Kuila

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Image credit: [Janek-Sedlar] “Do you think yourself capable for this task, Ash-Bearer?” “I do not think. I know.” What did it mean to cut down the innocent? Was she meant to take the life of a descendant in cold blood? His tasks were hardly this obvious – the first answer she arrived at was almost always wrong. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was only one solution to this trial. She had shown how much she was willing to give for this path. Her old ways, her friends, even her sanity. Mora had given everything she could, left with naught but the burning passion within; what else was there to sacrifice? It was on her trek to Nevaehlen that she began to wonder. Maybe this trial was not about giving or sacrifice. Maybe it was about what she was willing to take. “Is anyone truly innocent?” “It is all a matter of perspective, Mora.” Those words echoed in her mind, a fruitless question uttered to a being that dare not answer. Even the purest of priests, nuns, or acolytes had sinned; whether it be as miniscule as a lie or any transgression larger. A sin was a sin, no matter the size. Even then, she had no belief in man’s innocence – for innocence was weakness in the eyes of the wild. Her eyes settled upon the Nevaehli gatehouse, wondering if the wild folk might bear the answer to her question. Whether knowingly or not, they had ushered her further along this path than any herald had. Like her old mentor had taught, it always helped to return to your roots. “What does the wind have to say?” She lay alone with nothing but the wind to give her comfort. Tapping her ferrum kukri along her thigh, she pondered the possibility that one of the Nevaehli might wander out here alone. Could she even bring herself to do it if the opportunity arose? Would she ruin the serenity of the calm, quiet evening in the forest? Even then, she had already come to the conclusion that no descendant was innocent. None but herself. Her eyes darted down to her arms, noting the crimson tattoos that lined her forearms. Ichor was going to make a lovely addition to the draconic branding. She drew in a deep breath through gritted teeth, grip tightening along the blade. Her attention was soon caught by the quiet rustling of a bush, gentle footfalls signifying someone – or something’s – approach. A fawn wandered up to her, beady eyes staring her down. The kukri was brought back to her side in a slow, cautious motion as she tried not to startle the creature. The slightest hint of a smile began to creep upon her visage as realization set in. “No descendant is truly innocent.” The carcass of a fawn and its mother now lay at her feet, ichor seeping into the earth below. The unrelenting heat she felt was no longer unbearable – instead, she found comfort in the warmth which surrounded her. Sinking to her knees, Mora was finally able to extract some simple pleasure from a job well done. Though her hands had been stained, the blood was not her own. For the first time in a long while, a genuine laugh rolled out from between her lips. She was finished.

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[via Arthur Herring] “And the lack of power you will feel - perhaps for you, it will feel terrifying, sad, frustrating. But for others - it is a release.” She had thought it was a mirage when it first came into view. The heat was never kind to her, filling her mind with delusions. She saw, heard, and felt things that should not have been possible in the hellish terrain she was commanded to search. Yet there it was. A descendant-made structure that was unmistakably unnatural – stone walls erecting out of the bubbling lava. Her eyes came to a close, breathing a long sigh of relief as she believed her days long search had finally come to an end. A lonely trek through the wilds was nothing challenging for the woman, experienced through her years of self exile so long ago. It was the talk that came before it that made it so hard. His words filled her with unease, a powerless sensation that she sought to escape. “When you ponder on what you are, ask yourself why. Even when it seems you are at the root of things, wonder why. You will realize just how clueless you are.” She stood inside the altar, twirling the black–petaled rose between her fingertips. The pads of her feet and palms of her hands were singed, yet she felt no need to cry out in pain. Here she stood, drenched in sweat and burnt from head to toe, but for what? Despite doing what was asked of her – finding this altar with naught but the clothes upon her back – things felt incomplete. There was no happy ending. No treasure or fortune, no ancient fable. Only her and the rose. It would have been easy to lie to him. To leave the flower and march back home, recalling some feigned profound realization she had come to. With a shake of her head and another long sigh, she turned to sit upon the steps she had just ascended moments prior. “Mora brought you here, no matter what you might think.” There was no telling how much time had passed. Her mind was clouded with little regard for the hours ticking by. Mora lay there, watching the stars in isolation with the rose upon her lap. Only when a hand reached up for her bandana – seeking for a brief reprieve from the unrelenting heat – did she realize what she must do. Back at the center of the altar, she lay the cloth down first, with the rose following shortly after. The mark upon her brow now lay uncovered, an eye finally opened. Satisfied, she descended the steps to begin her journey back to him – back to Tor-Azdroth. She felt no need to run from it anymore.

A certain mali'ame's lips thin, finding amusement in the hypocrisy. "It will not be my issue anymore, soon," she muttered to herself, a hand reaching for the rose within her pocket.

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