Darthgamer101

Going to post tomorrow, I'll resume to normal posting speed after that. I will also be making an interest check to spur on participation here, from new folks, and myself as well. Sidenote: @Xoco your post from May 15 is under the canonization limit, and given it's a military thread I'd like to keep it open to that possibility. All you would need to do is edit it beyond 80 words, please. I really appreciate it.

Sounds reasonable enough to me. Expect some kind of intro post within the week

Hey thanks for the mention, I have actually been keeping an eye on this for a while now. I just havent wanted to commit to something until I was sure I would be able to keep up- Which im now pretty sure I can. Give me like a week/one round to catch up and make sure I both can join and understand what's going on. I'd be joining with Vincent, obviously enough. Do you have any ideas in mind for how he might have gotten wind of this job?

I lied about the excellence. Edits for clarity will come later, just ping me if there is any confusion.

Vincent side-eyed Riforte as she spoke. His jaw worked in small gradual motions, and he rose his eyebrows at her fashion choices. Initially, he had thought to disagree, but after some contemplation found that, 'Maybe that....would....look god on me.' "Huh..." He said, his face showing slight surprise. Then, silence again. An area he was barely comfortable in, but trained by life to endure just well enough to survive the laws of the Ómerta, and the pain of breaking them. He did enjoy watching her dance the same song he had been for years. 'Walking that thin line of shutting the hell up when needed, and shouting at some dumb cunt to, "Just fucking say something god dammit."' The night at least, was beautiful. The cobble in front of the grotto shone with the multicolor glow of a true rager, and the singsong chatter of drunken patrons added even more color. The bands tune drifted through the slats inbetween small talk, and added flavor to his evening. The drunk bastards he had kicked out added amusement, and painted interpretive body art upon that beautiful cobblestone. Odd that they were doing it with vomit, but he reminded himself he was not the artist here. Then the vixen spoke again, "Vincenzo Corleone and Riforte D'Marcus, we sound like a pair." "Eh?" He said, tearing his eyes off Da-Vinci over there in the alley. "Hrm, it does add some zest. I could get use to hearing 'em together, maybe." "I guess you haven't been around my block, bub." "Damn, I guess not, what are the odds?" He said dryly, as he shrugged with a smile. Then she lit another damned cigar, and his smile faded. 'Oh fuck off.' His hungry green eyes flitted to the lit stogy, and then as if in regret of their feelings, flitted back out to the street again. She took a drag too long for his liking. He could tell from the sound, and the satisfied sigh. The smoke painted a beautiful scene to him; a scene of earthy tones, sweet ambrosia, and the aftertaste of strong coffee. He rolled his shoulders in satisfaction, and smiled again. Then he quickly remembered he wasn't the one smoking it, and huffed a grunt of irritation. "A wild choice of company, Riforte, I gotta say. But, you've got me on the ropes with the people shit. Most folks here got invited 'cuz they know someone who knows who to know, and not their moves." He scanned again, and finished the thought, "So not a bad spot, you're right." She returned the question to him, batting back the pitched ball. "I'm going to ask you the same question, though. You look like the type of guy meant to handle the doors and throw people over ledges, but your mind is a bit too calculated for this mundane work. So, what are you doing out here with me and not in there mingling?" And she offered him the cigar! 'Sweet protean creator, you have blessed this lady with supreme skills of judgement and generosity. I thank you for both.' Corleone, as suavely as he could manage, accepted the cigar. Before he answered her, he nursed it sweetly, and finally took a long, even, drag. Thick trails of smoke began to wisp from the giant's nose, and he handed the stick back to D'marcus. The bouncer took a lean back, onto the wall adjacent the doorway. Lines of smoke continued to puff out his nostrils, in dragon-esque huffs. This time, he didn't let the silence drag on too long He opened his mouth to speak, and with it came rolling clouds of fragrant tobacco. Then, he paused, his eyes flicking to the red velvet rope. He uttered a small, annoyed grunt, and quickly began digging through his blazer. As he did so, he managed to relish the last tips of smoke as they left his palate. Finally, having found whatever he was looking for, he gripped between his thumb and pointer finger. Vincent turned his head towards the party, and unbuckled the red rope just before Isadora and Nunzio @Veloci-Rapture reached it. Just as he did, he snapped his gaze to Riforte D'Marcus and flipped a small black suit button to her through the smoke. In the night it was imperceptible, and the light from inside shone onto the smoke as effectively as headlights on fog. The little black button would reach Riforte's torso, regardless of if she had the mitts to catch it before it landed. "Chess, not checkers." He said, in a small tone. Vincenzo straightened his back at the presence of the two under-bosses, his eyes shifting again to that respectful area between their eyes and mouths. He bowed his head to Isadora, and then Nunzio. He patiently waited for her to finish her statement, all the way through to its' completion and a little afterwards, just for good measure. Then he eyed Riforte briefly, and quickly moved his focus back to Isadora. "Thank you for the praise boss, but it ain't hard to be good at this job when most of 'em are too drunk to break open a bottle, forget about breakin' balls." And then a pause, and he eyed Nunzio very briefly, seemingly soaking in as much of him as he could in the moments he was allowed to. For a second it would have felt complimentary, but it began to linger too long to be anything but analytical. "The only thing I find enigmatic are my racket dues, boss Fedele." He said, demurely. Although his tone was even, and sober. It did have a certain direction to it, as most of his proddings with the dons and capos of the Four did. It could be construed as evasion, or it could be construed as, 'You see? My mind is always on your best interests.' Seeing Nunzio lean against the doorframe, Vincent would shift some of his weight back to it. It was not a large enough shift to be out of place, but it did shorten the often awkward space of small talk to a more manageable 'handshake' kind of space.

As he sat upon the steps, having asked his question, he observed her response keenly. Sharps cocked his thin head, and his smile took an impish nature to it. The thin lines of his lips curled at the ends like parchment under heat, or like a bemused uncle. An uncle who was watching his favorite niece with that typically smug and encouraging smirk, that wordlessly said with a nodded head, "go on then, speak your mind". He just barely caught the perked eyebrows, and his attention shifted slightly to them, but they disappeared so soon he thought for a moment that they had never moved. His head bobbed forward crookedly, his mouth made an 'O' and the shape's accompanying sound. A chuckle worked it's way in, just for good measure. "My skills are of long forgotten repute, dear, so I suppose we will just have to rely on that wonderful charm of mine. Won't we?" When she brought out the map, his form shimmered through the black veil of his mist, and suddenly he was standing- although he had never stood up. He walked over to Riforte with more or less the same Cheshire quality of sinful curiosity. His head moved from the lovely lady's quartz cut crystalline features, and onto the map. He listened to her brief, still as stone. Then, when she had finished, he said, "His drunkenness hardly matters, a mark is a mark." Still gazing at the map, a pale pasty hand materialized from the black mist that billowed from his patchwork image, and very gently stroked a choice location on the map. It swayed over a few locations, and landed wherever his dark bespectacled interests led him. "In my experience, lords hardly ever notice a pound missing or earned. Those that do rarely possess anything of real value." His finger stopped drifting, and it picked itself off the map and dissolved back into his figure. He looked up, his head turning back to his dinner date. "Though, some times I suppose they might just not have the sense to know what they possess." He said, under his breath. Simple. Simple indeed. 'All complexities disguise themselves as simpletons. It has always been life's great mischief to organize events in deliciously easy formats, only to pull the proverbial rug out from me.' He considered this, his expression working through several small and quick changes as his thinking progressed. His gaze again lost in the mud of this map, and idle thoughts. When next his contractor spoke, his reaction was a swift upward shift of attention. "Hm?" He intoned, distractedly. "Ah, of course. No bodies, completely doable, no trouble. No trouble at all." His focus had wandered, and he was aware of it. Many things were on the shade's mind. Items of non import, but of deep portent to him. It has been a very long time since he had been whole, and he felt the strong tinges of new beginnings, new tones in the color of his life's chronicle upon this great rock. These thoughts weighed heavily upon him. But just as the mist, both metaphorical and physical, began to billow perhaps a little too thick- two golden hues pierced his veil. 'Fierce. Full of life! Full of great, galvanized, grand purpose!' Like two giant lighthouses, they showed him his way forward. Yes, of course, it was in the oddities of uncertainties that wisdom languished. Help this woman, 'Find that purpose of hers! Salvation has never waited for me before, yet here she stands.' Together? The thought bounced like a poorly served ball, just barely clearing the hurdle. But it was as it seemed, they were in this together. For him, for the Maelor, for Sharps, this had very little to do with the velvet bag. But all the same, this dank cellar had brought them both just low enough to rise as high as they liked. "No, no questions, no concerns." He said, pursing his lips and shaking his head, his well worn laugh lines crinkling. "But, entertain a notion for me." He stepped boldly forward, a long step that seemed more leap than leg brought him much closer to Riforte. "My skills are unique, and not what most are used to, dear lady." He quirked an eyebrow upwards and drew a sweeping hand from his billows. "I am most skilled in providing allies with the fruits of their desires, as you will find. But I do not perform these magics with the typical methods, instead I am restricted to only the most mystical sorceries." The wide brimmed ghoul withdrew his hand and straightened his back, "Instead, I prefer to help much more........" "Up close." He finished, with a polite nod of his head. As the light flickered, Sharps gestured down to their feet. Where they stood near and where her shadow reflected in the light, or anywhere she casted darkness, Sharps' mist would begin to coagulate slowly into those shadows. If she allowed it, he would unravel like an old yarn knit sweater, until he had disappeared into her silhouette. As it started, he very quietly said, "If I may?" The beginnings of these trickles, which she could very easily repulse, would give her a marked improvement in several abilities. She would notice her perceptions, physically, magically, and spiritually, balloon in capability. She could very suddenly see through walls, detect movement through darkness, and detect the light grazing of desires on the surface of human (or otherwise) hearts. In a phrase, true sight. She would also feel the beginnings of great improvements in reflexes, physical strength, dexterity. If she let it progress further, she would discover the same mist that made Sharps look like an unfinished Picasso would pad her feet and occasionally leave the odd puff behind a motion. It would be just small enough to be difficult to rationalize, but present enough to confuse observers. Finally, she would discover she felt a presence. A foreboding snake in the garden of eden, it's scaly length upon her shoulder, whispering. Every now and then her shadow would twitch, and briefly in flickering lights, resemble a tall thin man wearing a wide hat. This is all, of course, if she let it occur. If not, he would tut softly, and seem disheartened. He would ask about what intentions she would have of him, and directions. In either form, a whisper in the dark would say, "Well, let us go find our fates, and quickly, yes?"

Hey all sorry its taking so long, summer classes have just started and im trying to find my footing. Please be patient and I promise excellence!

Aethelcília rose from her bed, head pounding. "Unnngh." She groaned, and suddenly lurched over her bedside, puking. "Umbbbbuhhh. Nooooo." The militant woman moaned even further, a pitiful whine and hiccup accompanying the bile. She rose her head slightly from its hung position off the bed frame, and squinted at the sunlight. '......' "Oh by Gaia!!" She yelled, her own voice causing a sharp increase in her head pain. Cília swung her legs out onto a clean part of the floor, and as quickly as she could without vomiting, stumbled over to her things. She placed her hand on a wooden arm bracer, laden with golden inscriptions. It glowed with her touch, and Cília closed her eyes. She mumbled an incantation, half prayer and the other half a spiritual commune with herself. Slowly, her vision and mind began to clear of the alcoholic fog. With an exulted breath of relief, she smiled, and opened her eyes. Her senses her own again, she took stock of the room. "What a fookin' mess, what the hell happened last night?" Bottles were strewn around the room, her clothes crumpled in a heap near her bed, and a bucket of- "Ahhhh." She said quietly as her nose wrinkled. She sighed again, this time one of shame and small regret. Her eyes leaving the bucket, she strode over to her clothes. Thankfully, they were spared from her morning sickness. She found them to be clean, though they did smell slightly of alcohol. As she dressed herself and equipped herself with her armaments, she mentally reminded herself to tip the barmaid and hostess extra, for the mess. After she was ready, she left the room and momentarily wracked her brain for the right room of.... of..... 'Damn! what was his name?' She pounded her forehead with the bottom of her palm, frustrated. 'Uh....S-...Stannis!' She nodded quickly in relief, and made to pound at his door. "It's the woman who you brazenly asked to confirm your 'special orders,'" She snickered, and said. "Let me in you drunken fool!" She would wait there until he responded or opened the door. If he opened the door she would enter, smiling with a nod, and doing her best to avoid looking at any mess that may be in the room. If he told her to wait, she would, and she would usher them to a place where they may talk peacefully, such as a private booth down in the bar. Either way, she would say, "Let's get cracking, eh?" Then she would unfurl her own orders, and say once he confirmed his, "We're here to find a nest. Orders don't say to exactly smash them, but if we could they would certainly appreciate it. First tack on the board needs to be finding their headquarters, but as far as our HQ is concerned that is mission accomplished and everything after that is extra credit." She swiped her nose a little, and sniffed. She turned to him and smiled, "I, for one, want that extra credit." She tucked the orders away, and spoke further. "So we need to come up with a method to suss out these cultists. Ideas on my mind are questioning the barkeep, and the townsfolk as quietly as we can. Maybe we kick this up the ladder, and ask for info from Ignatz officials, maybe wave the empire's logo around 'til we pull an ear?" She shrugged. "Any ideas?"

Gonna be a day late posting, apologies. Summer classes have started for me.

“Look up. Cília, to the heights you wish to reach. Reach out, reach out and grow, girl.” “Ah!” She yelped, as the tree limb snapped, and fell. For a moment, one quick and threatening moment, her hands were empty and her feet had no purchase. She flung her arms out as she fell, grasping wildly at the stump the limb left behind. One hand stuck like glue but the other had no such luck. She began slipping. With a small grunt and practiced effort she reached for an adjacent growth and gripped as firmly as she could muster. At the same time she kicked her legs forward and braced them against the truth. It worked well enough, but her neighbor Lullig would laugh at the way her feet scrambled on the bark. She made a face.‘Sure footed bastard.’ Her position somewhat secure, she took a deep, calming breath. Aethelcília shook her long black hair out of her eyes and dug her hard-soled boots further into the tree. The perch secure enough for her liking, she grabbed a small, wet bag, from her hip with one hand. Opening it revealed a grey, mud like substance. She balanced the bag on her leg, and rubbed the paste into her hand and fingers as best she could. Her legs, and arm, were trembling now. Her brow was furrowed and her face was scrunched into a stern focus. She brought the hand to her face and glared at it, as small, quiet words, escaped her lips. “Gaia, bring me closer to your way…” The paste on her hand began to quake slightly, and shift. It took on a solid look, like one single layer, and from it a hundred small needles protruded. She smiled, and brought the hand to the bark. It latched on as it had many times before. She knew now that hand could not be moved by anything less than a hurricane. ‘Or my father.’ She did the same to the other hand, and both her boots. Both her hands left the tree and she tied the bag back to the belt around her waist. She sighed in relief, placing her hands upon her hips, and stood at a 45 degree angle from the tree. She glanced down briefly, to see the limb she had grabbed previously lying on the rainforest floor, at least 40 feet below. “Yikes,” she intoned quietly. And after that small break she climbed on, quickly reaching the top of the Aspyn tree. She scanned the horizon. From here, all of Aspyn stretched into the horizon. Smoke burned from chimneys, people scurried about like ants. The cityscape sprawled from dirt inroads and farms, to wooden homes of the laymen outside the walls; but as her gaze wandered further inwards, the city morphed into more and more modern. Cobblestone, brick homes, and the ants growing busier and thicker. An excited breath escaped her nostrils, and her eyes sparkled with the wild spark of curiosity her parents had dealt with since she was a child. She rested her awhile, eating a sandwich she had prepared. She watched the noon sun rise. Peace came in in bundles up here. “Cília! Damn you! Come down from there and get back to work!” She looked down at her father, Finnigan of Aspyn, who had his hands cupped to his mouth and his face was red with either a mix of effort, or anger. Probably anger. “Cilia!” He yelled again. “Ugh,” she grimaced, and then grumbled a quiet reply, “Okay, okay, alright.” “I’m coming do-” She began, only to be cut off from her father below “I will cut this whole Aspyn down you silly girl, get down here!” He stamped his foot and pointed to the ground when he said down. “Okay!” She shouted down, pantomiming him mockingly as she walked down the tree. ‘Work this, work that. I can’t have an hour to myself?’ As she reached the bottom, her father cuffed her ‘round the ear, “Yer duty is first to yer family, and second to you.” He said, with a lilted background to his voice. “When yer work is done, you can wander all you like. But not before!” She quickly reached to the side of the head he slapped, glaring at her father. “Fine.” “Don’t fine me! Your evocation ceremony is days away, and you still worry your mother!” He yelled, exasperated, waving a dirt covered hand animatedly. “Okay! Alright! I am sorry.” She drug out the sorry, sneaking twinges of sarcasm into her voice. Her father glared, and eventually his gaze softened. “Come on, we have work.” He sighed, rubbing his temples and walking in the direction of home. Cília huffed, and followed. Her evoking day had been talked about her whole life. The day she would be an adult, free to make her own decision. Recognized in their small neighborhood outside the city, as an equal. Free to make her own business, her own home, marry, and even sire children, should she choose. Most importantly, she would be recognized as a child of Gaia, and finally learn The Woad. It was tomorrow, and she could not wait. She had had enough of the rules, of the curfew, the duties, and obligations. It was a four day venture into the woods, and they would be led by the old crone, or ‘The Druid’ as her parents called her. At the end of that journey, on the fifth day, the ceremony would take place. She had been there before, to the great huge tree at the center, surrounded by ancient stones. She had tried to climb the tree, but the bark was too tough to pierce and too tall to climb without tools. But until then, for today, she would be milling lumber and carving chairs for the thousandth time. -The Next Day- “Come on then, it’s time.” Her father rustled Aethelcília awake. “Come on, Cília.” He said again, gently, as she rocked her. “Uh?” She complained, covering her eyes irritatedly as Finnigan opened the curtains to the dawn. “Nooo.” She whined, drawn out and pitiful. “Yes, you dumb girl, lets go.” Finnigan said, firmly. He tugged her blankets off. “Don’t make me get the bucket.” “No! No, no, no.” She responded quickly, waving her hands from underneath her covers, pleading. “I’m up! I’m up, pa.” He squinted for a moment. Finally, he sighed, and smiled.“Atta’ girl, go get some breakfast.” He said with a smile and a nod as he turned out of the room, pushing aside the curtain that separates it from the rest of the house. The smell of food now wafting through the room quickly roused her, far better than Finnigan could ever hope to. She groaned again, but this time it accompanied the swing of her legs and the cold slap of her feet upon old, creaking, floorboards. She stretched, and rose to dress herself. It was the day. She blinked. ‘Oh, my sweet Gaia. It’s today.’ The thought stunned her, her eyes searching for something in front of her. She attempted to process that, as best she could. She had waited for her evocation for so long, and yet now that it had arrived, how was she supposed to feel? Bigger? Stronger? Wiser? Anticipatory? Scared? “Honey! Come get your food before it gets cold!” Her mother said loudly, and then continued. “Baby come on out, and eat quickly. Half the folks are already outside!” Aethelcília squeaked a small, annoyed, apology. She dressed herself in her tunic, grey pants, and leather coat. That leather coat was old, worn, and obviously stitched in areas like the shoulders or back. She had caught, skinned, and worked the material herself. It was, along with her bow skills, her most prided joy. Tying her long brown hair with twine, she swished aside the curtain The food was in front of her on the kitchen table, the only table in a small and modest two story home. Her parents were there too, dressed to hike. They bore tribal markings from herbal mixtures and dyes, significant to their heritage and journey to come. They would apply these to Cília as well, and reapply them for the whole journey, up until the evocation. There they would be washed of those markings, and her parents the burden of a young child, and her from her childhood. She sat down to eat her meal, scarfing it down as quickly as she could. In between mouthfuls she noticed several heavy and food laden rucksacks lay next to the door. Looking back to her parents, Finnigan and Aileen smiled, Finnigan placing her forehead on hers. “Try not choke before you get there, eh my Cocomo?” She rolled her eyes, a grin failing to be restrained. Cocomo, a type of tree frog native to the Aspyn rainforests, were migratory and were famed for their poor temperament. They also slept through much of their lives, to preserve energy. Cília’s father had long ago donned this name for her, saying it simply fit too well, and to refuse such a similarity would, “Besmirch Gaia’s good earth.” It reminded her, again, of her fleeting childhood. But once more she had no time to ruminate. She had eaten too quickly, and her parents had waited too long. They strode to the door, Aileen hefting her pack over her shoulders. Finnigan put his on as well, and held Cília’s out expectantly. “Let’s go, Cocomo.” He said, a sly grin still creasing his weathered face. It was getting more wrinkled, faster than she would like. ‘When had he gotten so old?’ She pondered, sadly. She was getting into her own head, she resolved. Time had always moved, regardless of her cares. Cília just never noticed it, too busy in the trees, avoiding work. She smiled lightly, trying to squash her blooming sadness. She took the sack, and strapped it onto her back. Her parents opened the door and she followed closely behind, the early dawn light blinding her momentarily. When her vision adjusted, she saw a little over a dozen people here. She was the only child to be evoked this year, but the township had always treated her like the daughter of many, and not just two. So more than just her parents, the druid priest, and her, showed up. It brought a real smile to her face. “Off, then, to new times.” Intoned the druid, softly, yet clearly. There were several cheerful nods, and the pack set out and off, as the druid said, to new times. -Three days later- Traveling had been wonderful. The trees spoke to them with the chirps, coos, caws, and screeching of birds. Monkey’s had hung from their trees to howl at them. The caravan passed troops of apes and monkeys, the druid and some others had worked the Gift and Discipline, speaking to them. They exchanged gifts. The group had passed gorgeous streams, discovered albino and multicolored Aspyns, they had made clay statues from silt in the creeks and left them on the shore to bring luck to other travelers. Cília’s father had found a dead tree, and gave it the honor of rebirth and finality. He also used it to cook the deer they had all hunted, and it flavored the meat wonderfully. They buried the antlers, and sowed seeds under them, to bring life where they had taken it. She had imbibed the druidic concoctions, and smelled colors move. The trees bent and her father spoke tongues. For a moment, she spoke to the monkeys, and the group laughed. When the effects of the brew passed she could not replicate their tongue, though she tried many times, much to the delight of the bored pilgrims. At the end of this third day, when the fire was dying down, their stew was empty, and their bellies full- the druid stood atop a high stump and said, “Tomorrow, we will reach the evoking stone.” She paused slightly, and gestured kindly to Aethelcília. “Tomorrow, we evoke a name, and bring Aethelcília into new times.” The group cheered, raising mugs and horns filled with ale. Cília raised her own, her father sneaking some to her under the guise of ‘apple juice,’ a day early. “Here, here,” she said sloppily. Her father beamed, and her mother chuckled a knowing laugh. “Sleep off that brew girl, you’ve got a day ahead of you you’ll need to be sober for.” Finnigan teased, throwing a blanket at her head. The world spun, and her horn went tumbling out of her grip. The group all laughed, watching the child fall backwards to the soft, wet, earthen floor. “Urgh,” she moaned, consciousness fading. -The day of- It was midday, when Cília tore through the trees in excitement and fell face first into a huge, bald, grey stone. She yelped in pain, and fell backwards onto her pack. More raucous laughter from behind her. A firm hand from a carpenter she had known since she was a baby helped her to her feet, “How’re ye’ ever gonnae find yer feet as an adult, when ye’ couldnae do it an hour ‘fore?” The carpenter said, in that lilted tongue his father spoke in when he was as inebriated as Cília was last night. She rubbed her nose, and simmered in her embarrassment. When she raised her gaze once more, her hand froze, and her jaw dropped. Before her lay a huge clearing, completely devoid of trees or foliage. Four concentric rings with eight stones each, separated by rings of water with each ring becoming smaller the further towards the center you go. The stones were highest in the center and smallest at the furthest ring. The smallest was only 3 feet, but the single highest obelisk in the center was easily 30 feet vertically, and six feet across. All the stones bore glowing green and gold sigils, like the ones she had seen the druid inscribe upon the stag's horns, or her parents had painted on their faces. They pulsed with a power that took her breath away. And just like that, before she could have any time to react, it had started. The towns folk, her family, waded into those concentric pools surrounding the center. Two pairs of hands gripped her arms and back. Her parents, they smiled at her. Then the chanting started, and Cília found a horn offered to her. She blinked, nervous. “It’s quite alright honey dear, same as what you had before, Cocomo.” This time it was her mother calling her that damned frog. Her cheeks flushed, the chanting suddenly had a few chuckles mixed in. The druid reprimanded them with a shush. Cília’s cheeks reddened further, and she paused a moment, before downing the contents of the horn whole. Finnigan took it from her grasp, and the three of them began to walk slowly down to the first pool. The people here were friends of the family, those she knew the least but still smiled at them as their faces and her vision became slightly cloudy. The chanting got louder. She was raised from this ring, humming that chant to herself now, and submerged in the second. Here she was passed from person to person, hugging and speaking to her. Her vision was better now, but with the wrong colors. The chanting could be seen in the air to her as golden runes, exiting her family’s mouths and entering her ears. The chanting got louder. Finally, her parents stepped her to the third ring, with no one in it. They were speaking tongues to her and she was speaking them back, understanding the love being given. The paint was gone from their faces, now. They hugged her, kissed her, and apologized. ‘Wait, apologized? Why would they’- The chanting got louder. Her parents spun her to the center stone, no longer grey but green opal with a golden tip. It glowed, and the druid stepped forward, extending a painted white hand. It grew the fingertips of the Cocomo frog. Cília smiled, giggled, and accepted. The chanting got louder The druid hauled her to the center circle, the last ring. The stone in the center bore a small raised mound before it. There was enough space for one person in front of the obelisk, on top of that mound, and one at the edge of the water. This is where she was, standing at that edge of her history, washing herself through childhood and vaulting into adulthood. Ownership. Land. Profession. Family. Loneliness. The chanting reached its climax. Now a drone that altered pitch as often as her vision. The golden runes going into the golden, glowing peak of the obelisk. It all spoke to her, it assured her. The druid began taking the water, and cleaning her face. She painted her in new dyes, white, and green, and gold. She was kneeling now, absorbed in the song. The druid raised her arms, and spoke the same tongues as before. He evoked her name, “You are Aethelcília, of Aspyn.” The chanting stopped. And now, it was true. She was a woman, she was Aethelcília now, Cocomo no more. She closed her eyes and basked in this feeling. She lost herself in the love she felt, in the future she wanted, and the past she would miss. She embraced it all, and let it go. It felt like ages she sat there, arms outstretched. It felt like the world had turned several times, since she opened her eyes, and the druid had evoked her name. How long had she waded in these cleansing runes, and waited for her to greet the sun? When that time felt like enough, when she felt she had mourned her childhood too long, she opened her eyes. She opened her eyes, and the druid had stepped away. So, she turned to greet her family. Except that as she blinked in confusion and growing fear, looking around and- Aethelcília of Aspyn discovered she was the only one in the clearing.

"Want" The kisses of what I want to be, often leaving me wanting. The face behind me out of reach Reminding me of a love letter to myself always left unwritten A waking bird song, off pitch. Waiting too long. Watching it leave. To reach out and close a fist a second too late. Watching my want leave. Only to cry out of the ditch and climb back up to the bottom again. Two hands beckon from the top. A familiar driving whistle A song I've never forgotten but always ignore. Want never waits. So I find one that will. In the same dirt. In the same ditch Just as muddy as |m e| Me and my new make a ladder down to reach the old. Pulling down what I forgot how to push. My want has black hair and a beautiful smile The well has stairs a light at the top One was always there. Ignoring that old song. Wanting to listen. A laugh behind me reminds of feet I'd forgotten how to use. To reach and close a fist, right on time. A hand holding mine.

I will make a new post for each work, this will serve as an index once I get around to formatting it. Feel free to PM me or write on my status for comments or critique.

For the love of god someone fry that eyeball. Its still on the fork.

I am already enjoying how chaotic the people in these families are. Amelia has some serious yandere vibes. She do be taking eyeballs doe