Musical Embellishments: Knock It Off
Girl, knock it off, baby knock it off, girl, knock it off, baby knock it off, touch me, touch me âŚ
While the High Confessor was unaware how much time had truly passed, she knew and understood, relearned what time itself actually meant in the observation of the heavily hourglass. At least, in a spiritual sense. Darkness of the wood changed from light to dark, to nothing in-between. Sometimes, the womanâs soul simply rested as she began to cease pining for the living, waking world. Expected reaction certainly, and she had been warned to foresee the lack of a connection simply due to the amount of time needed to rebuild her connection to the Dream.
Able to even feel the difference, occasionally the lady tested her magical control as an aimless, waiting soul with all the time she desired in the dream. Arcane and nature magic fused together in a way that one could not entirely tell the where one began in her, and the other ended as it had been in her first life. Now, she simply was. When her ghostly feet touched the dreamways, arcane kissed flowers bloomed wherever Cereâthien stepped, each bloom cracking with arcane lightning and shimmering with promise. Many times the ghostly woman stopped to marvel at the beauty of such a wondrous blessing.
Time finally ceased to matter in the length it took for the arcanic druid to make a choice, the Lady Blackwood and once-healer noticed that while her ability to heal had drastically reduced itself to a point that it was clear this was no longer her path, her ability to create and destroy with her magics had infinitely grown; the Greenseerâs connection to the Ley boiled almost as easily as drawing breath. Once, it would have frightened, due to the considerable damage it caused physically in her previous life. Now, the woman accepted this as the cost of magic spent heavily.
Passing of chaos in motion saw ethereal feathers following Cereâthien until she eventually ceased pacing around the hourglass and the scale that still held her heart within embrace. In turning her head and flexing her leanly muscled shoulders where only tattoos had been, cerulean eyes with their tiny motes of blue green from Fel trace widened at sighting powerful spectral wings. Absolutely enamoured, she decided it was one thing she would keep, this balance in her power and her very soul that was quite unlike anything she had experienced in her life, and yet, as familiar as an old, dear friend. Sweet laughter echoed from her, while the nudity of spirit caused the woman no trouble as she waited for the Messenger to return.
Naturally, silver-blonde hair fell neatly past strong thighs, and coiled around the fair skinned spirit elf in tiny ringlets, while eventually she clothed herself in naught but beautiful white roses stitched together by tiny sparks of arcane magic wrapped in a drop of nature. When the healing druid grew exhausted, she would curl up and transform to naught but energy to conserve what she wished to become.Â
During one of these last moments that she floated as nothing but a space of peacefulness, it was then that the man from before returned. Roughly, he thrust his hand in her energies until Cereâthien let out a soft cry and forcibly took a form. Shivering upon a bed of flowers, she frowned and stared, uncertain how to react beyond having been deeply woken from shapeless meditation. âWhy did you rouse me in such a way?â
Smooth black brows lifting, he shook his head, midnight hair flowing around the impossibly beautiful, brown skinned face. The Messengerâs cheekbones seemed as if they could cut diamonds into formation, while his eyes this portion of whatever day it was, were every colour and none. âIf you rest too long in that kind of form, you will end up trapped here. Given that I expected you had not chosen to return to the waking world, I offered a protective answer,â he replied, grin slow and wide. âI of course, would be entertained to see you stay,â came further commentary as he circled her, touching the white, silver, black wings only for nearly clawed hands to fall to her flower covered hips. They flared wide and rich under his hands, and for a moment the nature spirit, or at least the sensual parts of him reveled, took in the scent she had created for herself.
Leaning forward over the woman, the Messenger sharply bit her shoulder, turning it fully real for several moments. A bright blush flowered over Cereâthienâs face before she stumbled and fell to her knees, yearning having spread through from curls to painted toes. Not having considered or remembered what it felt like to be real and not a spirit, tears now filled the womanâs eyes as she remembered keenly the last the pure delight in having a physical body. There were of course drawbacks, but for a druid, considerable gains in exchange. âYou needed to know what you would lose,â he said while she reeled in shock, knowing now full on what it felt like to die as well as live and not by abstract. The Messenger forced her to feel the grief of everyone that had felt something when she had been confirmed at least, lost, all at once.
âI see,â she whispered, and then flinched when the unnecessary sadness was pulled whole from her soul for his spinning; threads created were a deep blue, the colour of the darkest part of the ocean before it turned to black due to a lack of light. A mercurial smile curved a full mouth upward; Cereâthien found herself unable to tear away her gaze from the full mouth of the man, deciding then and there she was going to taste it in full before she returned to herself. So when he reprimanded her from wallowing, the druid only inclined a grateful head at the lesson. âI did not say mire yourself in pain. I said understand it, then move forward,â remarked the baritone, well cultured voice beyond anything a living elf could wish for.
Still seated upon the bed of flowers that had appeared when Cereâthien slipped to her knees, the Lady fell silent, watching as all of the threads that had been created from a lifetime of feeling came together in a whole. Gliding tattooed hands through her hair, she began to realise he was stitching a cloak, which came together very swiftly. âIs it possible to leave pain behind? Sadness too? I donât ⌠want them at all. Isnât that the point of returning? Why should I return to suffering?âÂ
Reaching out, she brushed her fingers along the life cloak, watching it hum with its incredible power. âWhile it is true, many of my memories are like distant echoes without it, as if they happened thousands of years ago and I had long healed from them, I would prefer that. Interaction with those I knew in life that still care for me can help form what matters. But this is so very dark and unpleasant. I will keep the deep flashes of love and passion from this cloak, the tender loyalties, the bravery, romantic wisdom, and mere threads of that rage so I may fight well when needed. It will take more time, I realise, but can you remake it?â
Puzzled, the expression on the Messengerâs face was priceless. He had in all of his placing of spirits where they wished to be within or outside of the Dream, never met one that did not wish for all of the ties to her old life, but for the new to have the chance to supersede the old. In fact, most of them keened for it. Shaking it out, in strong hands that gleamed with the warmth of brown skin and the gleam of blue-green dragon scales, he held up the cloak and studied it, aware that the tapestry was very dark in tone. âVery well. Close your eyes and become energy once more, and think only happy, passionate, sweet thoughts. I will return when the dream paths have come together once more, and we will fashion a form for you that is the sum total of all the warmth you have experienced in your life, and whatever pieces you wish to take with you into the waking worldââ
Passionate enough to startle the Messenger, was when she was instead suddenly in his arms and cutting off his staid, but arguably boring directions. A black brow lofted smoothly as she spoke, Cereâthienâs voice thrumming and low with the newness of spiritual self understanding beyond what any prayer had ever given. âNot yet, please. Make the cloak for my soul later. I want to be kissed by a greater druid, a trickster akin to no other I have met. Besides. My tethers to the dream have yet to heal. You will help me, and no, I wonât be staying. But I will claim whatever and whomever I like while I am rejuvenating.â
Laughter enlivened the Messengerâs face until Cereâthienâs lips claimed his for what felt like a thousand years, of endless loving and delight, her pale cream hued translucent self a delightful contrast against the brown of him; when he grew tired, she would rest in her swirl of blue and leaf green energies with a tether to the very real white rose flowers of the ground. In waking it would repeat as she took her pleasure again, and again, with no physical limit to stop the druid.
Not until she was done with him and had learned everything possible to be learned, she danced through the dreams of several that had known her, soothing and blessing hearts in her passing numbering specifically five people: her daughter Claeth, that the young lady might keep to her studies rather than foolish pursuits; the young girlâs tutor and adopted-uncle Lord Rythaen Firestorm, whom would have a much harder job until her mother returned.Â
Lady Azriah Thelryn, whom in life had been hard fought to even understand that love was not a weakness, the Scion, so that his attention to his children could be his first focus rather than the sadness of war and grief. At last but never least, Cereâthien kindly gave to her old Commander, Ranger-Lord Alorinis Bloodarrow, a sense of herself reborn. When each woke, they would note warm hands and hearts; a sense of lessened grief for war itself, and a deepened resolve to continue fighting on.
Well detailed, a tiny sketch pushed through and formed entirely from pieces from the dream for her daughter of her fatherâs face wreathed in a smile, signed, happy late winter solstice, from Minnâda. For the Magister, a spectral box with a key that vanished when he willed it, with rechargeable power crystals inside formed of blood magic. It was signed with also with well wishes for a sweetened new year, a list of Claethâs favoured studies to make his job a little easier for the girl-child that had become an orphan painfully and briefly, and an arcane flower that had been extinct for five centuries.
For the Scion, a single gemstone in its raw form of an emerald, still singing with the protective powers imbued by the Dream itself, which was very like a similar gift Cereâthien had given his mother once except that this one was several times stronger. When worn, it pulled in excess Fel magic to protect against corruption. When touched the first time, a facsimile of the Confessorâs voice could be heard, just once: âMy story is not done yet, old friend. Dry the tears of your heart.â The last clue that she was still safe if not in the living world went to her old Commander, Ranger-Lord Alorinis. Enriched heavily, a pouch of soil from the Dream, several living dream-dryad hairs given freely from their owners, and a sudden soul-wind that healed the most painful parts of the rangerâs heart, body and soul, that he might endure with greater grace.
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Note: The picture here is a screenshot of the Emerald Dream, and therefore, Blizzard Property.
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