Chapter Twelve, Sight & Seduction

Solsheathe 16th, 1st year of the Aeon of Drakkon, The Tower of Azar-Drakon

Azarra caressed the painted white walls of the massive tower. Freshly dried and tapestry bedecked halls coiled about her serpentine tread. This tower, Azar-Drakon: Built as a monument to meteoric rise of her Drakoni Imperium. The marvelous structure which stood high to impress its awe over the world mirrored this ascent in how quickly the relentless toil of innumerable masons, sculptors & slaves brought this majestic beast of a building into being. More than a year had passed for its completion. But that construction occurred amid purgatorial turmoil of the transition to arisen era. Even her astrologers remarked that the stars slowed their spinning until the Aeon could set. Spoke that the madness of the freshly dead past had in part been swayed by the stars’ halting. But with the christening of Calendar, ordained by her son’s Imperium, that year was washed away. So too would be the turbulence before Drakkon’s dawn. Thus, the building of this timeless pillar of astral mound was marked as only taking half a year to finish.

More than any re-ordering of Calendar and allotting time afresh, the anointment of emergent era owed much to the performance of her legendary bard. By Baron’s songs all that woe was swept away. His inspiration laid foundations of happier legend & hailed return of mirth through the lands. “Twas his tunes which asserted the Drakoni rule in soul of the populace, as much as any announcement, monolith, noble alliance or theater of force. & while the High Mother foresaw this relic of her very legacy Baron spent himself building ‘spires of learning & song’, Illuminaires, for those manifold aspiring bards who seek the footsteps of the great poet.

His tunes, chanted back by his sibling sirens & burgeoning scholars, were sung across every town and square, from heath to civilization’s crest. Heard & repeated as hymns even in trenches & behind palisades of the fronts – of wars still waged in the hush under the waves of legitimacy. Through many throats not only his own came chorus threading cheer against threnodies of yesteryear. Baron composed magnificent madrigals. Of the Drakoni cavalry riding across frozen river, flying as Drakes and upon ships levitated by their Lord to fell foes. All only half-truths with exciting inventions. Even spun somehow heroic ballads dedicated to the brave men who ‘dared their spirits’ temptation under serpentine visage to match the snakes in game of guile’ to wear false colors to surprise & slay the Vizzar. The heights of the war lived on through these litanies, as unliving glory captured. Helped the rest of the terrible troughs be sewn over by stitch of caroling & renditions scribed for dramatic players.

Yet Azzara felt no challenge in the minstrel’s popularity. For this heralding of their song rang also for her glory. His voice (and that of every layman, traveler, & troubadour) wove song of & for the newfound Empire of Endless Light. And what envy could touch her here? What jealousy sting her heart? What rivals were Baron’s miniature colleges in mimicry of Ty-Drasil’s haven (yet more for art & cavorting, likely, than spiritual habit) to her glistening tower? When she dwelt now behind such glittering walls of beauty envisioned to glorify her & image of her Grace.

This pillar, signet of her sovereignty. Testament to her reign, as much as her son’s. Proud reminder of her path from mystic to victim, to mother and then to highest priestess in all lands. & throughout time since she had history for the rewriting and the landscape hers to remake through Will. Yet here, where her coven waited on her, her Azarine reverent were far more for her, and her every whim, than even their Living Lord. So, she savored every pace along the great staircase, reflecting on how her ambitions brought her to the very heights of power. Yet surreal sense stirred from the aqueduct steam rising with her steps.

Touching velvet lining ripples sound of water. Alerts her unconscious to be but dreaming, wandering about in a projection so close to the real. Lucidity raptures her eyes, opening through Dream-Sight, as pure and tangible as those many seasons ago when she first scried the pillar of dream. Now hers to climb, by day, while walking fate’s winding way. With a soft breath, she pulled a tap sprouting surge awash with mystical energy. This perfect replica of her designs, imprints from inspiration, manifested as marvel. Waking, every aspect of this wonder and its decor pleased her to the core. She absorbs the splendor of it all from every etched curvature of the wood & marble furniture. The sheer majesty of the stone holding her in orb of utter glamour. She bathes in half-dream, wades back into basin.

Azarra pushed open the window to usher dream-wind’s embrace. Empyrean wings sprouted from her shoulders as cleansing spouts lift the rest of her up with the guiding clouds, circling overhead underswell seas. Her prayer echoes through the maelstrom of bending space. She soars over the scenery below. All of earth, her blossoming garden of private paradise. Floats through vein and marrow of existence, takes in the essence of widest world. Heavenly orbit pulls her further and further from the green sphere, onward into the emptiness betwixt vision & life. Single soul flies until all light negates and shadows crawl the sky. Wishing now to turn return to the ground’s domain but swept by a tide greater. Drawn under into surrender of this abyssal chain she prays for Light again.

Below her ascendant Sight, Azarra witnesses an infinitude of Empire, cast in rays of Solaris & constellation. Paved roads and bridges blanket every corner of the earth. Her people spread out, heralding her sway to all courses, by trade or war. From the ether of shapes to be springs worshipful chant of souls in storm of praise, raising her a Goddess. Her tainted flesh, sprained by sorrow & mortal plight, strips bare by these cries. Frees her spirit from life she knew to reach for reflection of a perfect world, if only she could fly a little further.

But with one tilt back to her body, drowning in breathless void, her form twists, distorted. Nether tides eat away her shell. Her once angelic wings decay. Wither from lofty, glorious feathers to blistered & frail limbs set upon by black boils erupting from every bone and weeping pore. Astral arms torn by force, she tumbles through rotten belly of the cosmos, to where ghoulish figures churn beside in dark lake miasma.

Her mind’s eye bore horrors beyond mortal imagination: Premonitions of plague & ungodly woe. Shapes spawned from umbrage to form play of shades so real and undeniable. Only to disperse into great Nothing. Flickering wax ate away the Night only to be devoured by its cold. Her sight could not shake these flambeaus of human suffering, singing the dark. Villages swallowed by black dust & blight. Families grieving offer afflicted kin. Gasping boils vie for air as death manifests home of body, molding it to torturous prison before asphyxiating the soul.

But the deathly walls gape a wound, their augury pierced. An ecstatic emissary of Light pours through. Vision births an Elysian Forest, brimming with beauty untouched by the toxin of civilization. Walking in this sleeping glade, leaves and brambles tickle her feet. Nymphs & dryads peek their horned heads from behind tree-castle columns. She came upon a wellspring marked by mystic totems & carefully carved pillars that marked this as a place of power untapped by human desire. Azarra sinks into it, bathing in the waters of eternity as worries melted away in the warm pool. Freed of blighted curse of Malderath’s eye, Elderath renews her body. Formed pure as her pale frame refolds.

The round face of the moon greets her grove. Goddess of evening orb winks at Azarra, floating in pool of lunacy. But swiftly crimson clouds beset her silver visage. Grim orbit grows, scowling with malicious intent through bloodied eye. From this cyclopean egg new figure births of the infernal mist. Emerges slowly into shape of woman. Familiar mound in likeness of the heathen, Corinna. Her rival pulls down the moonlight. Wraps a halo and wreathe for a Goddess.

Incandescence: her eyes. Corinna’s Selenic dress & crown of lunacy casts glare upon Azarra. Quivering in the wellspring, she boils beneath fiery stare. The whole of hidden forest turns on her. Summoned by their Lady of the Moon, the creatures of forest came from their dens, bringing with them wands & staves resting in their limbs. Arms of branches about them drag their impure visitor. These children of the wood reflect their Goddess’ ire. The moon, her enemy’s laurel, leaks red. So too the pool bleeds. Leaping from spring to flee, cruel fingers of forest and clutches of roots bind her legs to this end.

Shrill scream flies, bats the wind’s wings. Sends all swirling about in unmaking storm. Her cry unending, entraps the whole of her space. Wails over recognition that she was but dreaming. Until she awoke to that same sound of scream escaping her as she came to. Bubbles of the basin douse her throes. Sanity seeps in and her sight restores, settling upon the concerned, yet sublime, radiance of Delphine. Her beloved friend warms her with towel & tailored robe then rushes the stunned Mother up the way to her chamber.

Delphine placed a lofty pillow beneath her head, as Azarra lay back in bed. Her still shivering hands hold Delphine’s face and brought her blush cheeks & scarlet lips to hers for thankful kiss. “Thank you, Del. I am forever grateful for your precious place in my life. You savior, you.”

“Are you alright Azarra? -my Lady?” Delphine asked once their lips parted. “You toppled so abruptly. Quaked the whole way here. I was worried the gods had chosen to take you, love.”

“Just another of my spells… Only, more intense than the last. So many seasons since strong a vision came. My soul shook at what sight the gods granted my inner eye. Dire clouds hang the horizon. But alas, to what path or precaution they point I know not…”

“Rest, love, you bloody well deserve it. It was that same beautiful mind of thine which created this spire, this hearth of our lives renewed & blessing to our circle. I know you shall discover the way of the future. You are a miracle, Azarra, and I am forever grateful to be in your service. Thank you for proving my doubts, of which I am ashamed, so far removed from reality.” Delphine wove herself behind her patron, lodged amicable hold over her shivers. “You forever shine the way. Will you tell me of what you saw?”

A rapping at the door disturbed them. Delphine clamored to give entrance. Dahlia came through. Azarra’s devotee beamed as zealously as she had their meeting. It comforted to have the presence of such lovely women, so undyingly loyal to her, even when her heart wavered. Her disciple entered with pose of herald, refuting time to harness introspect. “High Mother & mistress,” Dahlia began, “our Living Lord arrives for your eminent summons. Shall I escort our master in, Mother?”

“Yes, dear disciple. Do this for us. Delphine,” she turned to her friend, “I ask you leave us for a brief while. We shall reconvene soon.”

Both Dahlia & Delphine gave the courtly gesture of deference before vanishing. Almost at once her son appeared just beyond the threshold, softly illumed by candlelight nearby. Drakkon entered. Dressed in regal threads as such suited him. The elegance stitched into every layer of his empyrean cloak; the pale white dye and sparse gold patterns, complement his strangely sunny attitude. To Azarra he looked so content in himself, as like she’d never seen. Yet given all they’d fought through to achieve she could not deny that sense of pride found justification. Though, measuring his smile, she loathed who it was for: the country wench, Corinna who stole her son’s happiness, lashing his joy to her meddling affections.

The pair embraced, reunited after several months of ruling their prospective responsibilities & regions. After long quiet of basking in the simple comfort of their hug Azarra ambled towards the table upon which Delphine had left her favorite elixir. She drank of the potion, welcoming the slow burn of the liquid. Washed away the sickness and delirium caused by her sudden seizure into the realm of gods’ sight. In this she swore never to be like her son’s chosen bride, not to let her body wilt to prod Sight. After a moment’s pause as the cleansing substance floods her gullet, the maternal augur filled another rich chalice with wine as crimson as the blood that drowned her mind’s eye a flash of eternity ago.

“We are- I am – elated to see you so closely again, dear mother.” Drakkon spoke softly to her, placing a kind hand about her shoulder. “Dahlia told me of your sudden spell before I arrived here. Are you alright?”

“’Tis nothing to darken our meeting, my son.” Azarra replied distantly. “’Tis not I who holds dominion over when the spirits draw me from the gate of body to their world unending. I am fine and unmarred. Only insight came of my experience. Unlike other Seers I am not ridden with immobilizing spells often.” She tilted to the décor. “Look around you at this marvel we mount up into the high heavens. We’re at the center of our beauteous land – this our own garden of divine light and growing seeds of will. This is your first visit to our Tower, is it not?”

“Yes, mother,” Drakkon obliged her, guided to soft admiration by her subtle redirection, “I find it ever so grand. Truly this, your sacred pillar by which to reign is fitting for one so radiant and powerful as yourself. From the dirt of tribal soil our feet hath tread across countless milestones. Our steps marked by footprints of victory; we stand upon the gilded remains of our nemesis in the heart of what was once Vizarri. I feel now how the elaborate funds this cost for our newfound Imperium were well gifted.”

Azarra sipped of her goblet and shifted by the window. She allowed Summer breeze into her highest residence. Soft tides kissed her neck, rejuvenating flow tousled her blonde locks. “Aye, and now I am seated on a throne befitting the mother of reverent ruler, of my flesh & kin – yet so cosmic in proportion. Ah, I am bewildered at times at how far we ascended from that first step. How high our staircase stretches up. Hmm, but enough of my ramblings for now. When you answered my summons, you stated also you wished to bare me news so important that it must be revealed mouth to mouth. Is it too bold to ask of what you meant so soon?”

Drakkon’s expression mutated to delight with this opportunity to explain what had ensnared his spirits with such excitement. “Gladly. Corinna & I hath made official, if currently private, plans to ordain our marriage before the world at a summit come the Autumnal harvest celebration. I wish to ask of your blessing in person. That you could encircle us with the brand of your love & prestige as High Mother. It would mean the world renewed to me.”

Azarra nearly spat out her drink in disgust. Jealousy besieged her brain. Prospect of her son’s marriage to the hedge-plucked-wench sparked remembrance of the dread vision which struck her only minutes ago. Her visage darkened as did her tone, though fastidious in speaking. “My son. Hear out my words with clarity and do not let that luminous mind of yours be clouded by anger or disappointment… I must tell you of what the spirits showed to me before your entrance, timing which now seems all to synchronized to not be the workings of the fates at large. The gods granted me a vision of the future; one in which you crowned your Corinna as Empress & wife only to invoke plague in response to the pantheon’s ire. For the gods – the other gods, that is – know she is infirm of spirit. Undeserving of your hand. It would mean dishonoring astral eyes to sanctify such a union. I know you believe it pure and lasting, but I must admit I believe you are merely bewitched, dear. The pantheon and our people will tolerate her as your nocturnal mistress, fine, but never as a goddess when-”

“-Are you defaming the love I feel in this Living heart?!” Drakkon’s darker side reared up. His complexion flustered with rage and passion perturbed. “I ask for your blessing and you grant me a curse? Spit upon the face of my betrothed in all but physical manner?! How dare you claim your visions and prophecy be preeminent over the faith of godly heart!”

“I am your mother. I deserve your respect.” Azarra pleaded feebly, in both awe & fear of Drakkon. Internally her worries rolled on in paranoid haste. That ‘divinity’ I gave to him turns to curse me… How cruel the fates’ faces can be in their twisted forms of betrayal… I cannot allow this temptress of a black heath to steal my bond, my seat, with Drakkon! Even if her petty ‘feelings’ happen to be sincere. He cannot stray from me lest all fall to dusky disrepair. I will not be made a sullen spectator of my fate. Not by some vixen with more cunning than grace, just enough wiles to be a goading gadfly biting at my plans, and my insides! O! How she spins his mind about her lips and turns him from his mother into monster!

“Please can you answer me this first that you might see from mine Eye? From the point of my insight. You and Corinna displayed a certain er, closeness, for a good amount of time. Before even we had truly begun to topple the Vizzari. Yet in that time have you consummated your, uh, affections?” Azarra pressed poisoned point.

“Wha- what the bloody hell are you implying, mother?” Drakkon blurted out irately.

“I imply nothing so devious as you may think. That you think me capable of such sinister motive wounds me so, Drakkon. Alas my asking lies in pragmatism. As it runs from loving pull of the spirits’ call….” She spun this snare about his neck. “Surely, you see, the two of you must have spent many a cold night together. Some intimate revelry shared after a great feast? Yet she shows no signs of bearing any divine seed? Is this not odd? Is she barren as the distant deserts?”

Drakkon did not answer. He drew back into himself, digging further into darkness. Azarra, seeing this as headway, continued to shove her desperate stake. “I am not casting judgment upon her. Only stating that the muses beyond and our earthly disciples ask, demand, a demigod heir. This is the seed needed to grow our garden anew. If Corinna is all but barren then it is not my words but will of fate that she is unable to bear any such a so- “

“-SILENCE!” Drakkon interrupted with an ear-splitting shout. “I will not have my true love be questioned! You may have served as the conduit of my birth, but my Light is far beyond yours… I am Divine! A vessel of the infinite!” For a second, she feared her son strangling her. “I see with a clarity greater than your oracle visions, mother. So do not lecture me on my passions’ play and the direction that the living light shines. The people will accept Corinna once I offer her the limelight beholden by crown. I will hear no more of this!”

He stormed for the door. With fervency of motion undoubtedly genuine in its anger. This eagerness to abandon her here for insult shocked her. But Azarra quickly pulled her shambling self together enough to offer one last means to reverse this course. “Please, my son! Forgive my transgression? Forgive my lack of understand that is leagues below your own divine knowledge? I am but mortal, as you say, after all... Let us sit down and share our thoughts with less tension?”

“Might we take a moment together to gaze into the crystal orb that I may glean that vision your godly will shapes of the world by sphere?” Drakkon sighed weary acceptance. Shuffled back to sit by his mother. Azarra nodded solemnly, damming the wellspring of her envy behind dedicated focus. She produced both the mystic ball of divination and her warm, bubbling cauldron that was readily awaiting ingredients. Then lay tarot stack on table. “Gaze into the cypher, hold image there. Share that I see it too. I believe in you, beloved. and my Living Lord. I shall brew a potion posthaste to grant you Seer’s lens that we may find perspective together. Is that agreeable to you, my God & my Blood?”

Drakkon nodded, apparently pleased by Azarra’s display of repentance. While he struggled to shake off the enduring anger at her question of his romantic life, he humbly decided to humor her sorcery. Shut his attention away from the world, letting his mother to toil with her alchemical brewing. The cauldron bubbled & spat acidic eruptions. Seeing her son’s eyes still sealed Azarra snatched a small, black vial from her collection and poured the contents into the toxic whirlpool for the final touch for a successful working. All while he sat idly by. Bristling hints of impatience while his mother chose reagents for her cauldron. “Nothing shines of this bauble! My Sight is for the Earth! Let it look for a while upon my woman! Won’t you trust me over omen?”

But that the cloudy orb refused him sight availed her. Allowed her finish feeding the cauldron. Returning to her seat across her son’s lap, Azarra replaced the orb between them with her deck of tarot cards. “Let me show you the patterns more clearly through etchings. Close your eyes. Good. Now aim energy onto them and draw forth four cards. Let the Fates guide your hand.”

“Drink first! Kiss the lips of the Spirits!” Azarra presented him a spoonful of her brew. Then asked if he would like to shuffle the deck himself. But the young Emperor declined with grace. With a shrug he said that the spirits were ready to speak without meddling further. He drew his first card. “Ah, the Emperor.” She exclaimed first revelation. “This represents you, of course, as well as the present self. But now we enter the second phase of fortune: the conflict and the struggle of your task.”

Another card was flipped over with tender, almost timid pace. This one inverted its iconography. Flashed downward reflection of two painted lovers hanging from the air. “Hmm. I trust you are wise enough in occult matters to know what the inversion of Lovers may mean?” Azarra asked pointedly, driven on the offense seeing the sweat Drakkon’s brow conjured at this turn. “Then the Tower. Inverted. ’Tis tragedy alone indicated in this task of love-”

“I- “

“-Draw again.” Azarra commanded. After a break of hesitation Drakkon flipped the last card over. With its face he exhaled hope. “Death…”

“Do not despair. Death is but the threshold of rebirth, and a rebirth of the highest form. While sacrifice and change is indicated by the spirits’ mirror here in these cards there is also hope and promise for the future.” Drakkon glared at the hollow holes on the skull depicted the art of the small card. Unwanted closure & Finality radiated from those bleak sockets. Death’s effigy paralyzed the Lord with shivering woe. Azarra laid her hand upon his shoulder as her potion shook him. “Reflect on this, dear boy. My son, my Sun – my Emperor & Deliverer.”

Stasis seizes him. Tidal waves of delirium awash over him. Dragged neath undertow of unwitting dissociation. Gusts of dream-sign brush back evil portends. Draught of nymph-spring mixing in his gut splash sweet hues. Corinna’s apparition forms in every fold of drapery.

Drakkon’s pendulum motions of nauseating turns stooped to stupor. His head rested against the glass of the table, he groaned for phantom affection. Azarra left him to cross to threshold. Called for her disciple. “Dahlia, my sweet. Could I speak with you a moment?”

The charming & carnal creature – of suppleness & thorn adjoined - shuffled in. Knelt before her Lady, abundant with the grace of undying loyalty. Azarra glided over and cupped the Dahlia’s blush cheeks. “The spirits themselves just spoke to me following my vision. Bid you to hear out their whim, and your service to the fates they entertain. Are you up to the task, dear flower?”

“What must be done, Mother? I forever heed your call and Highest insight. My body & mind is forever sparked with purpose through service unto you. I welcome any chance to give thanks for the radiance of you, Lady.” The girl’s iris flared for her, avoiding the limply floundering Lord.

“You have given your all to me, dearest disciple. Yet you must give all again. Redoubled now for our Drakkon.” Azarra whispered her devious intent to her disciple, licking the young girl’s ear with her devil’s tongue. “Tonight, you shall be sworn in secret as the Lord’s second bride. Consummated before even his ‘first’, yet to be. From here on you shall be Dahlia Drakonis. & though it shall be known to none but us at first, the sign of providence shall shine for you! You shall stream Living Light into the world…” Forked words lapped waters beneath her helot’s eardrums draining her all colour. But then those ashen cheeks again burned with rosy embers, and she leaned her head & adoring mouth up to graze her Mother’s neck.

Accepting her prurient command, Azarra’s acolyte disrobed. She waved her way over to the shambling Drakkon. Traced his vigor, bared him of tiresome attire he scratched idly at. Her hips strode his aimless ardor, coming upon him as a wisp of his love’s likeness. Azarra averted her eyes as she locked the door behind her. She would not allow herself to feel guilt for something done of necessity. So too did she cage her doubts. The key to those darker thoughts of guilt, lost in hateful funnel. Just as her mind for ages had solely sought the ruination of Kassan, this justified wrath blazed anew as bloody rivers through her vessel…

Wedding Woes

Wolvsmoon 17th, autumn, first year of the new Aeon of Drakkon

In the rustic hills surrounding the grand city of Crestfall, the pastoral fields donned wreaths the hues of ripened leaves ready to fall. Crisp air christened Harvest of autumn & festivities assembled for it. Here there was to be a wedding celebration and the spirit of this occasion swooned the humor of each guest & attendant as they ambled between the innumerable tents now sprawled over the hillside. Each going about their preparatory tasks or their revelry. This was to be the union of binding love between the Living Lord and his chosen Lady, Corinna. She who most presumed would soon become his ruling woman after this eve’s ceremony. But it was in the promised bride’s resident tent that this night’s winsome ambience would be struck in horror.

Inside Corinna’s pavilion Lavinia, her sister of homebrewed coven and handmaiden for the event, nervously flitted about. Patting down the wedding gown & pawing through the baskets of dried fruit. Her mistress had departed for the time being as to meditate on the path ahead of her. O, and how her maid did envy her friend’s climb to marriage. As did she despise the droves of affection and admiration she would soon be showered in ever-after. All the other attendants had likewise left her company for their duties. Alone in there she felt her strange compulsion grow. Before long she could not resist the temptation to try on that very dress readied for ‘Rinna.

Lavinia’s eyes bulged with a jealous hunger as her hands skimmed across the lovely weavings of the gown’s fabric. Wanting then to behold herself inside it in that tall, silver mirror adorning their tent. The violet velvet material, golden threads and white cords all wrapped up with added ribbons screamed at her with the simple command: “Try me!” And, shifting her eyes about to check if her Lady or others were afoot, ruefully thought to herself, ‘Tis but a moment to try on. A minute or so to dream of something that shall likely never be mine to truly own. To be wrapped up in the bows of true love…

She called out to the sentinels asking for small solitude to gather herself only to receive no reply. For the two sentinels that had been guarding their spot had gone off in pursuit of their true charge, Corinna. Realizing this she shrugged and quickly became possessed by a giddy spell while twirling about her spotted reflection, dress in hand. Tis but a moment to dream! ‘Rinna would not mind! Nor will she ever know!

Lavinia gazed absently into the mirror as she pulled the beautifully tailored costume over her skirt. Even though the dress was tailored for an aspiring bride to an incarnate god it’s style was rather simple. Easy enough to put on, unlike those cumbersome monstrosities the noblewomen of Vizzari would wear, requiring several servants to get in and out of. Her raven hair and pale complexion were not far off from Corinna’s own manner. Near identical in their sprightly & slim yet shapely frames. Though the handmaiden knew herself as lesser than she in beauty. To mask this, she’d even begun dabbling in cultus, nightshade lining to mark her eyes akin to her Lady’s & dotted her cheeks in pale powder.

Admiring her reflection, Lavinia thought they could even be confused for one another. Such thought amped up her bouncing exhilaration of obstinate fantasy. Enthralled by the sight of herself, robed in the comely garments of a life rich with love and noble affluence. She surrendered to the dreams throbbing with carousal to rival the partiers outside (with full thirst for the honeyed spirits in excess). The young oracle-maid cared nothing more, captured by the glance in glass, than courting this fantasy of becoming the bride. Thus, she succumbed to her wistful craving by reaching for the wedding mask beside, if only for a blink.

This mask she decorated & hid her blushing cheeks with was a traditional relic of the tribes. A customary rite shared between all clans (save the Ferali who had their own unique, if barbaric, ideas of what a marriage rite consists of). A prized practice which forbids the groom from viewing his bride’s visage, and what reservation might reside behind her eyes, until the moment that met before the shamans and elders to swear their vows and behold one another for all eternity. Yet that her Lady forwent donning this on her walk showed scorn worthy infirmity in the wedding spirit. And with this veil before her Lavinia’s sweetest imagination shined, fully embodied. Staring longingly into sparkling mirror, she danced with the fiction projected there. Swung herself around in arms of invisible groom.

Just then came hurried rustling of tent flaps. Lavinia pulled back to see who entered, fearing that Corinna and her other charges returned to catch her lapse into fanciful avarice. But since the ornate mask of ritualistic make was designed with attendants in mind to guide the bride to be, her sight was heavily obscured. She struggled to make out the intrusive shape. Turning to face it she goes to remove the blinding visor. But finds the stupefying sensation of chilling steel cut through veil fabric to press upon the warm flesh of her throat. She hushed a gulp as terror despoiled her dreams.

Lavinia made to spin around, out of the nightmare assailant’s grip. Yet the dagger’s other hand caught her. In the tiny glint seen in the mirror, sharpening sight through bride’s mask and tear sealed eyes, she saw shadow over attacker’s face. As the edge slipped closer, she swiped his scarf. The mystery assailant seen in the mirror was a young man, no more than sixteen cycles, with a lean but powerful build and face blotted with marks and buried cheekbones.

“Goodnight, sweetest bride.” Whispered the gloating assassin in fatal farewell. Before she could so much as plead mercy or utter the bare question of ‘why’ the blade slid into and across her gullet. Split it open and stifled her visceral scream… “Apostate witch, thee!”

Across the jubilant site Drakkon stood in statuesque silhouette among the circling fields, whose crops remained stalwartly flowering to defy the wills of Fall. There he waded through solitary contemplation awaiting that midnight hour when his love for Corinna would be confirmed before the glow of the stars above and his people abound. He considered how their lives would be not far from this very hour. When that girl with the lovely soul, the ghost of his childhood now risen in womanly form, would be his bride and empress. She, the one mortal considered his equal in Materia & greater in wisdom even than Mother Azarra. O how bountiful and glorious their reign would be! What love would sprout from their Sacrament!

The trail of his sappy musings evaporated when his ears furled at the stampeding of hooves. A proud steed made swiftly for his way. Without an ounce of apprehension, he turned to see mad-driven horse and its dual riders, the one wearing the matrimonial accouter & veil. Surprised to see his beloved rushing to him upon urgent steed. He briefly wondered as to why and figured that her nerves must be getting the best of her. Though worried imaginings flared of her coming to call off the wedding and confess her love for him had fled to the mountains. Eschewing these worries Drakkon spread his arms to receive her amicably. Yet they soon faltered and fell to his hips as his heart fluttered at the odd rush and the ruckus in pursuit.

Something wicked was afoot, the air afoul. By the dim glow of torch lights lining the trail to the field he gleaned then crimson beads & bows about Corinna’s gown. Dripping wet & stained muddy red the white sections of the garment. Behind the rider a throng of party goers, many still wearing ritual furnishings of horns & antlers in worshipful style of satyrs and dryads, shouted with all the force they assembled. They flung mug, rocks & slings at the charger’s back.

Sensing danger he readied his grip on his blade. He’d fortunately kept ceremonial arms on him for its use in the christening of his union. As the rider charged on silent fury bristled inside. The figure who’d stolen his wife brandished a sword, making clear the intent. Although this rogue was horsed Drakkon’s tremendous reach feigned swing, aimed low for the steed’s front legs. But the horse cared not for its inexperienced and rash rider and fled. Flailing its innocence, it toppled the thief and the bundled body tied to his front. The foe crashed beside small stream running the camp and body in bride’s dress fell afront.

Rage beat back his reason, thinking this imposter robbing him the woman who was to be his queen. Drakkon vaulted to slaughter the masked man – whose short sword and impact shattered limb raised no chance of parrying – with brutal strikes. Sweat sweltering his sight, the Living Lord could naught but scream aloud in agonizing, impotent mania. Time melted away by heat of wrath. Terror flayed his vengeful essence for a minute of endless anguish. The swarm of attendees rushing to the side of this scene dared not approach their master for fear of him.

Emerging from the faceless few gathered round the unsightly mess came to him a woman with a wool blanket wrapped about her. Her corset & countenance concealed, she approached the Lord and gently placed palm over trembling hand. He knew her by her touch. Weapon faltered, hand folded in her grasp, dropping it. Drakkon looked up from his shambling violence to be struck by a bolt of wonder & relief to meet Corinna’s eyes under stranger’s shawl. Searching deep into his own, she did not smile, though a warmth still flooded out from her. Assurance of life & love into the basin of his being. Having tempered her would be husband’s dark squall Corinna, the true Corinna, bent low to unmask the murderer. There was no recognition to be found in the boy’s bloodied face and now no answers could be ripped from his tongue as to ‘why’ this sacred night had to be besmirched by blood – the blood of one of her longtime confidants.

Tremors took her. Chose her then. Corinna tried to fight them back, to sustain herself but could not struggle long against the shaking spell which conquered all too many hours of her life. Now only worsened by fell storm of despondency. Another pushed through the dumb founded mob; solemnly taking off their horns, while others wrestled back the urge to retch, all knowing well this holiday was no longer. The bard, Baron, leapt forth to catch the shivering woman. Held her from crashing hard against the uncaring ground. Drakkon, some sense returning to him through the dense miasma of grief & relief, followed this lead. Shifting to take her in the safety of his arms he pushed the poet back. Caressing Corinna’s inexorably jittering skull.