of His blessing as if they'd heard it thousands of times before. Like it was a fundamental truth. Like they were brainwashed. As if there was no reason to believe otherwise. The greater good. She remembered. They told me it was the greater good. But how? The raids, the warfare, the suffering, the darkness. How did she, the so proclaimed Daughter of Flame, and bringer of light- become His slave follower? When she truly thought about it, it made no sense. Have I been used, yet again? Am I being manipulated? How have I joined my enemy- Pain. A sharp headache pierced through her mind, a feeling quite familiar in the past few months. As she shook the pain from her head, she gazed back into the mirror- she no longer saw the ghosts. Just the shadow. His shadow. She felt Him smile at her- and she smiled back. "I just had the strangest sense of deja-vu." Hera told Him. "Or- like I had lost my train of thought. Isn't that strange?" You are tired. Sleep, child. But still, she couldn't shake the feeling that. . . she was so close. Though He urged her to rest, she grasped at the strings, fishing for answers she knew were there. Somewhere, just beneath the surface. "Fresh air." she decides. "Then, I'll rest." It was a foggy morning, a blanket of soft mists spread across the valley. Hera was wrapped in furs, as her feet crunched through frost encrusted grass, nature's diamonds melting upon her leather boots. She approached the lakeshore, settling down to watch the ducklings in the water, the mother goose trailing behind with a sharp eye. "Don't worry, Mama." she murmurs. "I ain't gonna hurt your babies. I ain't gonna hurt anyone." I never wanted to, anyways. As she watched, a cold feeling of dread began to tug on her soul. I haven't hurt anyone. But wasn't watching in complacency just as bad as wielding the knife? If anything, inaction is merely the cowardly form of action. I don't want to hurt anyone. They said I don't have to hurt anyone. But how long would that last? How long until I'm a weapon again? A tool? Am I already one? A flicker in the water's surface, and Hera saw them again. They gazed down at her, only visible through the reflection of the water. They smiled at her, self satisfied smirks, selfish, sadistic bastards. For they knew, as well as she knew, she was being used. And just like every time before, she had no one to blame but herself. Salty tears, reminiscent of the seas she once sailed, trailed down the sunken valleys of her cheeks. Where once her features were welcoming, and kind, they were sallow and pale. She was fragile, weak. When was the last time she had left the castle, before today? She couldn't remember. The days had faded into blurs, days turned to night, light was shadowed by Him. She felt the migraine coming on again, and rage filled her. She glared down at the figures in the water, as His shadow began to approach. You want to use me? You want me to be your tool? The figures continued to grin, and driven by their taunts her hand flew to her boot. A flash of pale bone, a sharp tooth, its handle comfortable in her hand. The headache began- so she didn't think. She brought the blade up to her face and- Blood joined those salty tears. Already she could feel her train of thought abandoning her, the station was empty. But a lingering feeling of dark satisfaction remained. I have broken your tool. Now, won't you let me go?

Those names were read by pale blue eyes- the Wayward Shaman's tan complexion made white from shock. The missive fluttered out from those ringed fingers- shaking. Fragile. She thought to herself. . . "Just how many times must I be used, until I finally understand. . ."

A muttering of some old, ancient language left a Wayward Shaman's lips- a comforting copper aura shrouding that poor owl. The healing blessing of Akezo, imparted upon the creature. The Shaman gazed at the letter, recalling that strange Malik. A hum left her lips- and folding the missive away, she began to pen her own letter.

Aveline Kazimira sat at her desk, silent tears falling from her face. Her gaze shifts to the unfinished sketches and designs, the gems laying around. . . I will finish this collection. For her.

Me too. It should have been longer.

Aveline Kazimira stared listlessly at the wall, upon hearing the news. . . She did not know how to feel. A pang of guilt, firstly. Then regret- and loss of what could have become a friendship, had they the time. . . But then again- perhaps she was too idealistic.

LET THERE BE LIGHT! - Some canonist idk Bottled Sunlight (Rare | T2) Background/Description: Red and black banners haunted the alchemist’s dreams. Flashes of crimson lightning, and noir storm clouds gathered in the back of her mind. She searched furiously for an answer, a way to deter those shadow walkers she so despised. In her study, she picked up a sun shard- turning it in her fingers as she admired its glowing light. The alchemist glanced back to her desk- upon countless pages with scribbled charcoal writings. And there, an idea was sprung. Recipe: Base: Oil of any kind, with 3 ground up sun shards. (Or, one lightstone.) Fire | Light x 2 Mundane | Strength x3 Mundane | Purity x3 Mundane | Fear x2 Creation: 1. First, take 3 sun shards (or Lightstone) and add it to the oil. Grind until a paint-like consistency is achieved. The oil should take on a golden glow, though no brighter than a torch. 2. Add Purity and Fear symbols, until fully mixed. 3. Add Fire: Light and Strength symbols. Once added, the mixture should become much brighter. Without a visor, this may temporarily blind the alchemist. After about five narrative minutes, the mixture’s light will die down. 4. Pour into a bottle, then let rest in direct sunlight for a narrative day. 4.a Let metal soak within the mixture in direct sunlight for a narrative day. (When applicable) Effects: Bottled Sunlight can be used in one of three ways: A handheld light, projectile or used to treat an object. Handheld: Over the course of [3] emotes, the potion may be shaken to create a bright light. Though it will not blind, the glow that radiates from the potion is pure sunlight, thus having the same effect on darkspawn as the sun does. Darkspawn would also find themselves somewhat unwilling to enter the light’s radius, both out of an innate fear and discomfort- though this feeling may be ignored with moderate willpower. On the third emote, the light will shine for about [3] meters in each direction. By the next emote, it will spread to have a [5] meter radius. The light will dim after [5] emotes, and must be ‘charged’ in direct sunlight for 5 emotes before being used again. Projectile: Upon priming, the potion may be thrown. Upon the bottle shattering, the oil will stick to any surface it lands upon. Wherever the oil hits, sunlight will radiate off of it for [3] emotes, in a [1] meter radius. (3x3 cube) It will have a splash range of a [2] meter radius. If the oil lands on flesh, a mere warmth will be felt. However, when it comes in contact with darkspawn, it will inflict mild burns over the course of [3] emotes. After [3] emotes, the light will dim. Treated Objects: Metal items treated with Bottled Sunlight will radiate light in a ratio proportionate to size (detailed below). In addition to glowing, metal will take on the same effects on darkspawn as aurum does. This, however, will weaken the item, causing it to become slightly more susceptible to dents, bends, and similar damage. Strangely, Lunarite is immune to this effect. 1 bottle: Can treat [3] trinkets, [3] arrows, or [1] dagger/knife. Radiates sunlight in a 1 by 1 meter cube. 2 bottles: Can treat [1] longsword or weapon of similar size, or [1] shield. Radiates sunlight in a 3 by 3 meter cube. 3 bottles: Can treat [1] set of armor, large net, great sword, or items of similar size. Radiates sunlight in a 5 by 5 cube. Redlines: - Cannot be used to blind. During creation, black spots may stay in one’s vision for a narrative hour at most. - The feeling of discomfort and unwillingness darkspawn feel is not overwhelming, and may be ignored in order to stay within the light. - Handheld may only be used once per encounter, as it must be left to charge. - On non-darkspawn, the oil will not cause pain or burns. - The oil may be removed via water, or transferring it to another object. - “Darkspawn” here is defined as undead, such as darkstalkers, ghouls, ghosts, etcetera. - Possessed individuals (via specter lore) will not be affected by the potion. At most, both the individual and ghost will feel anxiety or discomfort. - Magical darkness will dim the light 1 emote faster. - If attempting to use the item during the day, or in daylight, nothing will happen. It must be dark for the effects to take place. - Using a lightstone instead of sun shards will not change the effects of the potion whatsoever, and is simply an alternative to drive roleplay and explain the inspiration for the potion. OOC/PURPOSE

A certain shaman furrows her brows as she looks at the missive. . . A feeling of dread creeping onto her.

"Hmmm. . ." Hera pondered the missive, squinting at it. "Aurum, salt, nor paladins. . . Well-! I'm a shaman!" She declares! And thus, she tacks it onto her wall.

Leave Cheese alone Sam, smh

But like very artificial grape. I imagine it's like fruity/candy flavors but its soooo artificial that it could be medicine.

It was that time again. Her skin began to wrinkle, and bags formed beneath her eyes. She felt her hunger, her thirst grow. It was a time she always dreaded. She had never taken blood from someone unwilling. And yet, drinking it always had the same awful, wicked feeling that she couldn’t shake. Each time it only grew more and more painful, increasingly difficult- a strain on her mental well being. And yet she fed, as often as she could, to ensure she did not fall into a rage. . . . But Henna was getting tired. She thought to herself, ‘this is the last time I feed. I promise.’ She knew what it meant. And she was ready for it. A year went by, and she lived as she normally did. She served tea, she smiled, she laughed, and played music for all to hear. She began to feel the hunger gnawing at her gut. . . But she ignored it. Another year passed, and it was starting to get bad. Every exposed bit of flesh she saw, she could feel her teeth aching to sink into something- and she hated it. Every mirror she looked within, she saw her face gaunt, and ugly. Her vanity had kept her a vampire, after all- how foolish she was, to think that this vanity would keep her sane. That it would be enough. How selfish was she to allow it to go on. But it was too late, now. She tidied up the teahouse, left a note for the owner. She smiled to the neighbors, and went into the forest. Deep into the woods did she go, until she could no longer hear the voices of civilization. Until nary a trace of smoke was seen upon the sky. She walked, her hunger and thirst growing with every step. How she longed to taste the metallic sting, to put an end to this suffering! Yet she knew it would only bring her more anguish. Days went by, and still she walked. She was near the brink of insanity, she knew. It had gotten to the point where her arm was riddle with punctures- both from her extended talons, scratching at her own flesh- or her teeth, from trying to drink her own blood. Nothing worked. She was frail, she had not eaten in weeks- the berries and vegetation she had consumed when she first entered the forest no longer appealed to her. Soon, she collapsed to the ground, shaking- trembling. Her skin sickly, hair falling out- her beautiful face was disfigured. Her greatest pride and joy, destroyed by the folly of her own vanity. And so, Henna prepared to face starvation- she could hardly move as it was. . . Lying on her back, she gazed at the stars, admiring the full moon for one last time. Then. . . She heard a song. It was a beautiful song, more alluring and enchanting than any melody she could have ever hoped to play. Somehow, Henna found the strength to rise, and drift towards the source of the sound. She was met by a sight of beauty. A beauty that reached beyond appearances. It beckoned her, drew her near- a luminescent cherry blossom tree, its bark smooth and pearly. Its flowers of pale and vibrant pink floated around her, tickling at her skin. She reached its trunk, a hand going out to touch the mystical plant. Sleep. It whispered. Henna could only nod, her bloodstained and barbaric body curling up beneath the tree’s branches, resting in its roots. ‘Yes, let me embrace beauty one last time, before it all ends. One more time. . .’ And so, she fell into a deep slumber. Unbeknownst to Henna, its roots creaked and twisted, wrapping her in a casket. . . or perhaps, a cocoon. It was the end of her life. And perhaps, the start of another…