thequeennadine

i feel visible af rn

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ [!] A sharp gasp cuts through the night's silence. The oracle has awoken, left tremoring by a sight she cannot recall. From the depths of her doldrum delirium, a die has been cast. Another fretful glance toward the abyss, answered in turn by the watchful eye of horror. [!] ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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

[[OOC: The following text is a letter sent to a particular group. It is being posted both to be kept as part of my public 'Centennial' collection, and because I adored Sorcerio's own letter-spree some months earlier. Please only respond in good faith! Unless you're funny.]] A letter addressed to the high Concord of Nevaehlen, as well as the Father Circle, delivered by swift wings and curled talons to their woodland chambers. It bears the mark and signature of a certain Oracle, alongside a wreath. Rue blossoms, orange buds, and a few fragile zinnias. "To my siblings of Nevaehlen, and of the Father Circle, Once, I was welcomed into your care as a guest. Shaded by guileless boughs, wholehearted and honest in their wanting to offer me a home. It was above the heart and hearth of the Father Circle that I met many of my dearest friends. Rest comes easier to me when I consider these boons. I take solace in knowing that you still offer them to wayward mali’ like myself, as they begin their own adventures on Almaris. I did not always understand their value. There were too many times, too many long years spent in self-imposed isolation, that I looked at them with contempt. I felt as if I would forever be a guest, forever be less than a peer, forever be a useful thing to man your gates. It would be a farce to say I have eschewed my ill shaded opinions of your cabal; yet, I can no longer level them with so much contempt. I can no longer condone the actions of my younger self. I have only just begun to take steps towards righting my misguided ways. Towards approaching my doctrine and faith as a teacher, instead of an entitled ‘visionary’. The things I know to be true may differ from what you believe to be right. They may mark me as a draoi and a heresiarch. I willingly take on that judgment. However, it is not out of any misplaced guilt, nor any doubt in my good Work. It is out of a deep respect for the true spirit of the few traditions we share. Rumors have been perpetuated, levying guilt on my name for the crimes of ‘utilizing dark magicks’, ‘being a servant of the Titan’ and ‘associating with darkspawn’. These are falsehoods I have endeavored to disprove– and have managed to, by the tests and trials of Caras Anor. Still, my attempts to parley with wards of the Father Circle, and the Vale of Nevaehlen, are rebuffed. They follow your laws, and shear away any contact with me whenever able. My hope in directing this final attempt to you, is not to relieve myself of banishment. I have no intentions to ever darken your doorstep again. Instead, I ask that your citizens, if wanting, be allowed to communicate with me at no risk to their homes, or livelihood. That I might be able to face the judgment of my once-peers in its fullness, rather than by the bare substitute of state issued silence. There is much that I would like to repent for, personally." SIGNED, Dubh Ainmhí. The Oracle, Dread. Daughter of Truth. Voice of the Great Owl, Idol of Knowledge & Wisdom.

[!] The stories detailed on this thread are disseminated by the Oracle. She travels from place to place, leaving behind scriptures and spoken rumors of their contents. Anyone can feel free to approach me in character as a result of this work. Otherwise, please feel free to clown on my creative writing! [!] THE WOVEN WAY FABLES I Art by Alessia H. Valastro THE WOLF AND THE RAVEN: As a Raven was adrift on one of its many flights through the forest, it spotted a rotting, carrion thing. A hungering Wolf stalked that same carcass in slow circles, considering the forest abound. Diving swiftly, the Raven stole for itself a large chunk of its feast. While the Wolf snapped at bare wind and growled out in discontent, the Raven simply preened and jeered, knowing it was safe amidst the trees. “You are slow, and you eat even slower! Ca-CAW!” It croaked in laughter. “As quick as you are, I can still best you. I will return with others; try this again, and we will eat you up too.” The Wolf asserted in retort. And so, when the Raven next returned to its scavenging search, it found many wolves. Together, ate too swiftly, and proved too great a threat for it to risk stealing more than mere scraps. It had expected this; a conspiracy of other ravens flew at its back. They descended as one. Some plucked at the fur of those wolves too young to snap back, and others stole many small scraps for themselves. “CAW-CaW!" The Raven crooned. "We outnumber you, and we’re smarter, too!” This infuriated the wolves. Still, the first of them still called out with steely resolve, “You may be clever, but we can still crush you. We will wait until you find a kill, and follow your noises; the cackling carried on many wings. Then, we will strike.” Once more, things went along with the wizened Wolf’s plan - its quick thinking was sound. The pack descended upon that Raven’s conspiracy, causing it to scatter. When the wolves finished their feeding, the Ravens were forced to settle for what was left. Even still their clever leader lauded, “We couldn’t have torn through that hide, CAW! You’ve done it for us!” “You may be right…” For once, the Wolf was left stumped. Though saddened, the ever honorable beast accepted its defeat by the Raven, “You have tested me, and I have failed.” The Raven squawked, irritated at its loss of a troublesome opponent, “Ca-CAW! No. We have tested each other.” Art by Alexandria Neonakis DEAD AND DYING THINGS: As a Girl was walking along the river, she stumbled upon the sight of a body caught in its reeds. She knew the woman floating there to be a crone, cast out by her people for being a harrow hand and a heretic. The Girl could not understand what would drive someone to act so heinously as her. None of the adults could answer her either, and so she often found herself returning to look toward the riverbed. That crone rotted, and the Girl watched as life gradually began to... forget her. First her hair, then her hands, and- finally- her face. Before she could ever find an answer, the people cast the Girl out as well. She had peered so long that the only heinous thing seen in those waters was her own reflection. A dying thing watching a dead one. Art by Florian Herold AS THE WEFT AND WEAVE OF FATE GUIDE: Once, a great Seamster was lauded and adored. Their name was spoken in reverence by many a hopeful hero. The weaver had a specialty: they wrought for their subjects grand tapestries. Tapestries which told tale of things yet to come. It seemed, for an age, that any who earned for themselves a role in that Seamster’s work were destined for greatness. This myth surrounding their name was swiftly scattered with the weaving of one particular standard. A banner, spun for a great King and his prosperous kingdom. The tapestry spoke of fear and ugly death. Of an uprising which would depose that King, sullying his name. The King saw only betrayal and treason; he saw a threat, leveled by the hand of one who surely held some great disdain for his people. When he saw the way his subjects recoiled and cowered before the tapestry's great unveiling, he let fear sew a home in his heart. The King's men were made to take that Seamser into custody, shutting them away for their vile crime. Still, he could not escape the memory of what he had seen. Even with its maker imprisoned, and its form burnt away before the public eye, the tapestry fluttered hauntingly in his mind. He saw echoes of its truth, reflected still in his subjects' eyes. He heard their murmurs of doubt on the wind. It wasn't too long until the King had his men round up the loudest of those doubters. Men, women, and children alike. Any who had received favorable divinings from the Seamster would be shut away in irons. When the prisons grew too swollen, and the people's anxieties too great, the King's kindness began to crack. The most unruly of his prisoners, those too prideful and- to his eyes- too comforted by their favorable fates, were put to death. Those deaths proved the Seamster's work fallible, he was sure. His most loyal followers, his own men, were not. With the uproar of the people behind them, they thought only of the bright futures their King had let his pride snuff out. Faced with the uprising he had desperately sought to avoid, the King retreated to the rankest depths of his castle. He found them there, calmly at work with the spiders and spindly things of their cell. With moonlight and gossamer, the Seamster had woven the tapestry anew. To his demands and foul cries, they had only one answer. “You mistake my good Work for something it is not. You see answers in the wefts, and how they cross over their many warps. When truly, my King, they are questions, always aching to be realized.”

[[ The events detailed on this thread are known only to those unfortunate enough to have experienced the vision first hand. They have been informed accordingly. For everyone else, feel free to clown on my creative writing! ]] Caught beneath an unnatural fog, the Executor waited. How long had he dozed in its somnolent, russet curls? Brief feelings of slumber, coddling and warm blunted his senses. He recognized ensorcelled stagnation. Petrification. Comfort estranged him; he wriggled to escape this excruciating sensation. Empty darkness robbed him of anything beyond this sleeping, waking nausea. He might have allowed it to consume him entirely, if left to his apathy. Had the choking, frostbitten touch of gnarled fingers not closed around his throat. In an instant, he was doused in frigid waters. Blistering pain blossomed from each of his extremities; gooseflesh crawled over his skin. His senses were too sharp, too aware. Every feeling that had been lost to that droll numbness returned, vengeful for having been even briefly forgotten. The spirit of Dread crawled past his reawakening wits, hammering itself against his heart in a horrid furor. Past the Executor’s struggle towards consciousness, a whisper filled his mind. Deceptively soft, it deigned, “Thine anonymity is lost; Fate knows ye meddlesome hand. Now revealed, unveiled, suffering will stalk thee. Take on these oaths. Lighten thine eyes. The sky shall open soon.” With a harsh breath inwards, the Executor came to. The wintry air abound should have burned his withered lungs; it should have made him regret waking so suddenly. But no resounding ache settled on him. No crackle, nor hiss. As uncomfortable as he was, finding himself sat and huddled low at the bank of some river, he felt healthier than ever. Why had he expected anything less? The traumatic memory of that russet slumber faded, crouching in the recesses of his mind. And without the weight of it weighing him down, the Executor rose easily to his feet. There was a familiar, well-trodden quality to the forest vista. It calmed him, reaching his core as it seeped from every branch and bough. The region was cast in the low light of a winter sun. Setting swiftly, it lent a sparkle to everything, patches of frost catching its dying glow. Even the river, though high and rancorous in its trickle past, reminded him of home. It was a sure sign that salvation was near. Would it lead him there, if he followed its flow? For several hours, he let untiring strides carry his trek through the wilds. They remained bathed in the half-light of eventide whe whole while; the sky had rotted slowly, as if waiting for him to falter. When he finally did, the Executor noted a soft flurry of snow in its descent past the canopy overhead. The flakes were dull and ashy. The runoff of a great pyre? Dampness lingered where they met with his clothes, melting against the heat. Hurry forced its way into his gait, endeavoring to outrun the droll flurry, and its quick growth into a storm. The susurrus of falling snow and howling winds only worsened in response to his haste. “While black, palatine snows, Piled about the standard of ancient Night, Swell the fount whence Aerial rows; When that blanket of ashen dust threatened to swallow him, the Executor slept. His day-long scramble along the riverbank had carried him far. Far enough that small markers of civilization had begun to appear in the familiar wood. Charms of sticks, twine, and mottled feathers swayed from trees. A boat had been moored against some dilapidated dock a ways back, though he didn’t dare test its offer of swifter travel downriver. At a fork in the stygian flow, he had even glimpsed a banner, flickering ominously in the night. He did not recognize any of the symbols cast against its vacuous expanse. Unfamiliar, and alien, it filled him with fear. It might have marked the territory of a people unknown to him. Would he find home, if he traveled opposite from it? Anxiety throbbed behind his eyes, mocking, and jeering. It urged him to find somewhere safe to rest ‘til morning. Morning did not come. When the Executor opened his eyes anew, he glimpsed that same half-light, simmering weakly from yonder West. It felt weaker. Further? Still, he brought himself to his feet. Where weariness should have followed his fitful, too-long slumber, he felt... nothing. All night he forged onward, following the river past a thinning treeline, across a flat plain of packed ice, and finally, to the expanse of some lake shore. Past swirling gales of black snow, he looked on to his destination. The river had led him home. While the salt-swollen sea, in its blight, Eats the dock where ancestors moored; While the final scribe, proven and right, It took the Executor another too-long rest, and then a walk beneath the half-light of a shortened day, to reach the city walls. Their bricks were caked by the perpetual fall of mourning ash, left to crack and crumble. It was as if they had suffered for an age in his absence. He strode past a gate left ajar, and began to stalk dimly lit streets. Everywhere he looked, eyes flashed at him from the dark. Faces, which quickly proved themselves untrusting and strange, gawked from behind shuttered windows. The lanes which he still felt to be his, were strewn with thin packs of frightened kine. In one alley, he watched, horrified, as one watcher plucked another’s bleeding corpse of its belongings. Skittish, the Executor locked eyes with that thief. He watched as it clutched its bludgeon, and slowly stalked off into the night. He couldn’t bring himself to risk approaching the victim. All of it was alive with a low tumult of commotion that twisted his gut into knots. The raucous fervor of markets, famous for its hawkers and many tourists, replayed in his mind. It was discordant against the hushed murmurs of tradesmen too wary to show their wares publicly. Flags and sanguine streamers, denoting plague-stricken wards, fluttered wanly in place of his people’s colorful tapestries. Defeated hope threatened to bring him to tears. Looks onto our ending days, abhorred, Where the decency of man will rust– In the innocent blood poured; With familiarity turned against him, the Executor began to fade. How long had he suffered this fruitless, unending search? His faltering steps carried him from back streets, through once bustling parks, and, finally, to the ruined city square. No one lingered there, on account of the haze that clung at its corners. A stench like ages old death quickly began to prick at his eyes. It choked the ash from his lungs. He had found faces known to him. They decorated the streets, locked beneath blankets of frigid black. The square had become a tomb. A tomb for a mother, a friend, a prince, a brother. And so, so many more. Finally, the world began to dim. Darkening skies forced the Executor to his knees. While beneath the seal of ruin's dust, Even dead mouths daren’t mutter in their sleep, 'Lest they betray Dread's fickle trust; Shackled beneath that sky in its gradual darkening to pitch, the Executor waited. The pain of aspirations dashed, and doubts that there had ever been another way forward, gripped at him. With his resignation, the world, too, began its crawl toward nameless oblivion. That graveyard began to sprawl, eking outwards to form a basin of serpentine and death. Wherever its stone and soil touched, structures bled away. They became haunting things. Trees, with slick bark like congealed oil; dark monoliths, atop hummocks of hapless souls churned to salt. The largest of them, at the nadir’s barren center, was the crevasse where daylight had gone to die. Overhead, a bleeding rune flared. It marred the sky with its vicious light, exuberant. It was a wound, a cocoon, and a leering eye all at once. Pinpricks of wonder began to scatter from their constellations; eventually, they would be consumed by it as well. Where the familiarity of a wintry forest had once comforted the Executor, the nightmarish wasteland that surrounded him now invited only sorrow. Was there ever hope? He fretted, and began to rot. While dusky skies are made to weep, Recalling a moon and stars, now none, Beyond it, the circuit of a sunless deep. Gnarled fingers closed around his throat, terrible and cold. The Executor could feel their talons, and the rough texture of monstrous, feather-mottled skin. He could feel the way its scarred palm scratched at his nape, welcoming dread into his heart once more. With a rasping breath, and a voice no longer disguised behind any softness, the thing croaked. Its words permeated everything. They had been haunting his macabre procession the entire time. This spell of mine shall not be done. And your curse, to be lifted- never. Break thine binding oaths, even one.. And suffer with these forgotten things, forever.

THE WOVEN WAY THE GREAT OWL "O' Lord of Wisdom. O' Walker 'twixt Twilit Skies. O' Messenger of FATE..." A FOREWORD (On Owls): Of the many creatures born anew by way of the Weaver's cradle, there are few so favored as the Owls. Before the intervention of change, swift wings and merciless talons had allowed them reign of the night skies. When the Weaver turned their gaze onto the Owls, however, they saw greater opportunity. Keen eyes, and restless watch throughout the night; both great boons for a hunter. Still, Weaver knew there were better ways for them to serve the design. The greatest of the Owls, a horned thing with mightier wings than any other, was chosen as a herald - a messenger. Many more of his kin would assume it after him, ever faithful to his cause. Those owls were blessed with wisdom and instinct above all others. They were bestowed the ability to traverse across life's border with death - to plunge themselves into the realm of dreams. In their flights to and from these thresholds, they carry the Weaver's word. The sighting of a lone owl should be taken as a sign. Whether warning of an ending already passed, or one soon to come, it is not a thing to be taken lightly. These watchers in the night stalk the threads of destiny, waiting for death to take its toll. There and then they will descend, ready to exchange stories with souls deemed wise enough to better their stores. The Great Owl, Idol of Knowledge and Wisdom, Herald of Destiny and Messenger to Fate, descends. With him, tides of chaos ripple, blurring the lines between our world, and the dreaming realm. Only those gifted by the Weaver, as he is, can hope to comprehend the design. It is our place to uphold it, and glean what wisdom we may in that pursuit. SIGNED, Dubh Ainmhí. The Oracle, Dread. Daughter of Truth. Voice of the Great Owl, Idol of Knowledge & Wisdom.

THE WOVEN WAY The Lady's Many Faces "Our Lady in Silver. She, of Many Faces." A FOREWORD: [[The above section is in a spoiler to avoid bloating the post. It isn't essential to enjoying the art or writing below.]] New. Empty. Resting. “In its retreat from the sky, our Lady saw the necessity of loss. The safety in secrecy. The worth of rising to meet another day.” The first of the few phases I will discuss here is that of the empty moon. Its logic is something I was told many of our warriors would employ when outmatched, or when poised to allow others their retreat. Waiting, conserving their energy, and allowing the treachery of Night– or, in simpler terms, the threat at hand– to pass them over. This logic stemmed from means beyond combat, and so too can it grow towards something greater. The Balance, sometimes, is served best by those who allow threats to exhaust themselves, and be conquered later by well-rested minds. Crescent. Hooked. Snarling. “In its sharpening into a jagged, witty thing, our Lady found the potential of growth. The virtue of violence. The time to fight and claw to defend what is ours.” The second phase, that of the hooked moon, is one that has been adopted by many warriors even beyond our number. It was something held in too much reverence by so many misguided, zealous cabals, who saw only the ferocity of bare moonlight and shadow. It should be employed when an advantage presents itself, or when a situation calls for decisive, merciless action. Pouncing, utilizing the whole of their power, and descending onto a mounting threat. Even if it was first seeded in the throes of combat, it can still be applied to quieter dilemmas. The Balance is, at times, served best by those who know to tamp down problems at their outset. Full. Open. Watching. “In the resplendence of its full power, having witnessed both death and rebirth anew, our Lady awed. The purpose of change. The insight it offered. The harmony she would strike, in championing it.” This final phase, that of the open moon, represents the height of the Weaver’s wisdom, and is a state that my mother urged me to assume whenever able. Warriors and scholars both strove to not only exemplify the lessons she learned in her observing those other Aspects, nor solely her proving that change could be a bridge between them, but her cunning in taking a longer view. Waiting in the face of a threat, ready to meet their assaults head on, enlightened by all they’ve observed on their watch. The Balance is best served by those who, with each action, reaction, and observation, provide a good example for others to follow. [!] Slotted Seers, contact me to view a hidden message attached to this posting. [!] SIGNED, Dubh Ainmhí. The Oracle, Dread. Daughter of Truth. Voice of the Great Owl, Idol of Knowledge & Wisdom.

THE WOVEN WAY On The Aspects, Three “Woe. Weal. And everything that might lie in between.” A FOREWORD: This posting details interpretations of Aspectist and Druidic lore that, today, have been suppressed by ignorance and misunderstanding. It is not intended to discredit the beliefs of those that may disagree with its contents. This interpretation is that of my doctrine: The Woven Way. Like all other philosophies of its kind, such as the paths sheltered by the Father Circle- the Ichor Way, the Sage’s path, etcetera- the teachings of the Woven Way ultimately concern service in the name of Balance. Any who claim to represent, adhere to, or otherwise work with difference to its beliefs, must do so with this in mind. The Balance, sometimes referred to as a Cycle, or the Design, is the natural state of things as was originally intended by the wild divine. It was a careful agreement struck between those antediluvian powers that we druii serve; yet, I purport that it is not one intended to remain static. That it is, at its heart, a plan to foster our world, rather than drive it to stagnation. This document details how that plan was set into motion, and sheds new light on the entities behind its upkeep. THE MOTHER: When our world was first visited by the Aspects, everything began with a seed. This was the blessing of Life, settled upon our world by the Mother. She saw all that was, and its inevitable end beneath the ever ebbing flow of time. The loss of a world so verdant would be abated by her blessing, which called forth growth unending. Everything would be held by her mercy- until it was smothered, choked by its own abundance. There was no room for change in the world she had created, for all that already was would never know its own ending. The Mother, today, is represented by revelers and celebrants- keepers of tradition. Their means of serving the Balance echo with her mercy, and strength in the face of loss. Further detailing of those dayward-bound, and their work, is best left to their scholars. THE HUNTER: When the Mother’s growth began to choke the world of its luster, an answer was found in fear. This was the blessing of Death, settled upon our world by the Hunter. He saw all that had been wrought of mercy, and its inevitable advance: to become a cyst, fattened on creation. By vicious claw and terrible drought, the choke of abundance on the world’s menagerie was halted. Everything would be beaten back by his rage- until it was barren, stripped by needless death. There was no room for change in the world he sought, for all that might have been would never have its own beginning. The Hunter, today, should be represented by defenders and reclaimers- revilers of luxury. Their means of serving the Balance echo with his rage, and defiance in the face of gluttony. Further detailing of those twilit-kin, and their work, is best left to their scholars. THE WEAVER: When the Mother and the Hunter were drawn to a stalemate, and the world was split in twain to two opposing camps, an answer was found in compromise. This was the blessing of Change, settled upon our world by the Weaver. The oldest of the three, they glimpsed a greater design- all that could come to be, and how it could be facilitated by their powers combined. The conflict between beginnings and endings would be abated by their blessing, which built a bridge between the two asynchronous ideals. There was room for change in the world they’d built, for the ending of each thing would surely aid the creation of another. The Weaver, today, has not the representation they deserve. Where there should be teachers and mediators- architects of fate, there are only rumors of fetid cabals. They do not serve the Balance, and have allowed their perverted beliefs to cleave the Aspects apart. Rumors and revilement rule where cooperation once made its home. PURPOSE: As I write this, the hours tick over towards my ninetieth ‘birthday’. As was the tradition of my late mother, I have dedicated these next ten years to consolidation and reconciliation. The advent of my centennial will be marked by the adoption of a firm creed, and purpose found therein. I had, at a younger age, deigned to preen my beliefs with the veneer of a repressed visionary. I raged, and- had this post been penned then- would have surely sought to laud about the awesomeness of my faith. I would have scrawled wan creeds and oaths to be posted up, only to fall terribly short of any real philosophy. I would have stood, alone, with the pride of someone backed by the respect of many. Today, I still harbor that furor. I do not pretend that the dissonance I see in the communities of my kin, my sibling druids, and my eclectic alliances, does not leave me bitter. But now, I am opting to approach it with patience befitting the responsibility of my position. I know I stand alone. As such, the sole purpose of this writing is to educate. To suggest the possibility of beliefs insofar left to derision, and welcome others to inquire further. If this offends you, or riles some bloodlust, beware. Continuing to obfusticate the truth of our past - continuing to hide the existence of a power such as Theirs - is to serve that dissonance. You further the intentions of deceivers and perverted cannibals else, by treating the Weaver as some great and terrible secret. There is no mysticism to be found in hiding so simple a truth. There is no result to be garnered by it, save the sin of deicide. SIGNED, Dubh Ainmhí. The Oracle, Dread. Daughter of Truth. Voice of the Great Owl, Idol of Knowledge & Wisdom.