Second Sun - Confluence 6;34 Kena
Five fingers, five strokes. I scold sand and it stokes.
White and sparkling, I dance in its leather.
The threads it might sever.
Before the surf it can weather.
Though coarse and irritating, the granuals prove to be more profound than misleading this time. When poured into the Circle, they do transpire many branching paths, but stepping back I glean the connective tissue. Like so many choices, the smallest push down one avenue may change one's course altogether.
One would never be able to predict an outcome without a measure of godhood, yet we all try, don't we? Even She is not so magnificent, she admits; which is why She needs me. And yet, these paths, though intertwined they are, and though they swell and merge in unpredictable pictures...we always forget.
All it takes is a single tempest to tear it all down.
Kahna. This method is a waste. The Weave dost want too much, and this threading requires something with a bit more fortitude.
Third Moon - Confluence 7;19 Sova
Five fingers, five spokes. You blow dust, and it soaks.
Then you light it aflame, and speak its name.
Iron of cold, embers of light. Stay your teeth, lest they bite.
You who bore the Forever Night.
Lend this one your Sight.
You were smart to use cold iron in lieu of sand this time. The pattern lasts longer in the Circle.
However, the crackling tendrils tell me the Weave remains unchanged and unchained. It still pinches you when trying to hold onto them. Instead, you scry upon the forgotten boy - the manwidow - and the shroud of men and children he wears like a banner. Instead, you try to focus on five towers; upon the city, its whispers and its fates. But nothing comes.
You pour lightning into the iron again and again, and watch it dance along the Circle. Simpler eyes would see only convulsing metal, but you mark the subtle hints and sparks - the symphony of fury and fate and future.
A link tearing at its frame, as it desperately clings to what it already knows.
At the other end, a hunk of metal; it has been melted and cooled countless times, each moment severing and tempering its connections to the others. It is young and old simultaneously, and at the moment burns white-hot, its heat spreading to those around it.
A pad-lock; solid and strong, unbreakable in its use and function, yet unable to break free from its position.
The scattered remains of something; an old gauntlet perhaps, as its fingers twitch - a facade of living.
And the spike you drove into the Circle's center. A beacon binding.
Forces spinning, but unable to act. Unable to break from the bonds that define them. A silhouette of gray descends upon the city of storms, obscuring visions of the future and the past. Parting such a veil will require deadly readings if you hope to punch through. Yes. Step back, and listen to your teachings.
You still have pets to spare...
First Sun - Discordant 1;16 Sova
Five fingers, five discs. Broken, they shatter our risk.
Tear and break, crush tendons few.
The marrow is born, from blackened sinew.
It reveals what is new.
The marrow cracks are disturbing. Canine teeth were a good choice, though. Ribs too. The clatter pleases our ears and entices our Sight. The cloud is not obscured to us this time; it claps and roars, and though the red lightning is a concern, it is the proper fuel.
We close our eyes and let the electricity dance along our skin. With a gasp the vision takes hold at last.
Five heads. Draconic perhaps; not platinum.
Gnashing teeth and a splatter of black blood.
Shouts. Calls. Someone is missing in the confusion; a parent looking for a child.
Sails. Grim sails.
And fire. Walls of fire.
A plunging dagger, sudden and still, like a chilled knife.
We twist in agony, frost spreading along our fingertips, and are ejected from the cloud. We exhale cold, and snuff another candle, calling the firelight to us like a shield. We must close our eyes again; more to see.
It swirls this time as sweat pours from our brow. Focus on the shouts, we say. Who speaks and why.
The voices gone, instead we dive deeper. Clouds pass through us; the unknown gray the warm blanket we wear. The canvas gives way to a burnt planet. No light pierces this sky.
Winged creatures. The Sky Folk? No, long dead. Feathers and scales.
We reach out to touch them and begin to fall. Angry wind buffets against our eyes as we crash through the soot and ash of the earth below.
Something grows beneath them; beneath the fire. Past the rock and flame, down where the core still beats. Roots grow and stretch and scream. Touch them and they bleed. Show me, blood magic. Show me the fate of the Corpse Star.
The clip of two sets of footsteps brings us back to the Circle. We sort our things and try not to smile too broadly.
"It is as you say, though the threads are agitated. Do not worry, though, The Gray will not waver. Beautiful chaos and confusion will burn your enemies to Asher." We know they will be so pleased, we turn and glimpse threads of blonde. "Leaving the ground ripe to take-
The blinding white hot pain. We feel the trickle of our blood and the bruise already forming. "We are sorry. We did not mean to look upon Thee."
The snapping of the switch once more, as it scatters our urns. "For all your gifts, you seem to forget the simple rules we have laid out for you. ...Perhaps a more permanent reminder is needed."
Swiftly and suddenly our wrist is seized by the cruel feathered fingers of Him. Our feet drag and scurry backwards but we are yanked to our feet. He smashes our bottles and clears the table of scrolls, then hurls us upon it. We try to wrest ourselves from His vice grip, but He only clamps tighter. His other claw grips the back of our neck and we meet the table, pressing our face into the broken shards. We can feel warm blood in the back of our throat. Here, all of our faces and our eyes lay pinned to our table, watching only He and his shadows as He holds us there.
"There are lessons that must be remembered, little Ijarys. At one time I thought you my Siestra, a true prodigy of the onomance and the astrid, and I still think this beacon calls to you..."
We watch him pry each of our clenched fingers free, so our hands may lie flat, prostrated before Him.
"...but I worry that the culling of the cosmos has been too easy on you. For all your gifts, your lives, your vision; I have given you this library, this Circle, multitudes of resources, with only a whisper of a beating to guide you. And yet this lesson fails to stick. But truly, it is my fault. You see, I have not utilized your greatest teacher..."
Breath caresses our upturned ear, sending a shiver through our bones. "...Pain."
First Moon - Discordant 1;17 Kena
Four fingers, four knives. Blood pools to divide.
Thrice we remember, what the storm will seek.
And shun your eyes when My Sovereign speaks.
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