TIMESTAMP: Earth's Rest 7, Ash 122
NOTES: -
NOTES: -
► Show Spoiler
- - -
- - -
- - -
A lot of rumination had been done in the weeks since the last time the patrician had bled at Mother Midnight's altar. A lot of time was spent reflecting upon the emotions he'd felt in the moment, on the choices he'd made during that encounter and then upon the results thereof. Æros had been told not to seek the Founders out until the next time one of them sought him. When or if that would ever happen, he did not know.
These words were spiked fourfold. In that capsule of darkness wherein he spoke to Her, he had no immediate realization about just how deep he'd been cut. Numb to it, at first, he was. The most immediate consequence was that his intentions to tag along with a few others on a pilgrimage to mount Kaladon had dissolved as soon as those words had been spoken.
For another, currying favor with esoteric, divine entities was always an interesting game. For even if one did do everything right, one was ultimately at the mercy of whatever whimsy such creatures used to make decisions. God or man, everything possessing sentience and emotion operated on their own internal compass, possessing their own collection of influences and biases. As a result, Æros could not tell if his efforts in the future would be ultimately futile or not. Granted, such a thing would certainly not stop him from trying, no. It was just that the thought provided an omnipresent undercurrent of paranoia that everything he did was all for nought, irrational as such a line of thinking was.
Third, his thoughts on power, hierarchy, society and so on were…interesting for one in his position. Speaking with Varvara herself did shift his perspective a bit, though if his mind was truely to change in a degree more thorough, it would perhaps do so slower, over time. Nevertheless, his most immediate reaction was to hold his tongue on the subject and play by whatever rules were set before him going forward, regardless of whatever it was he happened to think. Much as it can be exhausting to do so, one must if one wants to move forward with any sort of purpose.
And fourth, he'd oscillated between two very different perspectives since that fateful encounter and it was difficult to keep the flames of the more positive one burning as time ticked on. Though he endeavored to do so and he had some folks in his life that genuinely wanted the best for him as well, sometimes the mind and one's emotions are irrational. At times, he'd be self aware of his mental decay and attempt to manipulate himself using Mesmer but that only did so much. To do so was very intentional and often he'd be blind to his own perspective drifting low because he'd lived so much of his life in a pessimistic malaise that such a thing had, over time, begun to feel normal. As a result, he'd often not feel as if anything needed to be fixed. For as much as magic can do, it is always hard to treat oneself in the case of any illness, especially those of a more mental variety.
However, it was not as if all was lost– if that were the case, he'd be dead. There were a great many things he had going for himself from the planned acquisition of his lover to what schemes he and his new friend Hilana were coming up with to help one another achieve some semblance of lasting happiness in this life. Then, there were the advancements in his magic he'd managed to achieve of late. He'd finally made tangible progress regarding the ease at which he could cast and make use of his Masquerade rune. In the present, it took a lot less focus to enchant things and there was far less strain in manifesting more complex illusions.
On top of that, Khyan had granted him his mastered Craft, Semblance. The rune meant a lot to him and he was notably excited to learn how to wield it with fluency. Æros was incredibly glad he'd managed to convince his partner to impart it unto him because, if nothing else, he'd always have a piece of the boy with him even when the two were apart. The Færie had never really been that sentimental a person, oddly enough, and yet this link held between the two of them was something he'd immediately come to cherish.
With all of this in mind, Æros had decided to venture out to the Templum Mediae Noctis Matris for the first time since he last made an offering of blood. Clad in smooth black fabric, most of his skin was covered, contrary to how he usually dressed. With subtle use of Masquerade, he had enchanted the cloth to bleed a subtle sort of dark, purplish red fog. The delay between his visits was not for a lack of desire on his end, and though embarrassment was to some degree present, he felt as if waiting had been necessary, in a way, because he had offended Her directly. Even so, he felt a degree of nerves on his way there that were pointedly difficult to ignore. And as such, his anxieties only rose after he had stepped through the temple's threshold. Given the level of discomfort such a thing caused, he tapped into his Mesmer rune for the purpose of quieting his mind.
Though it was eternally dim in the Umbrium, he'd checked the time before he left and it was late in the evening. The temple was, as usual, quiet, though he was not entirely alone. Æros had chosen a day he thought wouldn't be busy and luckily, he was correct. It isn't as if Her most devout were ever particularly rowdy or disruptive in their behavior for any reason, though. His steps towards the altar were slow as he took in the solemn atmosphere of the stone temple, beautiful as it was.
And while Æros had a penchant for the colorful and dramatic, he could never deny the appeal of the moon's soft glow or comfort found in shadow's gentle embrace. The starborn Fæ had considered bringing a different sort of sacrifice, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought against it. Blood, he imagined, gave Her power. He also imagined that not all blood was equal in how much it provided. The more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that blood steeped in greater amounts of æther ought to provide more for Her than that of any mere creature or lowborn man.
In a way, this was a boon. It meant that what flowed through his veins had intrinsic value in this regard and always would, or so he assumed. But in a way, to give of oneself was a fairly large risk. It created a tether between him and Her, allowing Her to enact her will more directly from…wherever she was. Ultimately, he had come to the conclusion that whatever risks came from creating such a bridge were worth it. And so today, he'd arrived not to seek Her out, not to disturb Her, but to offer more of himself for Her benefit– and by proxy, the benefit of both Founders.
Unarmed, the Færie had enacted a small bit of glamour to sharpen the claws that naturally adorned his hands prior to his arrival. Utilizing these natural weapons, he raked the keratinous blades across soft, midnight toned skin. His stars still danced upon the surface of his flesh, gentle, coruscating light emanating from each, brightening the red of his blood as it flowed free of his body.
Turning his arm over, his black-gold gaze fixated on the flow of crimson as it fell from his arm and into the spillways of the altar below. The altar itself was a beautifully carved work of art even if it were entirely clean and devoid of offering, but when red ran through it, it was all the more enchanting a sight. As he had done before, Æros would stand still as stone until the wounds he'd made ceased to bleed all on their own.
These words were spiked fourfold. In that capsule of darkness wherein he spoke to Her, he had no immediate realization about just how deep he'd been cut. Numb to it, at first, he was. The most immediate consequence was that his intentions to tag along with a few others on a pilgrimage to mount Kaladon had dissolved as soon as those words had been spoken.
For another, currying favor with esoteric, divine entities was always an interesting game. For even if one did do everything right, one was ultimately at the mercy of whatever whimsy such creatures used to make decisions. God or man, everything possessing sentience and emotion operated on their own internal compass, possessing their own collection of influences and biases. As a result, Æros could not tell if his efforts in the future would be ultimately futile or not. Granted, such a thing would certainly not stop him from trying, no. It was just that the thought provided an omnipresent undercurrent of paranoia that everything he did was all for nought, irrational as such a line of thinking was.
Third, his thoughts on power, hierarchy, society and so on were…interesting for one in his position. Speaking with Varvara herself did shift his perspective a bit, though if his mind was truely to change in a degree more thorough, it would perhaps do so slower, over time. Nevertheless, his most immediate reaction was to hold his tongue on the subject and play by whatever rules were set before him going forward, regardless of whatever it was he happened to think. Much as it can be exhausting to do so, one must if one wants to move forward with any sort of purpose.
And fourth, he'd oscillated between two very different perspectives since that fateful encounter and it was difficult to keep the flames of the more positive one burning as time ticked on. Though he endeavored to do so and he had some folks in his life that genuinely wanted the best for him as well, sometimes the mind and one's emotions are irrational. At times, he'd be self aware of his mental decay and attempt to manipulate himself using Mesmer but that only did so much. To do so was very intentional and often he'd be blind to his own perspective drifting low because he'd lived so much of his life in a pessimistic malaise that such a thing had, over time, begun to feel normal. As a result, he'd often not feel as if anything needed to be fixed. For as much as magic can do, it is always hard to treat oneself in the case of any illness, especially those of a more mental variety.
However, it was not as if all was lost– if that were the case, he'd be dead. There were a great many things he had going for himself from the planned acquisition of his lover to what schemes he and his new friend Hilana were coming up with to help one another achieve some semblance of lasting happiness in this life. Then, there were the advancements in his magic he'd managed to achieve of late. He'd finally made tangible progress regarding the ease at which he could cast and make use of his Masquerade rune. In the present, it took a lot less focus to enchant things and there was far less strain in manifesting more complex illusions.
On top of that, Khyan had granted him his mastered Craft, Semblance. The rune meant a lot to him and he was notably excited to learn how to wield it with fluency. Æros was incredibly glad he'd managed to convince his partner to impart it unto him because, if nothing else, he'd always have a piece of the boy with him even when the two were apart. The Færie had never really been that sentimental a person, oddly enough, and yet this link held between the two of them was something he'd immediately come to cherish.
With all of this in mind, Æros had decided to venture out to the Templum Mediae Noctis Matris for the first time since he last made an offering of blood. Clad in smooth black fabric, most of his skin was covered, contrary to how he usually dressed. With subtle use of Masquerade, he had enchanted the cloth to bleed a subtle sort of dark, purplish red fog. The delay between his visits was not for a lack of desire on his end, and though embarrassment was to some degree present, he felt as if waiting had been necessary, in a way, because he had offended Her directly. Even so, he felt a degree of nerves on his way there that were pointedly difficult to ignore. And as such, his anxieties only rose after he had stepped through the temple's threshold. Given the level of discomfort such a thing caused, he tapped into his Mesmer rune for the purpose of quieting his mind.
Though it was eternally dim in the Umbrium, he'd checked the time before he left and it was late in the evening. The temple was, as usual, quiet, though he was not entirely alone. Æros had chosen a day he thought wouldn't be busy and luckily, he was correct. It isn't as if Her most devout were ever particularly rowdy or disruptive in their behavior for any reason, though. His steps towards the altar were slow as he took in the solemn atmosphere of the stone temple, beautiful as it was.
And while Æros had a penchant for the colorful and dramatic, he could never deny the appeal of the moon's soft glow or comfort found in shadow's gentle embrace. The starborn Fæ had considered bringing a different sort of sacrifice, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought against it. Blood, he imagined, gave Her power. He also imagined that not all blood was equal in how much it provided. The more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that blood steeped in greater amounts of æther ought to provide more for Her than that of any mere creature or lowborn man.
In a way, this was a boon. It meant that what flowed through his veins had intrinsic value in this regard and always would, or so he assumed. But in a way, to give of oneself was a fairly large risk. It created a tether between him and Her, allowing Her to enact her will more directly from…wherever she was. Ultimately, he had come to the conclusion that whatever risks came from creating such a bridge were worth it. And so today, he'd arrived not to seek Her out, not to disturb Her, but to offer more of himself for Her benefit– and by proxy, the benefit of both Founders.
Unarmed, the Færie had enacted a small bit of glamour to sharpen the claws that naturally adorned his hands prior to his arrival. Utilizing these natural weapons, he raked the keratinous blades across soft, midnight toned skin. His stars still danced upon the surface of his flesh, gentle, coruscating light emanating from each, brightening the red of his blood as it flowed free of his body.
Turning his arm over, his black-gold gaze fixated on the flow of crimson as it fell from his arm and into the spillways of the altar below. The altar itself was a beautifully carved work of art even if it were entirely clean and devoid of offering, but when red ran through it, it was all the more enchanting a sight. As he had done before, Æros would stand still as stone until the wounds he'd made ceased to bleed all on their own.
- - -
'Thoughts'
"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"
"Vastien Tongue/Speech"
"Valasren Tongue/Speech"
"Common Tongue/Speech"
