Songs into the aetherium (Paragon)

[Lyra]

40th of Searing, 122AS

Location: The Crater (Lyrielle's Dark Demense)

There was an otherworldly chill in the valley of broken souls. Great trees grown tall on the blood of the slain shows great cracks in their bark, from which dark liquid flowed like rivulets of blackened tears. The world within the crater had turned ashen and grey, and fog drifted lazily over bluish-green grass. At the center of this world of ethereal night was a dais of silver and gold, upon which a broken scripture glowed with a dim blue light.

In this, her sanctuary, Lyrielle spun in slow circles, wafting tendrils of shadow and smoke flowing from her form as she hummed an old song. Tilting her head back her eyes opened to the sight of a hovering moon height overhead, the eye of the world set to see the performance lead by the Lady of Whispers. Her smile showed a flash of teeth as her mouth opened wide, and she sang.

"In the eyes of the king, my suffering is lost.
From the lips of the king, my fate is known.
My dreams are all a foolish delusion.
My wish comes at too high a cost."

Lowering down to the broken dais, her hands reached down to undo the clasp of a small broken box. Its surface was chard, and the metal tarnished, but inside starlight glittered. The shards were like pieces of the night sky as Lyrielle gazed at them. She could see the moon and the sky beyond, and deeper still her eyes saw a broken thing. Sympathy, or perhaps a passing concern showed in those golden eyes for a fleeting but soon was gone.

"Myshala, the elegant spider, Lord of Flesh." words of ancient hytori flowed with the same rhythm of the song, "We call you as the little one has asked. The pieces are collected."

The musical language seemed to hover in the still air of the ethereal glade. Trees groaned without wind to give them a voice, and Lyrielle looked up from the box, her smile smaller as she regarded the surroundings. Small lights similar to fireflies drifted lazily across the open space, each giving off faint musical tones only Lyrielle could hear. She hummed her old tune, floating up once more as she closed her eyes in wait, her voice mixing with the silent melodies of the souls around her, a song of invite to a very prestigious guest.

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

At first there was silence. The misty winds of her dark demanse blew softly with no answering voice. But then it came. The whisper of a song on the midnight winds that gently caressed Lyrielle’s skin, her hair, and her lips.

Here in the Valley, I dare to dream
Here in the Valley, the star bells all ring
Here in the Valley, your song rings so clear
Drawing me close, so that I may be near

The answering words were in ancient Vallenor, spoken with a clarity and perfection that had not been heard since the time of the Boundless Empire. Around her, the bleeding trees that wept tears of black water began to warp and twist. The branches cracked and bent. They began to bloom with leaves that then became adorned with eyes that blinked and stared at Lyrielle with an array of emotions ranging from adoration, to hate, to fear, to lust, to curiosity.

Sing! Sing! Sing Little Girl!
Sing, sing, sing and let's twirl!
Sing! Sing! Sing now for me!
Sing, sing, and here I shall be.

The song continued and the roots of the trees writhed and slithered across the ground, branching up from the charred earth. They began to weave themselves into a pattern that looked much like a spider’s web. Black ooze dripped from the roots in stringy rivulets. As the plopped upon the dry earth, they became globulous spiders that scuttled into the dark before melting away, back into the shadowy sludge they came from.

The gnarled web wrapped around the circle that Lyrielle had prepared creating a suspended web of wood, black slime and ashen earth. At the center of the web a large eye that housed within itself dozens of eyes, opened and fixed upon Lyrielle. It blinked and the dozens of inner eyes began weeping the black ooze. Dropping to the ground, twisted roots sprung up from the earth, forming a wretched column that shaped into the form of a woman. Her gnarled hands reached out, the spidery fingers brushing along Lyrielle’s form with a soft caress. When her form solidified, her upper half was that of a woman with pale skin and dark hair. Her face was covered by a veil that concealed the upper half of her features. Six tattered wings that seemed to be a combination of feathers and spider’s legs sprouted from her back. Her arms were monstrous and spindly. Her lower half appeared as that of the twisted roots of a blackened tree.

She leaned forward, her form solid and yet translucent at the edges as though she were not completely there. Her hands reached for Lyrielle. When she spoke, her voice was unearthly beautiful with a haunting quality that whispered to one’s every desire.

“My darling, my sweet, my dear Lyrielle,
You’ve summoned, you’ve called, you’ve woven your spell.”

The hundreds of eyes on the leaves of the warped trees around them all blinked.

“I know your dreams. I know their depths. I know their peaks.
Tell now your wish, that a price I may speak.”

[Lyra]

Fear was a natural response to the unknown, and to the vastly odd and unknowable. Unease tingled up her spine as Lyrielle beheld the form of one of the lords of mist, but she did not withdraw. When she stood before Talon she saw a boy, powerful and wise, but young like his past incarnations. When she saw the Lord of Oaths, Akrivar in his rage and pride she felt humbled and cowed but knew that her words held influence still. Before the great shadow, her heart ached and her mind grew foggy, and she felt both euphoria and disgust with herself. The spider drew forth something else, something more basic, more unnerving. Revery, discomfort, and a sense of looking into the depths.

She was the embodiment of the Ud, Lyrielle realized as she opened her eyes and gazed upward at the creature that now surrounded her. Where the other gods and mistlords she had met and interacted with had a sense of familiarity, Myshala was, and always had been, something she could not quite comprehend. A thrill came with the fear and unease, intoxicating like wine in the dark.

Where she was touched Lyrielle felt her skin prickle. The voice, so hauntingly beautiful made her want to cry and laugh all at once. She smiled as a single black tear slipped down her cheek. A memory faded and fragmented struggled to form as Lyrielle's voice caught in her throat. She couldn't... remember. There were still 4 fragments that remained, and so her memories of her past, of who she was, were not complete but floating there before the Lord of Flesh made her very soul struggle to recall something important.

Lyrielle would burn anything the Lord of Shadows asked her to, but now the elf realized that what she felt for that man was merely infatuation. If she could choose a word to describe the entirety of what she felt toward this being, it would be a feverish ardor of devotion.

"My wish..." Her voice filled with emotion, but with a breath she turned to look down at the small chest that still stood open on the dais. Thin tendrils of smoke condensed, thickening to a dark liquid that raised the box up to Lyrielle's waiting hand. She looked down at the box, finding it difficult to look at Myshala herself, "To mend that which is broken."

Finding her courage Lyrielle raised the box and the broken pieces before her, looking up at the Mistlord, "The one known as Odison... He is broken, as I was, as I am. His wish was to be made whole once more."

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

The eyes all around Lyrielle turned to the box she held up. A wistful sigh escaped the Mistlord’s mouth, that sigh being akin to music in and of itself.

“Sweet child of mine, what is this that you do?” Her form undulated and dissolved into a black ichor that flowed around Lyrielle but did not touch her. Within the black sludge, dozens of eyes opened, around them sprung forth the legs of spiders that twitched and spasmed. Myshala’s musical voice emanated by the dozens around the elf sorceress.

“A wish to mend what is broken? For him?” A whisper in Lyrielle’s ear. “Or for you?”

Laughter like the chime of crystal bells filled the air.

“Oh, Lyrielle, what a marvel you bring. Always drawn to all broken things.” One of Myshala’s spidery hands reached out from the ooze and caressed along Lyrielle’s jaw. Her haunting face pushed out of the muck, a smile stretched across her face to the point that the cheeks split to reveal mandibles and teeth sharper than any sword could ever be.

“Is this your wish? No. I think not. This desire is for others. This is not the Truth you have sought.” Myshala’s form melted away from Lyrielle, flowing back into the writhing mass of black sludge and tree roots. Her form ascended once more to its first state, the woman of gnarled branches and spider’s webs.

“Give me your desire, your real one, not this broken thing. Give me your wish, Lyrielle. Let the Singer, sing.”

[Lyra]

Why had she collected all of these pieces within the box? Was it because she was asked by a man she did not really know? Or, perhaps, it was because of a strange kinship she felt with other shattered things. It seemed so pitiful to look down on the broken parts of the whole, and Lyrielle could hear their desire to be together once more. A familiar melody that she herself had sung for so long... but did she any longer?

Lyrielle was lost for words as she stared up into the many eyes of the Spider most Elegant. Here, another being of power was asking her a question she could not quite answer. A question she herself asked nearly everyone she met. The irony of it might have been numerous were she not so confused. What did she desire? What is the Truth she sought?

Her eyes flickered to the box in her hands, at the broken pieces within, and Lyrielle contemplated. She had intended to simply fulfill a request another broken thing had asked of her, but of course dealings with the Lord of Flesh were not so simplistic and straightforward. Had she not warned the Iron Queen herself? Her mind then turned to the words the thing in the 3rd deep had said to her, and she thought about their meaning as she lifted one of the pieces in the chest between two fingers to stare at the unnaturally smooth edges.

The revelation from days before had reminded Lyrielle that, while something may be broken each part made up a new whole. They were, in and of themselves, complete and unbroken, but also parts of something more. Yet were they the sum of their parts? Were they lessened because they were separate? If they were to come together once more, would they be as they were before?

No. Of course not. Something broken and mended would never quite be the same. New cracks would be formed, fissures that were sources of new weakness that could be exploited. A broken sword would never be as mighty as before it was broken, and with that thought understanding slowly trickled in like water filling a shallow basin. What then had that man in white done? Her soul now was near complete, though there still were fragments in the world that she had to collect. How had he solidified her soul to the point that she could function as she did before she was broken, better in some ways? Lyrielle's eyes turned downward at the dais where the Man in White had laid out a design so elegant and perfect it seemed impossible for mortal hands to recreate. He had not simply mended her shattered soul, but...

"You ask what it is that I desire?" Lyrielle looked up at the spider in her web, "That which burns in me like fire?"

Her thoughts swirled in a chaotic mess of clashing ideas and want, but slowly Lyrielle pieced the fragments together. The designs of the circle below her, the words of the thing in the deeps, the idea of what would happen to broken things once whole again.

"It is something I have spoken, for I desire to mend that which is broken." A firmness came to her tone as she looked at Myshala, and then down at the little shard in her hands. To one looking in, her request might seem the same as before, but it came from a different place. It wasn't for anyone else, but for her.

"Like cold iron in a forge, I will make them something more."

To mend something broken was to make something weaker than what it was previously. A shattered soul could not simply be pieced back together. I needed to be changed, improved... Reforged. More and more Lyrielle was growing to understand this. Things that are separated are whole as themselves but come together to create something greater than the sum of their parts. Lyrielle's wish was the ability to reforge the soul itself, not for anyone else but herself.

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

Laughter like the chime of a thousand bells harmonizing with the guttural quake of the bones of the earth filled the air. The goddess seemed amused but was not displeased. Her body bent in an unnatural way as she lowered herself, allowing her branches to snake around Lyrielle.

“Souls in a forge, the power to make old things anew.” A voice like silk oozed into Lyrielle’s senses as the branches of the goddess’ body began to creak and groan before digging into the sorceress’ skin. There was no pain but it was an odd sensation to have the Spider’s roots writhing beneath her flesh.

“This wish, I grant. For you, Lyrielle.” Myshala brushed one of her fingers along Lyrielle’s chin. “Just for you.”

The roots of the Lady Most Merciful and Stern plunged into Lyrielle until they burrowed into her very soul. They found the house of her essence and knowledge and once there, dug deep. There a seed was planted and from it blossomed a world of new understanding. Suddenly the foundations of her craft, the world of the Scribe, became a thing of new beauty. Understanding in ways that she never could have imagined presented themselves and embedded themselves into her mind and memory. The meaning of a person’s soul, most supremely, her own, came into focus for her with such startling clarity that it was as if she had been walking around with blinders her entire life. As the roots of the Flesh Queen unwound themselves from Lyrielle’s form, she leaned in close. Though her mouth did not move, the words came to the elven sorceress nevertheless.

“You have the tools. Your eyes are opened. Build your forge, that new souls may be awoken.” A hand came up and those creaking spidery branches brushed along Lyrielle’s form. In that moment, Lyrielle would realize that she did not need a goddess to reforge the broken pieces in the box before her. It might take time but she could find the way. She could mend it. She could build it anew.

“My price is this, remember it well.” The Spider Most Elegant straightened as the manifestation of her form began to recede. “When Hope comes to you, to the Lord of Vengeance you will deliver him, my dear Lyrielle.”

The goddess’ laughter filled the whole of the dark demesne before her form collapsed in on itself as though drawn into a spiraling black hole. In a blink, the Lord of Flesh, Bargains and Wishes was gone.

Lyra’s wish granted.

The price for it given.

[Lyra]

A gasp escaped her lips as Lyrielle felt the branches pierce her skin. Surprise, yet no pain assailed her senses, and instead she was left with a euphoric sensation as the hand brushed her cheek. Deeper and deeper the the goddess drove, passing through layers of ego and subconscious to find the core of Lyrielle, all that she was, and all that she knew.

As the sensations grew to an overwhelming pitch Lyrielle's eyes rolled back, and she arched her back as shudders wracked her body. It felt as if water were being forced into a clogged tube, the pressure building to a sudden climax before the damns of her soul broke and the seed of understanding planted there forced its way out and into the rest of her being. Images flashed in a blurred tangle of colors and sensations in her mind, symbols so profound they brought tears to her eyes that fell as black pearls on the ground below. She saw herself standing before a crystal, and in its fractal surface she saw herself repeated over and over again. Different eyes, different hair, different expressions, but in each she saw the similarities. All form lost meaning as a void consumed her world, and she was a light in the endless darkness sailing at speeds faster and slower than anything in Ransera. She saw a person living a life, raising a family, then dying only to be reborn again, and again and again. She saw a soul tortured by fire and ice that tore itself apart yet still continued on. She saw a soul that was bathed in riches and all the luxuries one could want, yet before her the soul withered and passed away having given up its spark freely before its time.

The void gave way to the expanse of the aetherium itself, a small fragment of it that bleed into the land of nod where bubbles of rainbow hues carried the lights of dreamers into the expanse of aethereal sea toward a vortex at its center. Lights from beyond the veil flowed toward that vortex, and Lyrielle knew them to be souls returning to the realm of their chosen divine.

More and more insights flooded her, and in her mind the blooming tree of knowledge captured the concepts and drew them inward, shaping them, and creating a multi-dimensional shape that encapsulated all that she had experienced. There, in the depths of that sphere of insight Lyrielle saw a familiar design. It was etched into her mind, carved into her psyche. The pictograph constructed by the man in white upon the dais, the thing which gave her new form and life. All that that man had done was contained in just a part of the knowledge granted to her by the Spider Most Elegant, and in that moment Lyra realized that she had barely touched the surface of what was possible.

Souls could be viewed as they were, yet the world itself was simply an interpretation of the soul. If a soul could interpret the machinations of the world in pictographs, then so too could the soul be viewed as a complex collection of scripts layered in twisting and every changing patterns. This revelation was like awakening from a world of black and white to one of color.

When she opened her eyes Lyrielle did not see the trees nor the grass or the mist. She saw spinning symbols in flowing patterns. Some were large and complex, others were simple. Some took on basic shapes, while others were so baffling that Lyrielle struggle to comprehend their meaning. Looking up at the goddess Lyrielle beheld the soul of the goddess herself as something odd. A shape like a tree ringed by spider webs. Simplistic at first, but then Lyrielle realized that every strand was composed of a string of glyphs. The trunk was layered in three dimensions, and within lines were other sigils, spider like creations that shifted and changed and moved about. The soul of a goddess, this goddess, did not stand out as grand and mighty, but its depths continued on in increasing detail and intricacy that Lyrielle felt were she to stare for too long she would never be able to look away.

She had been blind. No, not blind, but immature in her understanding. When she heard the price to be paid Lyrielle blinked slowly, and nodded in affirmation. She did not dwell on it, for her mind felt ready to explode as she lowered herself to the floor of her sanctuary.

"We imagined a smiths anvil when we desired the reforge a soul." Lyrielle spoke aloud to herself, glancing to the side where the box and the pieces of the sword now lay, some pieces scattered on the ground. As she stared the pieces reshaped themselves into broken fractles, into a language she could understand.

"But we are no smith. We are the last Dinor'afael. We do not remake with hammer and tongues." She felt breathless as she extended a hand toward one of the peices, raising it before her eyes and examining the symbols she saw, "We do not reforge... we rewrite."

A symbol stood out from the rest in this piece, small and barely legible as it looked similar to ink smudged by water and time. Yet still Lyrielle could read it clearly. There, stated boldly, was a single word.

Odison

[Paragon]

R E W A R D S

Name: Lyra
XP: 15 XP. Can be used for magic.
Requested Lore: +8 Lores

Note(s): Lyra has been granted her wish by the Spider Most Elegant. Myshala has gifted her the power to perceive a soul through the lens of a Dinor'afael. She is not a Soulsmith but rather, an Author of Souls. Through her Scrivening, she is able to directly alter souls in a manner all her own based on how she perceives it and what she introduces to the soul in her vision.

I look forward to seeing how she utilizes this gift!