Nawain

Nawain
[[Image:|200px]]
Status	Active
Race	Rakash
Gender	Female
Guild	Cleric
Instance	Prime
Relatives	Tekhelet

Appearance

Moonskin

You see Enelne's Repent Nawain Augtaire, Sfarns del Dzive of Siksraja, a Rakash Cleric
A bright aura of holy energy emanates from Nawain, standing tall and shining with a powerful inner fortitude.
Nawain has a classic lupine face with laugh lines, delicate ears accented by some Ilithic applewood-carved gatekeeper butterflies dangling upon leather cords, a pair of goldenglow glaes cat-eye spectacles over golden-haloed rich zala eyes and a greying muzzle, a thick gingery red coat with white masking, a white-tipped tail and a deeply cowled cloak of dark jadeleaf cloth partially obscuring a coltish figure.
She is tiny for a Rakash.
She appears to be a pack alpha.
Her right palm has a tattoo of a stylized butterfly sketched in thick inky black lines.
She is in good shape.

She is wearing a slender goldenglow glaes txistu embellished with a dragon-shaped mouthpiece, a billowing uaro's'sugi of fine leaf-green silk that is loosely wound around the head and neck, a dark green choker of muracite leaves dotted with passionfruit beryls, an ethereal butterfly fetish spreading wings of verdant moonsilver, some butterfly wings of brightly colored gossamer, a mossy green thornweave bodice edged with copper-infused Gnomish kochos, a polished asini oath ring graced with a large glittering avene, a wispy woodland tutu composed of swamp moss and adderwood twigs, a blue-white mistglass anklet encrusted with chunks of cheery yellow ismenite and a pair of dancing slippers with mossy green thornweave straps.

Softskin

Nawain has a high-cheekboned kite-shaped face with an inexorable streak of splaying black veins spreading along the neck, delicate ears accented by some Ilithic applewood-carved gatekeeper butterflies dangling upon leather cords, star-flecked abyssal black eyes and a freckled nose. Her black-streaked ginger hair is hip length and frizzy, and is worn in a tousled mass of locks that tumbles over her shoulders. She has pale skin and a deeply cowled cloak of dark jadeleaf cloth partially obscuring a coltish figure.

Pictures

	Made by Elurora with Midjourney AI
	Made by Lexxa with AI
	Made by Elore with AI
	Made by Imroth with AI
	Made by Lexxa with AI
	Made by Lexxa with AI
	Made by Felicini with AI

Details

She's cute and loves apples.

Personality

She's sweet, loyal, compassionate and determined.

Backstory

I was eight when the undead came to our homestead between the Liirewsag and the mountains, in the early days of 394. It was winter. I always forget that. In my nightmares, the ground is blanketed in apple blossoms, but when I am thinking clearly, I remember how cold the snow was on my paws, how my breath climbed in clouds to the stars. We were in the orchard, celebrating Shosandu, my mother, father, and siblings. Katamba was heavy and full, and we rejoiced in our moonskin, howling greetings to the darkest moon. Our neighbors – family friends from Odcoru - across the wide meadow howled back, and all was good. My mother had made our favorite dumplings, and we kids practiced lobbing stones at the old apples that hadn’t fallen during the harvest season. They made the most satisfying splat when they hit the ground.

After what I fondly remember as the best meal we’d ever had, Turfarnec – my tev, my father - sent me inside to fetch one of his books of stories. He loved those books. The seeds for our orchard were pressed between their pages. They carried our past, and our future. They were a change in our traditions, certainly – we didn’t used to write our stories down, because doing so made them static and unliving, like a beautiful butterfly pinned forever under glass. But too many stories had been lost with their tellers, and my father refused to watch more of our teaching tales fade from memory and wrote down every single story he had ever heard. He kept those books in our secret place, in a little loft above the bedrooms. It was a place for he and I. Our story place. We painted it, even, with little pictures of crows, and wolves, and butterflies, and badgers.

I was up in the loft, getting the right book, when I heard… sounds, outside. I heard a scream. I heard scratching on the door. I went down the ladder while the noises got louder. I called out to whoever was outside, thinking it was my big brother, playing a bad trick. I'd pulled a mean prank on him the last week that turned his tail purple, so I was owed. I remember we had one of those great, big bars for the door. But... I didn't use it. I don't even know if I could have, but I didn't even try. My family was out there. If I put the big bar across the door, they couldn't come inside. I think I should have used the bar.

Instead, I went to the window, to see what was outside. There were shapes, between the trees. Far more than just my parents and siblings could account for. Two-legged shapes that didn't walk right. Some of them crawled or shambled, or lurched. Quiet shapes. There was no speaking, no calling to each other, no breathing, even. They didn't use torches, and only the black moon shone, and I'm glad for that. There's a lot I didn't see. And just as I started to be really afraid, I smelled my father. And I knew it would be alright.

I'd forgotten that I'd left the door from the side-yard open when I came in to grab the books. He - they came in behind me. He and my mother, and there were at least two others - Prydean, I think. It was hard to tell. The bodies.. weren't whole.

I recognized my father first. Nothing looked... wrong? With him, except his face. I've never seen that expression. It went from empty to ravenous in the time it took for me to realize it was him. And he moved fast. Very fast. His smell was off, too. Like meat that looks right on the outside but has worms in the middle. Mother was missing part of her neck. A big part. Too much.

I'm a good learner. I listened to all of Turfarnec's lessons. I knew I wasn't faster, or stronger than anything that wanted to hurt me, so I had to be smarter. So I went up. I climbed the table, and then the cabinets, and then the rafters, until I could get to the loft. There was something wrong, with how Tev moved. Fast, but broken. He dragged parts of himself, and he wasn't climbing, or jumping, he was hauling himself after me.

I made it to the loft, but they weren't stopping. One of the Prydean.. things... was simply clawing the walls until parts of its fingers fell off, as if it was going to tear the building apart board-by-board. Tev... made it all the way up to the rafters before I pushed him off with a broom, and something in his leg snapped. But the ladder... It was too heavy, and he'd done a very good job lashing it to the railings, so it wouldn't slip and fall. It took them a while to find it, like he didn't remember what it even was, or that it lead up to the loft.

And in that time, I lit the house on fire. Using Father's books. He worked so hard to preserve those stories, and I used them to kill him.  I folded each page with shaking hands until it had little wings, and then lit it on fire, and let it drift down to somewhere below, where it would catch on the carpet, or the couch, or Mother's knitting. I'd heard the stories. Ate them up. I knew what they were. What my Father was, now. I knew that if they'd killed my Tev, there wasn't any way the rest of the family had survived. I was ready to burn with them.

But part of the thatch caught, at the other end of the house, and I saw a moon that wasn't in the sky that night. A little white moon. And a breeze came through the room, and it made the smoke dance like something alive, and beautiful. And suddenly I wanted air. I pushed through the thatching near me just as the entire roof on the far end of the house collapsed and climbed out onto the roof. It was an easy jump to the little shed in the side-yard, but then, of course, that open side-door…

I didn't want them to follow me. It was suddenly very, very important that they not follow me, even though I didn't know where I was going to go. So I closed the door. And I held it closed. The knobs were these beautiful old brass things that Tev had traded someone for. They looked so out of place, but Mother loved them. I held the door until they stopped thumping against it. The brass was glowing, and I swear I could see the metal through my hand. It hurt so much, and it smelled like burned supper, but I held on until my hand didn’t hurt anymore. Pieces of my palm stayed stuck to the knob when I finally pulled away.

I don't know how long it took, but I heard more sounds, amongst the trees, so I had to hide again. My only thought was about the place I'd found to hide a few months before, where no one had found me for hours. It was the perfect spot. It even covered my scent. So I buried myself in a half-filled apple barrel. It was damp, and uncomfortable, and smelled like fermenting apples. I still can’t be in small, dark spaces without terror filling my heart and sending my thoughts skittering.

I don’t know how long I was in there, hearing things sniffing and growling inches from my hiding place. It must have gotten quiet eventually, for I fell asleep, and dreamed of butterflies made of fire. A short while after dawn, I woke to the familiar voices of our neighbors calling my name nearby. I'd forgotten why I was there, just for a moment, and I popped up like a child’s toy, thinking I'd won the game again. I'm lucky Lavsird had very good reflexes. A strange little person exploding from a barrel next to one's person, covered in apple gore, after a night of.. A night of...

He was covered in... well. We'll call it glory. Coshivi walked with him that night. He was an avenging force, as a Paladin should be. Rutraka told me later that was the night he knew he wanted to join the Paladin guild. Watching his father rove the orchards and beyond, stilling bodies that should never have been moving in the first place.

We went to Siksraja first, to share what I’d seen with the Elders, and then we came home, and everything was different. I grew up with them, across the meadow from the ruins of my family. I never returned to the orchard, never visited that side of the homestead at all. And when his parents passed, Rutraka and I left that place that had been a sanctuary for our parents, and never went back. We planted new trees, just to the north of Crossing, and we made a new home, and new stories. And I never forgot the orchards watered in blood, the ashes of my childhood, my terror in the apple-scented dark.

I will not forget, not until there are no more undead to torment the living, no more necromancers perverting the bodies of the beloved dead. I am my father’s daughter. In his name I hunt the monsters, and I will not stop.

Life Events

• In Your Name (06/21/2024) - She straightens the golden wildlace tassels at each end of the verdant prayer mat into neat little rows as she kneels upon the mossy textile, surrounded by dozens of goldenglow glaes butterflies. With a quiet familiarity that that she rarely feels when communing with any of the Thirteen, the Rakash cleric closes her eyes and prays to Enelne. "Mother of Life, I offer You an act of devotion. In Your name, and under Your seal I will continue to keep these realms healed, no matter what happens with magic. Life is all. Let Life prevail."

She lays her hand on her herb case, filled once more with the most potent remedies she can craft, each lovingly marked with the holy turinstil, and nods, rising to her feet with a glint in her eye and a determined jut to her chin. She reverently rolls up the prayer mat and tucks it away, heading towards Crossing's Empath guild at a trot.

• Cocoons (08/22/2024) - She’s chewing on her hair again. She thought she’d kicked that habit, but the sodden ends grinding between her teeth begged to differ. Nawain’s herb-stained fingers are buried in the massive weave of holy mana she has wrapped around this place. A handful of clerics harness as much as they can and feed it into the gaps she was leaving, but she needs more. This place – that stone, and the nascent aether snarl still possibly present in the same place – needs to be protected until the party was ready. 

“Bah! Now I’m even thinking in code. Maybe I am insane. I was certainly insane to think that no one would try to sabotage us,” she growls to herself, pulling on thread upon thread of clear, golden mana in closer to stone 139. “And, I suppose… Nothing easy is really worth doing.” Step by step she pulls her beacon in upon itself, wrapping it about that precious aether snarl that she swears she can see with all of her magical perception spells up. She pulls great, greedy handfuls of mana from the surges generated by the group of alchemist casually casting in another corner, and fills in more holes her pulling creates. The golden strands of her mana-cocoon maintain a healthy distance from the stone and its interplanar interloper, the inside of the cocoon smoothed to a precise curve to prevent stray curls of holy mana from impinging on the last metaphysical remnants of the rift that leads to the null prison. Exhausted but exultant, the little Rakash eyes her work and makes a note to bring some Paladins by as soon as possible to reinforce the strands against accidental entanglement or destruction. It just has to survive a short while longer…

• ___ (08/31/2024) - ```She lays on the painted floor of the workshop, gazing listlessly at the empty apothecary cabinet. Her hair is a disheveled mop and her eyes are puffy and pink-rimmed, but she ran out of tears a few hours ago, and now waits for the next torment in her personal nightmare to reveal itself. And it does. Nawain convulses around herself, wrapping her arms around her middle with a despondent groan as the sudden and immeasurable weight of Enelne’s displeasure drills into her soul. The miserable little cleric recalls her invocation from earlier, when she’d drawn the attention of Mrod, Coshivi, and Enelne to her project for the first time. She’d asked for their blessings, and Their fury that she had invoked Their names in conjunction with the birth of an abomination shredded the last bits of her inner fortitude and she shuddered on the floor of the dark room, gasping for breath. A distant, petty thought wormed its way into her self-disgust, angrily reminding her that it was only to connect fully with those self-same Gods that she’d ever created a godling in the first place. Just a few days ago, after she’d first felt the full weight of Immortal attention, she realized that she’d never felt the eyes of her own Gods upon her in the same way. After all these years, she was only passingly familiar with the Gods she’d devoted every moment of her existence to, and now they, too, were abandoning her. Even in the depths of despair, her upbringing firms her thoughts against blaming the Gods for her failure. She had failed Them. She had failed them all, and it was right and proper that she should suffer for it. A thousand people. A thousand souls made Knife Clan their home, and they were gone now, snuffed out because she couldn’t keep her godling reigned in. She’d practiced, over and over again. Trained Sihmiauri to move where she wanted, how she wanted, and when she wanted, to keep the streams separate. Had it been playing with her the whole time? Had her small and mortal will ever been enough to command the godling, or was it only once it consumed unfathomable amounts of energy that it was powerful enough to shake her control? And did it even matter anymore? Those damned tears are back, and they blur her vision as her gaze falls to the little piece of birthday cake on the workbench, candle burned down to a sad nub. “Happy birthday to me,” she whispers into the gloom that surrounds her, invades her. “I’m so sorry.”```
• Consequences (09/07/2024) - She sat at the massive desk in the Mrodhouse, leafing through the spiritwood journal to find the last page. A curl found its way between her teeth and she gnawed on it as she re-read the last few lines. “It will work. Sihmiauri is ready. It knows its task, and I know mine. We’re ready for this. It will work, and then we can rest.” The wild-haired cleric inhales, and picks up the quill, dipping the crow feather in the Katamba-black ink. She writes. “Day 109 of year 450, 140 days until Sihmiauri Nave." “Dear Tev," “Consequences. There are always consequences. Whether you succeed or fail at a thing, there will be consequences. People seem to forgive the consequences of success faster than the consequences of failure, though.” “My heart hurts, father. I failed so many people, and I don’t have enough energy to fix it. I’m so tired, and there’s so much I don’t know how to do. I tell myself to go out and listen to the anger, the sadness, and the blame, and I do. I tell my lips to smile and drop polite words at the right moments, and they do. I tell my eyes to stay dry and open, and they do. But when I escape back to the quiet, I can’t keep the voices from reverberating into a cacophony of demands and accusations, and underneath it all is the steady tick of the orlog counting down. I tell them to be quiet, and they just get louder, drowning out the prayers and the pleas.“ “In 140 more days, Sihmiauri will return, and it will tear me apart. I hope. If it doesn’t, it is truly more than just a godling now, and I have no hope of reigning it in again. Gods help us all.” “I wish I’d burned with the rest of you. I’m not big enough for this.” The pen hovers above the page, dripping ink, marring the careful penmanship as her hunched shoulders shake. Nawain finally sets the quill down and stands, wrapping her arms around her middle as she moves through the dim room, the wet path of her tears lit only by the three candles on the low altar. She kneels at the carved shrine and lights more incense, then sits on her heels and gazes into the flames with empty eyes, wishing they brought warmth to her soul like they used to.
• Dear Father (09/08/2024) - She sits at the edge of the cliff, gazing across the valley west of Crossings where three clans once stood. The spires rise from their craters, alien seeds planted by ominous gardeners, and her expression is grim as she considers each in turn. Her journal is open in her lap, the ink of her words drying in the cool pre-dawn air as her eyes lose focus and she examines that little piece of her soul that is inextricably tied to Sihmiauri. Was it closer? Was it stronger? Was it dying? No matter how many times the questions bubbled to the surface, she didn’t have the answers. “Day 121 of year 450, 127 days SN “Dear Tev,” “I am surrounded by people, and as much as I hate it, it is good. I speak with them. I learn from them. Good people, who have made big mistakes, but kept going anyways. They tell me that we are made to do hard things. That forgiveness is a series of small steps. That the Pack is with me, that none of them will let me hide away and rot from the inside. That we’ll clean up our messes together.” “Some seem to think I have answers that I know I don’t. Clerics from the Western pantheons are traveling to Fang Cove to erase the All-God spell from their mind, and this too is good, and gives me hope that we can move away from antinomic sorcery to fuel our worship. One young man tried to pledge himself to my service. I shooed him away. I hope I was polite… It’s not that I didn’t want his help, I just need to prevent collateral damage. More collateral damage.”“So many keep suggesting ways to use the godling as the tool I thought it was. Each time my soul thrills – oh, for my creation to be useful, to be appreciated, to be the solution history will remember. But it isn’t. It is a deception, a delusion, a trap. Worse, I don’t think I have any control over it at all. If I bring it close, if I feed it, I have no way to keep it from taking everything I am, forever.” “And then there’s those that speak to me, and I can’t close my mind to them without shutting everyone out. Whispers and temptations from those who’ve made mistakes they don’t regret, who offer numbness instead of salvation. Every small step I take seems like I’m marching against the tide, and the ocean will have none of it. I’m dragged back more often than I make progress, and I’m running out of energy, and time.” “One foot in front of the other. We are made for hard things. Progress is made up of small steps. I am not alone. I prepare my gift to myself.” “Let it be enough. Let us be enough.” Long after dawn rises over the River Crossings and the ink is dry, she sits, and watches, and her eyes are dark.```
• Remembrance (09/10/2024) - Nawain walks through the well-tended grass of the hidden glade near her favorite waterfall, hauling a low applewood table over one shoulder. Her boots are completely soaked from wading through the creek, and she squelches as she goes. Though she sets the table down atop the pink rose petals, she doesn’t fully straighten, and remains bowed, as if under a great burden still for a long moment, listening to the water. Drawing a deep, purposeful breath, she lets the worries and fears of the recent events well in her mind for the count of ten and then exhales, sending them away, at least for the moment. They’d be back, but this wasn’t the time for them. This was the time to help the living. The wild-haired cleric looked around at the serenity. This was a good place for people to come to, she thought. It was quiet, and out of the way. And might be overlooked by malevolent forces, Gods willing. She runs her fingertips across the golden striations of the table’s applewood of the low table, caressing the simple turinstil she’d carved into it weeks ago. The small encircled butterfly was the only adornment it had needed for its original purpose. Now, though… Now there was a different need. She blows some errant hair from her face and opens her journal to the sketch she’d made the night before.  A tiger slinks up one side while a wolf prowls down the other, a long-bladed knife crowning both. The bottom of the design reads “We Remember”. The butterfly is still central, but sheaves of wheat and pine boughs cover the sacred circle that makes a butterfly a turinstil. With a sigh, she pulls out a bit of charcoal and adds a volcano to complete the design… for now. Her eyes rise to the date in the corner of their own accord. Day 132 of year 450, 116 days SN. The errant hair is suddenly between her teeth as she shoves the worry back down and gets to work. Setting chisel to wood, she begins.
• You are Ours (9/17/2024) - The little Rakash sits a few feet from the edge of the cliffs of Siergelde, star-flecked eyes fixed on the golden light atop the ominous spires, though her mind continues to dwell on a different cliff in a different place. A massive tree looms in her mind’s-eye, crowning branches withering and blooming over and over as a lilting female voice echoes deep in her being. As familiar as a mother’s heartbeat or a hug from a friend was that voice, and as vast as the darkness behind the stars it echoed. She would never forget the clarion-call of Enelne’s voice, the soul-shaking weight of Their attention.

Her fingertips rest lightly on the blade in her lap, tracing the glowing verdant lines along the massive nodachi. She was Their sword, but she didn’t have a target, and she didn’t like the feeling. Should she be training harder? Talking more, or less? Listening to the wise people she was suddenly surrounded by? Twisting mana in the new and exciting ways she kept begging others to do? Was anything she did actually making a difference?

Almost subconsciously, her hand creeps towards the hilt of the nodachi as her gaze drifts down over the spires in the distance. Soon. It was coming soon. They needed to be ready. The urgency of the message pounds louder than her heart as her grip tightens until her knuckles go white.

Nawain growls and shoves herself to her feet, bringing the blade to a ready stance, then whipping it into a flurry of blocks and sweeps against nothing. As her muscles ache with the speed of the thrusts, she reaches deep into the holy mana all around her, spinning it in arcs and loops, wrapping herself in golden threads. With recklessness born of desperation, she claws at the hidden power within the moonlight and the deep well of the elements, sharpening her mind, hardening her body.

Finally, with a bellowed, ululating howl, she falls into a crouch at the edge of the cliff, teeth bared as she stares at the encased Clans. The golden mana streams fall away, untapped, and another echo of Her voice sings its way through the cleric’s thoughts. “You fight for Us. You struck a heavy blow against those which wish Us harm. You have purpose. We name thee Our Repentant.  Breathe deep, remember well, and know that You are Ours, and We are Yours.”

She inhales deeply, pulls out a worn whetstone, and starts scraping the nicks and burrs from the blade before her with measured rasps as she whispers into the wind. “I am Theirs, and They are mine. I am Nawain Augtaire, sword of the Gods and Enelne’s champion. In Her name I am remade for the hardest things. In Their names I rally the faithful. In Their names, we shall triumph.”

• For Thee, O Gods (1/25/2025) - The Rakash hits the ground with a grunt and hisses as she lands awkwardly, slipping on the wet stones on the waterfall’s edge. She scrambles to her feet, silently berating herself for once again being caught distracted by the awesome spectacle in the clear morning skies above. The wyvern pumps the air in victory and howls gleefully, blocking out the pre-dawn blush of first light as it climbs back into the sky for another pass.

Abyssally dark eyes squint through the eyeholes of the golden warrior mask she wears, the bright specks of stars eddying gently across her void-dark gaze in patterns and constellations that are starkly missing from the sky above. She traces the stylized butterfly tattoo on her palm with her thumb in a measured motion, silently invoking the spell within as she stares down the scaled creature hurtling towards her. With a snarl and a raised hand, she finalizes the spell pattern and pushes golden energy into it in warping, unnatural skeins.

She only has a moment to look dismayed as her hand is destroyed in a wash of blue-black flame half a heartbeat before the shrieking wyvern bowls her over again with a gout of fire, raking her back with ichor-stained claws as she scrabbles behind the dubious cover of a low boulder, cursing creatively.

“Enelne’s exquisite ecdysis, that hurts.” The little cleric peers up at the aerial figures grimly marching across the sky as she cradles her ruined hand and applies a handful of herbal concoctions to the charred limb. She shakes the stump towards the implacable forms. “For Thee, O’ Gods, for Thee! Always for Thee!”

Howling a defiant paean that rings off the mountain’s peak as the healing itch grows under her skin, she surges to her feet and summons white-hot coils of lava with the stomp of a booted foot, sending serpentine strands of Ushnish’s blessed molten fury straight into the teeth of the diving wyvern.

It is the beast’s turn to look dismayed for the briefest of moments before lash after lash of searing lava cuts through its scaled hide like a hot knife through butter. Smoking pieces of wyvern continue to rain from the sky as the grim-faced Rakash leaves the carcass twitching on the mountainside behind her, eyes once more on the overly-crowded yet strangely empty skies.

Treasured Items

• a viridian whip enveloped by razor-winged goldenglow glaes butterflies

Dyed a brilliant emerald, the braided smokewhorl leather of this sinuous weapon bears wispy dark-grey lines that spiral across its supple surface. Dozens of pale gold butterflies enwreathe the length of the vibrant whip, faintly translucent and washed in a radiant sheen. Each delicate-looking insect sports razor-sharp wings that lend a deadly note to their ethereal beauty.

• a verdant jadeleaf prayer mat graced with golden butterflies and wildlace tassels

Myriad goldenglow glaes butterflies dapple the soft, moss-wrought textile, the radiant winged insects cavorting with a pack of senci wolves across the verdant jadeleaf meadow.  Profusions of golden wildlace create feathery tassels at both ends, which sends ephemeral traceries across the emerald expanse like dawn's first caress.  A black tursa crow glides watchfully above the pack, while the opposite edge bears the visage of a snarling asini badger poised to safeguard the supplicant's back.

• an ethereal butterfly fetish spreading wings of verdant moonsilver

Intricately sculpted vibrant green wire creates the illusion of butterfly wings in delicate gossamer-thin lines that bear a gentle silvery-green glow.  The lambent insect trembles with every movement, fluttering fragile wings in a fair imitation of a living creature.

• a luminous lavender butterfly graced by prismatic lilac moonsilver wings

Hematite beading and a faint rufescent sheen mimic the coloration of a lilac-bordered copper butterfly, while lambent lilac moonsilver wire enwreathes the delicate form in a soft silvery-amethyst glow.

• a substantial ka'hurst signet ring set with a goldenglow glaes intaglio crest

The ka'hurst band of this hefty ring bears a strikingly green sheen, yet reflects remarkably little light. Tendrils of shadow-black metal intertwine like branches to cradle a goldenglow glaes moon. Deeply etched into the radiant golden disc is a gnarled apple tree sheltering a flame-wreathed butterfly. READ: Augtaire SEAL: a flame-wreathed butterfly cradled in the branches of a gnarled apple tree

• a sunfire sateen clerical stole with cambrinth and goldenglow glaes butterflies that you are wearing.

The sunfire fibers provide the fabric with a luxurious golden color resembling a late afternoon haze, dappled by subtle variations in the tints that further the illusion of rays of sunlight flowing across the lustrous surface.  Dozens of goldenglow glaes butterflies crowd together upon the sun-kissed canvas as if captured in the midst of a serenely choreographed swarm, each of their myriad wings composed of keen, silvery black plates of cambrinth streaked with reddish highlights.

• a truegold-laced tursa warrior's mask resembling a Rakash in moonskin

The darkly whorled tursa of the mask is fragmented and broken, the polished Katamba-black surfaces reforged with veins of truegold into the visage of a Rakash in moonskin. An Enelne's eye crowns the mask, the lobed stone cracked but gleaming. When worn: Nawain's features are concealed behind a truegold-laced tursa warrior's mask resembling a Rakash in moonskin. Her eyes are lost within the eerily matched pattern formed by the opaque whorls within the dark metal and the piercing blue-green inclusions of Enlene's eyes.

Animal Friends

• a coppery saluki puppy flaunting a goldenglow glaes collar and jadeleaf snood

Silky fur falls in burnished copper rivulets from the ears, tail, and legs of this lithe, enthusiastic puppy, flagging and flowing in the slightest bit of wind. Brimming with energy, each wag of the puppy's tail causes its entire body to sway. A moss-green jadeleaf snood embroidered in golden butterflies slouches around the saluki's long neck, partially obscuring an elaborate collar of faintly translucent goldenglow glaes. A tiny bejeweled butterfly-shaped tag displays the pup's name. READ: Miss Wiggles

• a colossal honey badger

A fighter by nature, this honey badger is decidedly enormous for its kind and bears greenish-black punka leather pauldrons across its thick-set shoulders.  The decorative shoulder armor is studded with several vicious ka'hurst spikes, their shadowy black metal exhibiting a strikingly green sheen.  Debossed on one pauldron is a small shield-shaped crest with the name "Sir Niknstauk" ceremoniously inscribed across it.

Guardian

• a badger-headed aegis automaton blanketed in moss and wildflowers

A sculpted helm tops this immense and implacable construct, bearing the visage of a snarling badger, complete with dagger-sharp ivory teeth. The implied menace of this aegis automaton is somewhat lessened by a fine, fuzzy pelt of moss which hosts a smattering of tiny wildflowers. Rusted and battered armor peeks through the verdant mantle, wreathed in paper-thin radiant goldenglow glaes filigree and bearing the barely discernible engraving of a gnarled apple tree cradling a flame-wreathed butterfly.

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[Zoluren Royal Mews, Training Field]
Another practice area opens up, with the scent of fresh grass and the smell of horses in sharp contrast to the fragrant roses planted against a nearby brick wall. Wooden barrels and fences provide the perfect opportunity for practicing jumps and turns.
An oak tree strung with garlands of thistle and amber-hued gaethzen orbs. Obvious paths: northeast, southwest.

[Nawain's Home]

A tall sturdy workbench with an expansive ribbon-stripe top and a long silverbirch table painted with a field of flowers with some stuff on it rest upon the silverwood floor of this tidy workshop.  A basalt fireplace embellished with moss agates, with a healer's manual decorated with a goldleaf herb hanging above it, burns from its resting place at the edge of the moss-green rug covering the silverwood floor.  Tapestry walls enclose the area, holding in its strong smell of eghmok potion.

You also see a bewhiskered ash grey Musparan dog, a huge silverbirch-framed window inset with moss-green glass, a silverwood door elaborately carved with blooming vines, a large black shadowbark apothecary's cabinet inlaid with fanciful kiralan herbs with several things on it and a mossy-green cushion of fine silk.

Obvious exits: none.

Mrodhouse (shrine)

[Zoluren Royal Mews, Training Field] The air is filled with the scent of fresh grass and the smell of horses. A narrow pathway opens into a practice field for trainers and their spirited horses. High fences covered in ivy and moss offer jumpers a challenging course. The field also features a row of barrels and a low brick wall that gives the horses variety of tasks as their handlers put them through their paces. You also see a tall pine tree with a murder of crows secreted among its branches. Obvious paths: northeast, southwest.

A pale applewood kneeling altar inlaid with luminous blued moonsilver turinstil and a broad golden applewood desk with blackened moonsilver filigree with some stuff on it rest upon the gloomwood floor of this serene meditation chamber. A colorful tile fireplace with a forest design, with an asini-banded tower shield portraying a jet-black snarling badger in the center hanging above it, burns from its resting place at the edge of the shadow-black rug covering the gloomwood floor. Gloomwood walls enclose the area, holding in its mild smell of dry parchment. You also see a gloomwood door with wrought iron banding, a polished gloomwood wall with a central motif of a fog-shrouded tree with several things on it, a circular golden applewood bookcase with blackened moonsilver filigree with several things on it, an ebonwood weapon rack carved with wolves in bas-relief with a couple of things on it, a glossy black silk-cushioned chair, a glossy black silk-cushioned chair and a glossy black silk-cushioned chair. Obvious exits: none.

Altar: Four watchful afis with howlite claws sit on their haunches and gaze stoically from where they support the four corners of the carved slab, their asini eyes alert and fierce. Several tursa varna are outlined in eerily glowing blackened moonsilver around the lip of the altar, interspersed with dozens of brilliant gemstone turinstil. The remarkably pale wood of the small shrine bears natural dark gold striations that whorl across the highly polished surface.

Pilgrimage for the Redivawzis

Pilgrimage for the Redivawzis: Return to the West It's time to go back. We need to see if our homeland is ready for our return. We need to see with our own eyes the blood-watered dirt, the moss-covered bones, the empty roads... And start to put it right again. A pilgrimage is proposed, to the last known location of the redivawzis. The group will travel as quickly as it can, but it has a sworn duty to destroy any undead it encounters. They will cleanse any polluted waters they find, and will gather seeds and samples of the traditional herbs and plants, and encourage them to grow in Siksraja. The pilgrims will be the eyes, ears, and hands of our People, and everything they learn will be shared with the Elders, the Hubs, the packs, and whomever asks. If successful, the pilgrims will find where the redivawzis was last known to be. It may be defiled. It may be shattered. Or it may be whole and untouched, Coshivi's gift to His children. Depending on what they have seen and experienced, and how many hostile undead still befoul the lands, they may even attempt the journey to Odcoru itself. Perhaps it will be in our lifetimes that our People return to the West. Perhaps our home is ready and waiting for us to return, and our pilgrimage will herald the start of another migration. We're going to try. We are the Rakash Packs, and the Prydaen Hubs. We are every ranger, every holy warrior, every mage and storyteller, every fighter, healer, every... acquisitions or logistics expert. Everyone who will help us forge a trail to the redivawzis. It's time to go home. Be a part of the journey! Pilgrimage for the Redivawzis

Augtaire Apothecary

Augtaire Apothecary: Vut Lavi and Enelne Bless! Nawain takes great joy in creating herbal remedies, using the preparation and application methods her people relied upon in their ancestral homelands. She is happy to sell her remedies to whomever is in need. Please check Augtaire Apothecary for a list of her products, packages and prices! She also works with the Crafter's Union.

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By Digital Artist/Pixelist, Chrocheter Damiza
Discord: Obsidian#1345