Stonefruit & Gemstones

[*Tsidkenu]

((This is an open RP thread for Sensates, and anyone else, to interact with Cherry's recordings. It will also serve a dual purpose as being, in part, Cherry's personal journal. I shall label public/private recordings so you can all RP appropriately. Please enjoy and participate!))


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In the quiet of Sigil's night, a lonesome, fire-haired figure took a seat in the Civic Hall recording room. Gripping a sensation stone in both of her hands, she spent a moment recalling a memory, an experience, a sensation she thought might satisfy a curious mind. It was labelled, simply,

Witchcraft: Beginnings (Public Sensorium; donated 08/08/2016)

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The air is cool and dark inside. Flecks of light creep inside the cracks between the wooden slats in the window, illuminating particles of drifting dust that float harmlessly through the air. The warm crackle of a fire is near at hand; gentle snaps of energy echo as cut logs breathe forth their last to the lazy dance of licking flames. A pungent aroma fills the dimly lit dwelling, reeking of a mixture of brackish water, lime dust, mandrakes and boiling ogre bones that bubble away in a thick, black, cast iron cauldron. The occasional glassed-over eyeball would float to the top before disappearing into its murky depths. It was so potent, so repugnant, it almost felt as if the stench would forever cling against the back of one's throat, until the scene was pierced by the youthful tones of a female child. Your voice.

"Mother, Sigurd is here! He wants to know if the potion is ready?"

You stood opposite this darker room in another doorway which reflected only the gloomy light emanating from behind you. Your wild, red hair and milky, but freckled, skin stood in stark contrast to the blackened, soot-covered logs which shaped the walls of this apparent witch's haunt. Sapphire blue eyes stared across at a dark, cowled figure who stood above the cauldron, stirring slowly with a cast-iron rod. When her form turned, a rather shapely woman stood in the shadow of the embers, her own dim cherry-blonde hair draping freely across her bosom from the depths of her hood as two deep blue eyes stared right back at the source of the voice.

"Entertain him a while, my darling. I just need to add a few more ingredients." Your weight shifted feet, causing the slightest of creaks in the wooden floorboard, but the mother's voice was smooth, soothing, charming. Twin dimples creased her cheeks as the flicker of flame revealed her comely, feminine glow, shadowed eyes and luscious rose-red lips.

"Why do all these men always come to see you, mother?" By the tone and naivete in your voice, this was the first time you had ever asked this particular query.

"Now now, sweetums, you'll have your turn very soon. You're already growing up into such a pretty little witch! Mother needs to finish this potion, and afterwards we will have dinner together. Okay?"

"Yes mother," you replied. You watched patiently for a few moments as your mother turned away to collect a dark green glass bottle from the shelf. The stopper was removed and it was measured into a large brass spoon. A faint fragrance of apple-blossom crept about the room, a welcome relief to the other distasteful scents bubbling forth from the fetid mixture in the cauldron. You moved your hand over the rough wooden jambs of the doorway until your fingertips rested upon a familiar gnarled knot in the wood. They seemed to find a welcome home on that knot, a moment of pause, of meditation, before you must turn to do your mother's bidding. And out you went, vanishing into the aether of an incomplete memory.

The stone was left in the recording room with a brief note.

For my application to the Society of Sensation.
Cherry Sapphire.

[*Ariella]

After viewing the stone as promised Trissa leaves a note for Cherry and a badge.

"Hello Cherry,

This is a good start, I look forward to what you will donate in the future. Its enough for me to accept you into the society as a namer, I have included your new badge! make sure you don't lose it.

Signed

Factotum Trissa"

(((You get the Badge from the floating skull in the OOC room to start with.)))

[*Tsidkenu]

A rather excited woman in white happily received the notice from Factotum Trissa and immediately placed her pin on her dress in a prominent location.

[*Tsidkenu]

Later that same day the same new Namer Sensate in white would make her somewhat disoriented way into the recording room and take one of the blank memory stones. She returned a short time later, not without a number of stumbles, with a new sensation for the other sensates to experience. This one was labelled,

Mortal Gasp (Public Sensorium; donated 14/08/2016)

As you place the sensory stone in your hands and read the activation phrase, a rather familiar scene enters your mind. You are now standing at Khazeet's bar in Sigil's Bazaar, feeling jovial, sensuous and perhaps a little light-headed. Besides the flaming red efreet standing immediately before you, on your left is a purple clad lady with flowing raven hair; beside him a fiery red-headed man who seems mostly disinterested with what is going on at the bar; on your right a much darker woman with an absolutely stunning face and physique to match, dressed in a luscious browny-mauve dress with tints of black, matched equally with dark lipstick and eyeshadow; and just to her right at the corner of the bar is a tiefling female with paler skin highlighted powerfully against a black & red dress.

Your own eyes peer out over a lusty, buxom female bosom with pale, freckled skin, a silver necklace set with a large red ruby that glows with a pale luminescence, and attired in a white, backless maxi with touches of cherry-orange upon the straps and the decorative waist sash. Aquamarine earrings tickle against your upper neck from time to time as a conversation unfolds before you. The dark woman to your right is the first one to speak.

"I'll take Abyssal Absinthe, Mixed with Vodka, with a dash of Wyvern Whiskey, and a lime! oh and light it on fire.."

"...tha sounds like disaster" the tiefling comments in response, "disaster in a glass, to boot."

Your own lips open as you start to contribute verbally to the unfolding scene. "Ooh that sounds nice, Salome. Can I try that?" you say to the dark, inviting woman who just put in the drink request.

"No! No..." she protests immediately.

Your lips fold into a playful pout as you hear those words, but you are not satisfied.

"You don't have my Special constitution..." Salome remarks in an attempt to sway your opinion. The drink is served and your eyes watch it eagerly. Tickles of blue flame edged in orange crackle silently as Salome puts the glass to her lips, flames and all, and gulps it down in a single shot.

"Ya sure about tha'?" you say as you enviously watch the display. Your words feel slurred, improper, not quite at a level of verbal perfection that hints at a significant level of inebriation.

"Special constitution..." the lady in purple remarks from your left, accompanied with a soft chuckle. "What drink is that? Wait... did I see that label? Abyssal Absinthe?"

"Toastyyyyyyy!" exclaimed Salome in an apparent state of satiation before coughing a few times at the strength of it. "Oh my," she added before passionately betraying the intensity of her experience. "Shit that was strong."

Your lips move in request as you begin to desire the experience for yourself now.  "Khazeet. . . one 'o what she had."

Khazeet quirked a brow, saying nothing, but also reluctant to make another. Your temper rises and you demand a second time.

"I said I want one!"

"You know that stuff kills most mortals, right?" the purple-clad lady quipped in her own attempt to dissuade you from your intended course.

"Mhm.." Salome immediately concurred and she turned to oppose you firmly. "Nooo! Cherry, No..."

"Do I look like a run-o-the-mill berk?" you answer, trying to show that you really do know what you're doing.

"......Switch it with Regular Absinthe..." Salome suggests and proceeds to cough a few more times.

"I don't consider myself such and I'm not touching it," adds the lady in purple, again trying to convince you not to partake of it. "I could even beat dwarves at their own game, which... isn't much here. But eh... well, I'll get you down for help if you do it."  You do not listen or heed her advice.

"No flame, no game!" you exclaim, although on the inside you half expected the barkeep to swap out the abyssal absinthe for something far less potent, but you were determined to prove yourself nonetheless. "Khazeet. . . give it!" you demand of the efreet barkeep once again before stumbling a bit and having to ready yourself against the bar.

The red-headed fellow casts a spell on himself all of a sudden, making his body turn into a brilliant shade of tuquoise. "Now you can call me 'Blue', and I've got stuff to do... Or... I should do some work... But... Bah."

"....Oh dear..." remarks Salome when she notices it. The lady in purple also turns her head, raises an eyebrow and then laughs softly.

"Quit being so blue, Rain," she quips to him through her chuckle. You yourself burst out into a raucous cackle in laughter as a flaming beverage is handed to you at last before you offer your own quip and the now-blue man.

"You're gorgeous!" you say confidently to him, clearly amused by his new colour. You attention then quickly turns towards your pending liquid victory.

"...Oh no..." Salome instantly remarks as you start to lift the drink to your lips.

"And you're wasted," Rain tells you with a shrug as you start to lay hold of your prize, flickering flames and all.

"Drink it before you burn yourself," the lady in purple tells you, perhaps a sign of an underlying anxiety about your intended course of action.

The pale green fluid touches your lips, but a tickle of alcoholic flame licks against your freckled face. The distinguishable tang of lime dances on your tongue, followed quickly by a rush of strong, biting vodka. These sensations are quickly swallowed up by a choking gush of bitterness as the wyvern whiskey pricks at the recesses of your palate before it is all wholly subsumed by a strong, unavoidable sensation of utter breathlessness. You gag immediately and cough, your lungs burning for air as the tiny sip of mixture makes its slow advance down your oesophagus to rest amidst your other alcoholic accomplishments in only the moments before.

"...Well... She didn't explode from that fire and the amount of alcohol in her... So there's that at least..." Rain says as he watches the spectacle. Salome stares at you, speechless.

You compose yourself as you take a deep breath and open your mouth in triumphant exclamation. "By Obad-hai's stoney scrotum!" are the first words to dance off your enlivened tongue, a vague reference to the old man of nature from your home world, Oerth. Salome gasps dramatically. Perhaps she is surprised you are alive?

"That stuff is <I>great!</i>" you exclaim with clear, unabashed pride in your accomplishment. Salome stares at you with a deadpan expression.

"Oooooh shite," the lady in purple swears.

"No more...!" Salome finally opens her mouth to protest again.

You, however, know better. You knew the fires would lick against your skin with barely a tingle. You knew that the powers you had would help you to resist the vileness of the essence of the Abyss you just drank. You knew you would survive. All the same, it does not help the choking sensation you feel in your throat and lungs. You cannot help but choke again. They all watch you in silence, sipping at their own drinks.

"Now. . . that has to go in the sensation record. . . what was this called again, hon?" you ask Salome. You are proud. Victorious. Satisfied. Salome seems stuck for an answer. The lady in purple tries to answer for her.

"...Abyssal absinthe?" she queries her.

"........I'm calling it ..." she says with a pause, "no no..." Blue Rain wanders off at this point, seemingly content to leave everyone else at the bar to their drinking.

"Take care, Rain," the lady in purple says to him in farewell. You simply watched for a few moments.

"I mixed it with Wyvern Whiskey...and vodka with the Abyssal Absinthe.." Salome starts again, still struggling for a name apparently.

"The Mortal Gasp," you suggest with exuberant confidence.

".....Heh....i like that name..." she answers. You feel happy that she does. "The Mortal Gasp."

"You should try this, Saiphie," you now turn and say to the tiefling who had remained quiet almost the whole time.

The lady in purple follows your gaze, nodding at her too. "Fell a little quiet there."

Salome agrees. "Mhm...."

"Plenty o' other people doing all the talkin' for me," says the laconic Saiph while sipping at her own choice of drink, a whiskey.

"Fair enough, I suppose," comments the lady in purple in passing.

Another urge then spikes in your heart. A smirk forms in the corner of your lips. The glass is still in your hand. You want another. You really want another taste. Another try. Another sensation of exhilaration, risk and determination all mingled together in one sip of your lips and push of your tongue to force the fluid down your gullet once more.

Salome turns to you again. Shocked silent.

You cough, just like last time. The lady in purple chuckles at your predicament. You would too, if it weren't for the fact you cannot breathe this time. Really cannot breathe. Salome coughs too, but that does nothing for your increasing agony.

"Yikes....yeah... no more for me..." she says. You gasp for air.

"....Yeah i think that's enough..." she says again, reaching forth and seizing your glass. Not that you could resist her as you begin to hunch over, gasping, rasping for a breath of Sigil's acrid, uncomfortable misty excuse for air, a most blissful experience when it has been taken away from you.

"You okay, hun?" asks the lady in purple. You do not notice her quirked eyebrow as you slump lower and lower, grasping aimlessly at the bar's counter top to help assuage your irresistible downward descent towards the ground. Salome stares at you again, speechless.

"Careful there," Saiph says.

You do not notice the smirk in her voice because you still cannot breathe. You feel pressure in your chest cavity, as if everything were caving in on your inside. Your next sensation is only of a strong hand suddenly gripping at you, trying to pull you back up. There is a light pop as a stopper is removed from a potion.

"...Tsk...drink!" comes Salome's close voice. If only you could. You do not see her, though. Everything is getting blurry. Darkening at the edges. Swirling. Choking. Piercing. Finally, you cannot fight it any more. The darkness closes in. The light disappears. You succumb at the precise chime of the synchronised swearing of those who stood by you.

"Oh shit..." was that unison chorus.

Everything goes black.

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The darkness is only pierced by a brightness, a lightness you cannot quite put your finger on. You seem to be laying down upon something soft and comfortable as familiar voices mumble close to you through the increasing luminescence which is only a bane to your slowly recovering sense of sight. Then, as abruptly as the experience began, the memory slowly fades away to nothingness as you snap back to reality in the Civic Festhall......

[*Tsidkenu]

A woman wearing a rich, cherry red deposited a sensory stone in the private archive, informing the archivist that it was to be kept so by mutual agreement of the involved parties.

Ice Bath (Private Sensorium; donated 21/08/2016)

As you delve into the depths of the sensory stone's recorded experience, the first thing that strikes you is a change in the weather. You are walking inside a grove, secluded in the mountains somewhere. The air about you is chill, the grass becoming sparse as it slowly gives way to the permafrost layer you seem to be walking towards. Before you is the back of a slender, female figure, garbed in gentle burgundy with cutouts at the hips and at the bosom. Her head is hooded, her face concealed from your initial view. The contrast of her tan is marked against the pure white snow you both begin to crunch into. Those same words form upon your lips.

"Snow. . ." you said. The corner of your mouth quirks and a fleeting memory of home floods your mind. Bare feet dancing upon the cold whiteness. Uncovered hands splashing flakes against your unclothed, youthful body. Pale, freckled skin protested in goosebumps but for all that you did not remember feeling the terrible chill.

The slender, female figure stopped and turned. The delightful face of a beautiful fey topped that delicate, perfectly proportioned body smiled at you, the whiteness of her teeth magnified by the raven-haired bangs that framed the scene so serenely.

"Am I going to be able to tell the temperature by looking at your blouse?" she snickered softly.

You bend over, your bright red leather boots coming to a halt. Your tight, red and black fish-net leggings scream their unavoidable brilliance against the white of the snow, and your fingers reach out to collect a few flakes between them, squashing them into melting nothingness after but a moment. You do not answer her. The crunchy squeak of footsteps on snow echo through the valley grove before it is broken by your companion's delicate and feminine voice.

"Ice!" she remarks excitedly.

Before you, nestled in the slowly opening valley, is an ice lake, the lower remnant of some glacier melting in the distance no doubt. It is cold here, the wind wisping gently across the mostly frozen water, the slow pulse of faint breaks lapping at the periphery between the lake and the snow-coated shore. You, however, barely feel it. You kneel at the bank of the lake, your knees pressing against slimy, ice-coated and water-rounded stones. Your finger plunges into the crisp, cool blue and you feel that shiver of chill down your arm.

"Ever gone for an ice swim before?" you remark as you stand, turning your attentions on the fey figure before you.

"This place is still something unique, in its wildness... and.. perhaps once. Is that what you have in mind?" she replies to you. Her voice is tender. Welcoming. Accepting.

"Tempted," you answer as your mind begins to drift back on that teenage memory. It develops beyond what it was before. Your buttocks grip with icy chill as you sit on the edge of a floe which juts out over a flowing river, choked up with ice jutting out here and there. The sun is bright and shining down upon your bare flesh. Your feet tickle as the cold water splashes against your dangling feet.

"I don't know the next time I will see ice outside the plane of ice," you answer her. It is true. You knew that when you left your home amongst the mountains and pine forests you might never behold those sighs and sounds and smells again in the Cage. Only planar doors might offer you a hint at what you had left behind, that lingering feeling of loss, of homesickness, of familiarity.

"And it wouldn't be pleasant to swim there," the delightful fey speaks.

"Not unless one was already prepared for it," you answer. Of course you had been there already, and you knew your resistance to the cold was as equally effective there as it was here, just as it was back home. You lift your hands to your neck and fiddle with your cloak pin, folding it in your hands and gently laying it down on the snow.

"To use a little protective potion, or experience the pure chill... What do you think?" she asks you. But you already knew what you wanted.

"I know what I'm going for, hon." You tug at your gloves now, revealing scarred palms and wrists from repeated slashing injuries. You toss them onto your cloak and then stoop over to tug of your red-leather heeled boots. They, too, join the pile. Your toes tingle faintly with the press of snow between them. You turn your eyes upon your colleague and notice her pretty smirk. Her hood tugs back, that swathe of raven hair revealed in all its dark and mysterious glory. Her hands start to tug at her own belt and fastenings before your eyes divert their attentions to your own.

Your naked hands tug at the strings lacing your entire side up from top to bottom, loosening them. Just as you tug at your bosom, trying to free yourself from this prison of fashion, you hear a scraping in the snow, a movement, an exuberance from the fey. Then it strikes you. Splat! A well aimed snowball! You turn and face her with a gleeful grin. You have never had a sister before, let alone shared such an experience with anyone other than yourself. Your thumbs grip into your corset and the whole lot gets ably and eagerly tugged away. You keep sliding your hands down across your curvaceous, pale form, sliding your leggings off, ready to bask in the freedom of the naked, raw, embracing cold.

You turn, and with two long, agile leaps your unclothed body finds itself plunged into the icy lake, its frozen grasp clawing at your skin, your lips, your breasts, your hair, your eyes. You surface with an exhilarated gasp of air as the sting of your silver necklace, your only remaining adornment, clutches at your chest as if it had a life of its own now. That memory comes back in its fullness, that feeling of slipping your buttocks off the edge of the floe and surrounding yourself with the unrestrained frigidity of winter's yearly melt. Your lips form a smile, and you turn, nervously, to behold the nymph in all her deathly beauty as you feel her smooth, sublime form slide into the water beside you. . .

The memory fades at once, leaving you staring at those words upon the sensory stone's surface. Ice Bath.

[*Tsidkenu]

A new sensory stone is added to the private sensorium, labelled such by its recorder. It may be moved to the public sensorium at a later time, but not yet.

Memory within a Memory (Private Sensorium; donated 26/08/2016)

As your mind enters the world of the sensory stone, you notice that this memory starts in a fairly adverse setting.  Your vision is black, but piercings of white light threaten at your tightly squinted periphery. Your head aches. Severely. Your tongue twangs with a bitter, burning sensation you just cannot quite identify. Something feels stuck in your throat, and before long an elongated, serpentine hiss emanates from your mouth as you start to come to.

"Hnnnssssssssss!" You immediately cough and gag at something in your throat.

"Eh... Again... Thank's for that blood Bethany. Know you could of made that an even worse situation if you wanted to..." you hear a male voice say.

"I always can, Rainrix dear.  Do keep that in mind.  Won't you," answers a very smooth feminine voice, although your physical state does not lend you much opportunity just yet to soak in the delectably luscious tones of that voice properly.

"Always do," the male replies to her rather determinedly.

The voices sound close by, to your left side and beyond your feet which you cannot yet see. The room hushes at your moaning and that same male speaks again.

"Eh... Careful... Careful."

You are opening and closing your mouth and curling your tongue, as if trying to clear something out of it.

"Bucket!" this 'Bethany' calls for.

"Err anyone got any water..?" remarks the masculine voice.

There is a scraping noise at your side as something is picked up near you. You try to open your eyes but it is still difficult to see what is happening. The shuffling of leathers and the dull 'tink' of metal indicates someone has taken something out. It sounds very close by, close enough for you to reach out and touch it.

"Water..." says a second feminine voice, this one touched with notes of concern. It feels very familiar to you.

"Ah you got some Sharon... Phew was going to go on a hunt..." says the male with a clear tone of relief. All you can do is moan as you feel your gag reflex coming to the fore from the depths of your oesophagus.

"Hnnnnnnhhhh!"

A supportive hand presses at your back, lifting you up. Just in time, too, as your stomach contents are given a good, old heave ho. A thoughtfully placed bucket catches everything, although that by no means prevents the automatic shuffling of feet you hear moving distinctively away from you.

"Well... That's no surprise," says the fellow.

".....Yick..." pipes up another male voice, this one with tones of something different to the other. You, however, are caught coughing and choking and more choking. One of your hands flails aimlessly as your search for something.

"Water..? Uh... Or..." says the first male voice.

"... Rain, is she clearing out what's in her throat?" Sharon's voice asks him. You wince and snort in deeply, trying to clear you throat of the revolting blockage, whatever it is.

"Give her the bucket?" says a third, more delicate feminine voice different from the other two. A hand starts to pat you on the back. You are not so sure it is particularly helpful, but it is rather effective.

"Well that would be my second guess... And... Eh..." says this male voice, now named as one Rain.

"Come on, get it all up," Sharon's voice says.

"...She's going to ruin that outfit.  You really should have stripped her when you had the chance," remarks Bethany's voice, although it is hard to tell if it was spoken with sincerity or sarcasm.

"Woe be the outfit," Sharon bewails its impending fate.

"Eh... There's magic for that..." suggests Rain. Heh, don't you know that?

"Another one can be bought....or made, And ....yeah magic," quips the second male voice, agreeing with the others.

You do not really care at the moment, though, because you are concentrating on purging yourself of a disgusting half-vomit, half spittle glob which dribbles at the tip of your tongue as you start to haunch over, finally opening your eyes to look for something to spit into. Sharon has it. And she so kindly holds it out before you while everyone else starts to back away again.

"Ounce of prevention, darling," suggests Bethany's voice about your now-soiled outfit. You really liked that one, too. You spit, hoicking out as much as one great snort can carry. And again. And again.

"Nnnnhhhh!" you groan and slump your head down, the unpalatable taste of bile rich upon your taste buds.

"......You're alive..!" says the other male voice, apparently caught by surprise at your fate.

"There, now..," Sharon says encouragingly.

" 's th' brightness 'sgain?" you mumble, trying to piece together your surroundings. You feel like you've been here before. Comfortable bed. Bright lights. People speaking around you, discussing your near-death experience. Everything is still blurry, though. Your thoughts are disjointed, unclear, unfocused, as if you had just awoken from a thousand year sleep. Shapes are forming in front of you now, though.  To your right is a rather quiet figure you realise you only just met in the Bazaar. Her angelic wings give her away at once. Namael. On your left side and by far the most supportive of your plight is the familiar, purple-clad Sharon. You start to think she really does care, actually. Flanking her on either side are two men. One familiar. Rainrix. He has some strange device on his arm, not that it is unusual for him, but it does give you a moment of pause. The other male is unfamiliar. An elf with long blonde hair. Your heart skips with mixed feelings. One is that insatiable sense of victory. The other is the undeniable pain of your severely weakened situation. At your feet is a rather amazingly shaped woman wearing delightfully black leathers. Her scent is utterly entrancing, the type that assails the olfactory glands before you even recognise where it is coming from. Bethany. She smiles at you, sloshing a quarter-full bottle of green liquid and says something rather cryptic.

"...Hair of the dog...?"

"Eh well... I guess you can thank Bethany for being here twice..," snickers Rain. You barely want to crane your neck in his direction.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Cherry," Sharon says softly to you. That voice turns towards the end of your bed. "...Please get that out of here, Bethany."

"Err... bad Bethany..." Rainrix concurs.

"As you wish," she replies and gulps down the remainder of the bottle. The blonde elf looks down at you, shaking his head.

Then it suddenly hits you. You did it again. You rolled the dice, took a chance and it utterly failed to pay off. Rainrix's voice soon brings everything into sparkling clear perspective.

"The good news, technically you won that drinking contest. The bad news, you did die."

"Wait, she really did die?" Sharon interjects in surprise.

"Yes," Bethany nods in agreement. "I felt it."

You just groan again, squinting your eyes shut and rolling your head to one side. Great. Now whose debt do you owe your life? You died? But yet you live? Still? By whose graces, you wonder, only to be disturbed in your thoughts by the elf's voice.

"Please don't do anything stupid like that Miss Cherry, and yes...you ..won..?"

"What they call a Pyrrhic victory on this one little Prime I visited," Bethany remarks. You might not have understood the word 'Pyrrhic', but you sure knew what she meant even before Bethany went on to explain it. This striving to prove yourself has to come to an end, but you're just so conceited, so proud of yourself and your abilities. Hey, you're not immune to diabolical poisons! that voice of conscience screams in your mind, if you would dare to listen to it.

"'One more triumph of this sort will utterly undo us,' I believe was the phrase," Bethany clarifies for you, as if it was not clear enough already. You sigh. Maybe it is finally getting through.

"All right. I'm going to scoot for now. Please take care, Cherry," Sharon's voice says. Perhaps a tone of disappointment, perhaps not? She must be getting sick of cleaning up after your mess.

"And thanks for being my first test subject," Rainrix snickers at you with an accompanying wink. "But uh... Seriously... Yeah that was pretty bad. You're kind of lucky I was around..."

"Hnnnnhhhh. . ." you reply in a zombie-like manner.

Sharon pats your shoulder gently with a nod alongside. "Just get some rest."

"Literally the hangover from hell I guess..?" Rainrix adds. Oh the poisonous truth of those words!

". . . Last. . . one. . ." you start to mumble to no-one in particular. "Promise. . ."

Really? Are you really going to promise that. You better, because you probably won't get another chance, you bubbing sod! Oh your mind is so cruel!

"Rule of threes, darling," Bethany comments, kissing her fingertips against her lips and then pressing them lightly into your hair. "Rule of threes."

". . . . uh-huh. . .  . . third time might Kill you...." says the elf, the emphasis on the finality of the kill.

"Good enough for me," Sharon agrees rather heartedly. "We'll top off the Rule of Threes with a nice glass of lemonade. No abyssal shite.

"....Yeah...." the elf concurs again.

"Bye Sharon," Namael turns and farewells your friend.

"Take care," Sharon replies and heads out.

"..Well...I hope you have a speedy recovery........I'll send flowers and nice non abyssal treats for you..." the elf comments to you. You can only murmur in reply.

" . . . Mnnnh . . ."

"Isn't that sweet.  Your suicidal drinking habits have earned you a new friend," Bethany remarks. You still can't quite tell if those words are sarcastic or not.

"Eh... Well... I'll help however I can but I think most of this now is down to your own body recovering," Rain says. He has been ever so helpful. Your respect for the man has increased considerably, especially after today.

The elf adjusted his golden locks. "Well I feel partly at fault here..."

How noble. The piker probably did not even touch the drink you gave him, and he still feels guilty for your plight? One would have thought perhaps the elf would have just laughed at your misery and left it at that. There could be more to this elf than you think. His sudden utterance in Abyssal confirms your thought immediately, but you are not in a state of mind to concentrate on what the hissed abyssal grumble was. You mumble something to the elf, but you're not really thinking particularly straight either.

""Beaten by a girl. . ."

"Mhmhm," Bethany grins and whatever the elf said.

"...Dark past an all.." He shrugs. "In the past as they say.."

"Dark future. Also." Bethany seems to want to make sure this elf stands corrected. Rainrix pulls his regular work gloves back on. You smirk at your Pyrrhic victory over the plucky elf, but deep inside wonder if it was all really worth it. The rest of their conversation becomes a bit of a blur to you until something dawns upon you, and it is Rain's familiar voice which provides the impetus.

"I'm just happy I didn't need to test out those gloves in actual surgery..."

" . . . Rain. . ?" you turn to look for that voice of his.

"...Eh..?"

". . . s'that Rain?" you ask again.

"Are you Rain?" the elf tries to help, asking him as well.

"Yeah. I uh... Mended you," he answers. But that gives you pause. You felt that voice. In your mind. Soothing. Calming. Healing.

"How did you. . . my head. . ?" you protest.

"I uh... Your head..? Uhm... I've learnt a few tricks... Don't worry... No digging about I swear," he defends himself. You cannot object as you still feel a bit groggy.

"Hnnnh."

"Just enough to try and work out how things were going, or try and transfer any pain and the such," he continues. You do believe him, though. You felt it.

He smirked. "Now you have my blood and a little drop of Bethany's in you too. Well... You might of thrown up all of Bethany's..."

"Ewwww..." the elf protests. You knew better, though. Bethany's abyssal blood must have been applied as some kind of emergency cure for your poisoning. No wonder you are alive. But his blood too? Magic, probably?

"Bethany. . ?" you call out, leaning up to look for your fellow Sensate.

"That's right," she answers you.

"Fashion Leatherball ..." the elf chimes in. Yes, you remember now. She was wearing the elfskin leathers. That was, afterall, how you started to get yourself into this pile of blek.

"I do need to learn that spell..." Bethany says, but you're not really sure what she is talking about now. One thing you are sure of, though, is that clinging sensation upon your palate, that lingering warmth on your tongue where the blood had been dripped. It was not your first time to taste it, and would likely not be the last. Of the Abysmal Absinthe, though, you think you have finally had your last drop.

"You. . . gave me your blood?" you ask Bethany, just to make sure. The elf's comment does not help.

"Ghoulish..." he says.

Bethany sighs. "Please don't go around telling everyone.  They'll all want to try it. Lazarus is already looking at me out of the corner of his eye. Hindel's son was this close to licking my throat at the masquerade."

"I don't even remember. . . cannot record that. Just. . .  the bitterness. . ." you answer her, thinking over this whole experience now.

"Eh her outfit aint too bad... Huh..." Rain comments about Bethany's attire, seemingly at random because you cannot make sense of the timing.

"Alas. Well, I'm certain it was more or less the same as last time.  But in better company," Bethany replies, pressing her hand over her breast.

"You know..." Rainrix interrupts. You can only blink and try to sit up again. You hand quickly finds its place against your throbbing forehead. "I've never tried this... But huh... I wonder... Cherry you want my memories of this maybe..? So you can record them later..? Or would that be a little too weird?"

"Hmm?" What is that barmy sod talking about now?

"This telepathy stuff is still rather odd for me too... But... Eh..." he continues. Before you can think of answering the words pop right on out.

"You would?"

Meanwhile, Bethany quietly mouths something along the lines of 'I'll leave you two alone' and slips out the door with a little smile and wave at each of you.

"The stones don't work like that. . . they only record one experience. . . one perspective." You did not quite catch the full implication of what he said the first time. You thought he wanted to record this whole experience on a sensory stone, a prospect which could only help your advancement in the Society. Apparently that was not what he meant at all.

"Huh... Well still then... Still want to know..? I mean I wouldn't do anything to your mind really like that without your permission obviously. I find the abilities scary myself... Uh... Most of the time I try to cut myself off from the more powerful of my abilities involving the mind anyway."

You still did not get it. "Alright. . . I'll take you to the Sensorium when I'm feeling better about myself."

"You don't want the memories yourself right now..? Err..." he shrugged just the same as you were mentally. Finally you get it!

"Oh. . ? You. . . you'd implant them?" This was the most curious prospect, and worthy of a sensory stone in and of itself you thought, not to mention filling in that great black between when you sipped your drink and the present moment.

"Well... I can show you all that happened... I mean I guess you could call it something like that... Uh... Not going to overwrite anything," he reassures you. You seem genuinely interested by the possibility.

"Um. . . alright. . . here's hoping I don't lash back. . ."

"I just figured as a Sensate you might find it interesting too then... As... You can't remember anything... And eh... Okay sure best be prepared just in case."

"What. . . what do I have to do?" you ask him. You have had voices in your mind before, sure. But a part of you feels like you did not have the choice then. You are going to have to let him in. Your eyes glance up.

"You don't really have to do anything. I guess be calm or relaxed... That's about it..? Though it may be weird for you... Seeing yourself and all... Or feeling someone elses e-wait you know about that I guess. I've uh... Never tried those stones myself still so yeah... Uhm."

"They're not hard to use. . . but if you're not confident," you say, although you actually hope he will give you this experience of memory implantation, if only to fully perceive what a fool you made of yourself.

"Yeah... Anyway..."

You let out a deep breath and close your eyes. You begin to feel a presence, a marked concentration in your head. A mind probing into your own. Then slowly, gently, his memories flood into your own. You see what his eyes saw, you hear what his ears heard, from the point he saw you taking the drink up until this point now, trying to gently play the thoughts through in your mind in such a manner as to avoid distress. His presence in your head, however, was nothing at all like the voices you are used to. There is a gentleness, a compassion, a connection of empathy which calms you despite everything you see. And those visions, those memories, begin with a familiar, gruff voice...

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~~~ continued below!

[*Tsidkenu]

Implantation

"What in the nine's goin' on, now?"  said the unseen figure to your left.

"That drink looks horrifying..." says another, elven-toned male voice.

A woman wearing a bright pink outfit walks over right before you, carrying two shot glasses, and she stops in front of where you are sitting. A second, smooth, feminine voice protests the objection.

"Oh, come now, don't be such sticks in the mire."

The elf stares on blankly before a raven-haired woman in purple answers the first, gruff voice.

"She and the elf are about to have a drinking 'contest'. Possibility of death is likely."

The elf took the glass at this point, staring at it. It had the most eerie and sickening green tinge to it. The smooth voice is silent as her face breaks into a grin that cannot be described as anything less than carnivorous.

"Of course they are..."  the gruff voice grumbled and you briefly see him rub his face, eyes closed. "Things were s'posed ta be less stupid when I got back, not more."

"Now it's not too late to back out. . ." remarks the red-head wearing pink. "But if it is of any encouragement. . . I have both survived and recorded this experience."

You suddenly find yourself looking down at your wrist device, a most intricate mechanical contraption. The needle clicks and extends ready.

"Don't worry! Uh... Too much..." you say to allay their fears. You know what to do, after all! There is a light-hearted laughter in the background before Bethany's smooth, feminine voice protests again.

"I don't recall making that pact," Bethany protests at the lady in pink's words. The elf grasps the glass and it begins to freeze over.

"Uh-huh..." he says to Bethany. The lady in pink clinks her shot glass and took a sip of the beverage.

"I'm afraid you will drink alone my dear on this particular drink..." the elf said after the drink touched her lips. She immediately gags. Voices begin calling out in unison as others turn their faces away.

"Don't puke don't puke!" says one.

"Someone check her pulse," exclaims another.

"Ack..." you say.

"Oh gods..." remarks a fourth.

"Choices were made," comments a disdainful fifth.

The image swirls as your mind races into gear. You have got this under control; an opportunity to test these new gadgets! You kneel down next to her and put your fingers upon her jugular vein.

"Poor girl..." says one voice you are no longer really paying attention to. There is a supple creak of leather garments approaching.

"Well, she's dead.  But you're an honorless coward who was outclassed by a ditzy little human girl, so there's that," Bethany remarks with cold disdain.

"..Uh-huh...." the male elf answers unenthusiastically.

"We have resurrections and Doctor Rainy is on the case, donÂ’t fret!" How very true!

"So she's dead?" a female voice says.

"Well... If she's still alive, I got a few things that'll clear out her system..." you claim. Yep. It'll do exactly what you said! But you notice she is not breathing. She has no pulse.

".....Oh dear.."

"Damn it..." the memory flows as you turn to dig into your pack. "Old fashioned way... And then clear out the system... It seems..."

"Right here?" Sharon questions that particular suggestion of yours.

"That's what ya call class, huh?" remarks the gruff voice, although you do not really notice him pointing at your patient. "Bloke was right ta turn whatever it was down."

"If not, I suppose I can intercept her soul for you before it reaches the bottom.  She is a Society member, after all," Bethany suggests. You do not need to, though. You insert the needle of your wrist device into her side and wait for the injection to take effect.

"There is no.....honour in...death ?" the elf says with uncertain tones in his voice.

"He agreed to a challenge and then shirked it.  Outdone in courage and commitment," Bethany snarks.

"Eh... She'll feel rough... But eh." You watch as her skin goes even more pale than it was, and suddenly breaks out into a sweat. "I could of used a psionic cleanse too... But... Maybe she'll learn more this way." The needle is retracted from her, then a few electrical sparks cover it and the area smells faintly of ozone, before finally the needle retracts back in to the device upon your wrist.

"Oh stuff it," Sharon scoffs at something.

"I was warned of ...this drink, ...and it looks like i was wise?" the elf pipes in again.

"Looks like you were," someone agrees.

"That's the common result of this drink," remarks Namael's voice.

"And that's why I warned against it," Sharon responds immediately.

"Well... Either this worked, or not... I aint tested this out in a real situation yet..." It's looking good so far though!

"Well? Did you see Zggtmoy?" Bethany asks the lady in pink as she knelt down at her side. There is a sudden, raucous gasp for air as her chest lurches. But she remains unconscious.

A sigh emerges from your lips. "Well... She's alive anywho," you can say with confidence. You've felt her faint pulse and breathing now.

"What.. did she drink 'xactly?" the gruff voice asks.

"Drink spiked with abyssal absinthe. Or... close enough. Should we get her to the House of Healing?" Sharon answers and asks.

Bethany offers you a faint smile. "I knew she was safe in your hands...you know.  Quasi-safe.  Safe enough."

"Yeah maybe for the best..," you answer through a bit of a frown. "She's very weak still... need someone to keep an eye on her."

"Oh, I volunteer," Bethany answers immediately.

"You got her the drink in the first place," Sharon responds in a prompt protestation.

"Couldn't get any worse after all," Namael's voice comments alongside.

"She explicitly asked for it," Bethany protests her innocence in the matter. "I give people. What they want."

"....Yeah doesn't mean you should. . ." the elf quipped straight away.

"Dumbarse,"  quipped the gruff voice at the unconscious woman on the ground.

"Err... While I'm certain you wont attempt to kill her, at the same time I'm not sure you won't do something to make it worse somehow," you say to Bethany with a significant dose of scepticism. "It'd be best that someone with medical knowledge keeps an eye on her anyway," you add as Sharon and the elf try to lift the unconscious woman into a position by which they could carry her.

"Please.  I won't be lectured by a racist cretin who lacks the courage to take chances," Bethany scornfully answers the elf.

"Lacks the courage, or lacked the stupidity?" Sharon retorts.

"....Well sorry for not being stupid..? My parents taught me better.." the elf concludes. Fair point, too!

"Eh... Uh... You two got this or..? Last time I tried to carry something with Sharon... Eh..." you ask, clearly unsure of your ability at least in regards to adequate body haulage procedure. Where's a pack-golem when you need it?

"Smart.  Dumb.  Smart.  Dumb,"  the gruff voice chimes in again. He pointed at the elf, then the lady, then the elf, then the lady.

"I can carry her...," Namael suggests.

"C'mon, let's get her to the house of healing," Sharon says.

"Yes... She really should have waited for him to drink first. A misplay," Bethany admits on the unconscious woman's behalf. "I think in some perverse way she enjoys this..."

"Fools rush in..." you concur.

"Mhmm," the half-angel Namael agrees.

"What did the silly Sensate do this time. . ?" remarks a newcomer upon the scene.

"Well I'm sure this'll make some interesting sensory stone if she remembers any of it," you comment in general as you prepare to follow the half-angel who has taken the woman up in her arms.

"Yes.  She can call it 'whoops I did it again'," Bethany snarks.

"Laters , Lance," Namael temporarily farewells the gruff-voiced man.

He unclipped his canteen, taking a drink of water.  "...Whatever."

"I'll be back, Lance," Sharon added alongside while you limp along after the group grumbling. Before long the woman is laying upon a rather familiar bed in the House of Healing while you hasten to keep pace with the group.

"Damn it I'm a medic, not an athlete..." you say as you enter the room. The woman has been lain on her side, and the group are presently discussing whether she ought to be stripped of her clothing first or not.

"Well, make sure she doesn't choke..." Sharon suggests as she leans over and unclasps her pink cloak.

"Good show.  Now the rest of it," Bethany insists.

"Nah, that's enough," Sharon refuses, much to Bethany's ire.

"Spoilsport!"

You sigh a bit and pull out your medical gloves and put them on. Just in case. One can never be too sure about such things, after all!


"And that's why you don't take drinks from random strangers, heh," Sharon quips back.

"....Yep.." the elf agrees. "...Eh...so... she does this often?"

"I only remember her doing it once before, and that was just daring to drink something dangerous," Sharon answers, a recollection to some previous similar encounter apparently.

"Well... I think her body is currently sweating out the poisons... So will need to get plenty of water back in to her," you say, trying to get attentions on the matter at hand. "Or... Eh... This is gonna suck for me." There is a slight snicker from your lips as your mind cleanses your entire being of physical impurities, before you transfer some of your own blood into her body using arcane magic.

"Shall I get a hose, then?" Bethany asks, in some kind of attempt to be helpful. Perhaps?

"Well... Figure at least uh... My blood aint poisoned," you started to say.

"Isn't that going to..," Sharon interrupts you.

"Harm me..?" you clarify immediately.

".....yeah...whatever you're doing....?" asks the elf.

"Eh... No pain, no gain..? I'll live... I can heal myself too," you answer them confidently. It seems to have worked, the woman's cheeks flush with fresh, clean blood, enlivening her visage. She still looks pale, but not the deathly white she was before.

"Agreed, but you may be taking playing doctor a little too far, darling," Bethany tells you.

"By being effective...?" Sharon quizzes her immediately.

"By self-harming.  Are you sure you don't want to strip her?  She's totally helpless."

"...Why don't you soddin' strip yourself?" Sharon tells her with a tone that mingles anoyance with frustration.

"What is wrong with you?!" the elf protests to Bethany.


"Is that a request?" Bethany replies with a likely diabolical smirk.

"Shoo! Get out.." the elf demands her.

"I don't take orders, particularly not from you," is her retort.

"Bethany... Now aint the time okay..? Sorry... Just eh... Let's get things sorted here first anyway... Okay..?" you interrupt them. This isn't helping!

"Since you asked so nicely, darling, I shall rein myself in," Bethany says to you.

The elf pinched the bridge of his nose and mumbled something, "TuMnarlNyNyaMh vahisl mpl josublhyl... you make me uncomfortable. . . and are a very bad influence..."

"Not so difficult. Is it?"  Bethany remarks while she gives a sharp glance to the others.

"She'll feel like she's fallen through every layer of hell... But she'll live," you try to tell them.

"How long until you think she'll wake up?" Sharon asks.

You then place a hand on her head, using some psionic empathy to try and ease any pain she may be feeling whilst unconscious. "Eh..." You cringe and look down at her. "Eh... She'll pull through."

"You know there is a known cure for Abyssal Absinthe poisoning," Bethany quips at this point. "But... no, you asked me to be quiet."

"Still not being quiet, though," Sharon snaps back at her.

"I was overwhelmed by the urge to help.  It shan't happen again."

"Like you ever did."

"Like I ever did what?"

"Why not just head back to the Bazaar? She'll be a while."

You glance to Bethany for a moment. "Eh... What'd you give her exactly..?"

"Abysmal Absinthe.  Her poison of choice, apparently," she replies, scolling an entire bottle of the vile green liquid.

"....Is she..suicidal?" the elf asks, astounded.

"Terminally adventurous," Bethany replies, swallowing the drink without a care in the world.

".....and you had to give her the drink why?" the elf continues.

"I gave her what she wanted.  I truly don't see the issue here," Bethany protests her innocence.

"You say she should be left for dead?" Namael asks the elf.

"Well if you knew[/]> the dangers of this drink, why give it to her?!" he protests again.

"I guess she knew them too?" Namael suggests in Bethany's defence. Apparently?

"She knew them too," Bethany claims.

"See?" Namael concludes, as if that's all there was to it.

"And was giving it to an unsuspecting person, too. That's pretty illegal in many places," Sharon says.

"Hmm... Well... Yeah good thing Bethany is here..." You look at her again, thinking. "Bethany... Hold out an arm."

Bethany points to the comatose Sensate. "That's on her, not me.  All I did was carry the bottle.  And pay for it, by the way."

"Ah.  So.  Rainy figures it out," Bethany quips.

"Figure what out..?" asks the elf, looking about at what's happening.

Bethany traces a finger up along your shoulder. "...But you always were the clever one, weren't you, darling?"

You shrug. "Bethany... Nows ain't the time. Your arm..."

"And?  What do I get out of this?  Because I've grown a little weary of accusations and insults."

"Have I insulted you..?"

"No.  No you have not."

"So surely you shouldn't be mad at helping me."

She sighs, rolling her own eyes freely because she totally can. "Fine. But you're paying for dinner."

You cringe a little at that. "Oh dear... So... Most expensive things on the menu I guess. Eh well yeah sure..."

She unbuttons her left glove, tugging it off one finger at a time before slipping it from her hand, holding it out petulantly. You take hold of her arm with your right hand, your left arm near hers, and the needle comes out and quickly takes a blood sample from her. The blood hisses slightly as the needle touches it, smoking as a drop of it falls to the floor.

"Thanks Bethany! Now this should be a cure... Sounds barmy..."

".....Demon!" Namael cries out in surprise.

Bethany rolls her eyes again. "You say it as though it's a bad thing."

"I guess ingested should work. It's like... A kick start to the body."

"........No wonder you're So...giving... Is she going to jump up yelling?" the elf asks.

You lean over the curled up woman carefully and open her mouth, holding the needle device over it and letting a few small drops fall on to her tongue before closing her mouth and keeping a very close eye on her. There is a faint sizzle and a wisp of steaming saliva as the liquid touches her tongue. She does remain unconscious, though.

"Hmm well it isn't digging a hole through her," Namael remarks with perhaps a tone of marginal surprise.

You place a hand on her head, doing a surface telepathy reading and preparing yourself to give any empathetic help where needed.

Bethany sighs, theatrically. "Tanar'ri blood is a known folk remedy for Viper Tree poisoning. That's what gives the drink it's fatal little..." she waves, oddly, with her bare hand  "...kick."

"Eh well... Should kickstart her at least. And if there's any pain or whatever I'll carry as much as I can too to help the healing... Just hope she at least appreciates it a little bit." You're almost there.

"I shall see to it that she does," Bethany offers with a keen-edged grin.

"All right. Let's let her get some rest, eh?" Sharon says while Bethany pulls her glove back on, smoothing it down and buttoning the wrist, looking faintly sour.

The mental impression fades when Rain removes his hands.

"Woah. . . you did all that?" you remark, surprised, when he is done. He nods at you.

"Just happy I could help really. Though... Wish I didn't need to... You know..?"

"It. . . it won't happen again." Your confession is, surprisingly, sincere.

"Eh... I hope not. I mean... Nobody can promise they won't do anything foolish... But yeah heh."

You, however, are no-where near as stupid as you seem to appear. . . and it is with that thought in your mind that you are transported back to the quiet confines of the Civic Festhall.

[*Tsidkenu]

Witchcraft: Exorcism (Private Sensorium; Donated 24/09/2016)

This sensory stone commences with a rather confronting scene. You are standing inside some kind of stone chamber. There are five others with you, two human women, one half-angel, one myconid, and before you a blue-armoured ogre stands at the centre of the room.

You lift your left hand and remove your glove. You right hand then moves to your belt where a dagger is sheathed on your left hip. You pull it out and, without any notion of hesitation, slash your palm open. The pain is excruciating, but you grit your teeth and bear it, stooping down to smear the shape of a pentagram on the floor at your feet. You start to arrange an assortment of red gemstones at the tips of the pentagram while your companions behind you begin to prepare themselves with an assortment of magical warding spells. You look up and fix your gaze upon the ogre.

"Rexxar, you will need to stand in the middle."

He nods and does so.

"I've set the traps up with arcane means. you shouldn't trigger them," says one of the ladies behind you, but now you're concentrating on setting up a pentagram of obsidian gemstones around Rexxar. When you're done, you take out a bandage to wrap your bleeding, throbbing hand and then you begin to chant a multitude of protective spells.

Shadow Premonition
Shadow Shield
Magic Circle against Evil
Mirror Image
Superior Resistance
Improved Mage Armour
False Life
Energy Immunity: Fire

Your sequence of fluid spellcasting and scattering of various spell components is only breached by the ogre's voice once more.

"We ready? Because I am."

"Just a second..." one of the ladies behind you says. She draws a sword. "All right. Ready."

"The-Attempt-Will-Be-Made," says the myconid in its own fungal manner. Not that you were paying any particular attention.

It is all set. You have only one thing left to do. You take out a vial of the ogre's essence and step inside the binding circle.

"We all ready?" Rexxar asks again.

"Yes," the ladies chime in unision form behind you, all three of them.

"Turn around Rexxar," you tell him as the tone in your voice drops. You shove him towards the centre of the circle. "Your palm. . ." you demand of him.

"What about it?" the ogre questions back at you.

"Hold it out."

"Time to bury this past," he says while doing so.

A malicious smirk would have formed on your lips if it weren't for the fact you had far more important things on your mind. The dagger finds its way back into your hand and there is no token of remorse in your heart, no intention of being gentle or considerate. You viciously slash at the ogre's freely offered palm, slicing it open grievously.

"Ughh..." he moans in pain. You are glad he did not suddenly enter a rage and squash you underfoot, though. Blood drips upon the binding circle. Your voice erupts from your throat, dark, commanding, menacing, as you hurl the essence upon the ground, smashing the vial into pieces while its contents splatter everywhere.

"Spirit of Vaprak, Ancestor of Ages past, I summon you forth to answer to your descendant."

Smoke billows from the place as an almighty feeling of dread comes upon you in the form of a roaring voice. . .



"YOU DARE CHALLENGE ORTHOS, BETRAYER AND FLESHBAGS? WELL PREPARE FOR YOUR DEMISE!!!"

The recollection immediately ends here.

[*Tsidkenu]

Haunted (Public Sensorium; Donated 30/09/2016)

Something doesnÂ’t quite feel right. It is dark, but it is not cold. You can feel the crunch of leafy detritus beneath the soles of your bare feet, and you flinch now and then at a twig or stone which pokes upwards at your fleshy footpads. You endure it simply because you just have to keep on going. Your vision is hazy and unclear as you weave your way through the long shadows thrown over your path by the hulking boughs of the forest oaks, pines and hickory. The yearning fingers of thicket twigs grab at your already torn clothes, some scratching against your partially exposed legs, sides and back. None of it makes you feel particularly comfortable.

The scent of pine needles assails your nostrils, the deep, crisp, clean aroma of the musty mountain air heightened by the gentle caress of dew-topped soil. It is ghostly quiet; not even the crickets or summer cicadas greet your ears with their songs, only the distant din of a hooting owl and the gentle rustle of a dusk zephyr along the forest floor. It is as if all the forest knows, except for you.

Eventually the trees give way to a clearing and you get the feeling that you do not have much further to go. The moon breaks the canopy here, making the shadows that stretch out across it all the more vivid. Two more steps, then three. Suddenly the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. A piercing chill flows down your spine, to your very core. Your skin breaks out into goose bumps as a palpable sensation of presence washes over you. It was not just the gentle breeze that was making the shadows about you move: one of them did move, you swear you saw it!

Everything is suddenly so ephemeral, distorted, disjointed. Where are you now? Is it far? Did you actually go the right way? Then you feel an unavoidable touch against the back of your left hand. You eyes jolt in that direction but catch only a fleeting shadow. Your heart beats faster. This is beginning to get disturbing. You decide to make a dash for the other side of the clearing, but when you are almost there you tripped in a divot in the ground and crashed upon the earth. A wince of pain shoots up from your elbows as you prop yourself upon your hands. A grimacing whimper emerges from your lips but you desperately tried to withhold it from bursting forth like a cacophony of squawking crows.

But as you pause to take in your needed breath you feel the twining of fingers through your rich, wild crop of hair. You fall backwards onto the ground in a fit of sudden shock while you desperately search the moonlit gloom for the culprit. You freeze. Your breathing halts. You can only stare in abject horror as a pair of red eyes stares right back at you, perched atop a dark, penumbral miasma of a form. An ice-cold, shadowy but tangible hand reaches out to smother your face. You scream, an ear splitting shriek that would have woken the living and the dead for miles around if it were not muffled so quickly.

[align=center][/align]

With a sudden jolt, the sensation of ephemerality fades. Your eyes snap open. You take a deep gasp for breath as your head flops backwards against your pillow. It was just a nightmare. None of it was real. You are at home, in your bed. It was just a dream, despite how quickly your heart beats in your chest. You sit up and cradle your knees, rocking back and forth while contemplating what just happened to you. Your gaze drifts towards the pane glass window to your left through which the moonlight beams in upon your bed.

A pair of red eyes stare right back.

[*Tsidkenu]

The Riddle of the Curse (Private Sensorium; Donated 10/10/2016)

This sensory stone is a relatively simple one, in comparison to others donated by this particular author. It contains a haunting auditory recitation of a peculiar riddle, accompanied by an eerie sense of despair throughout. It is kept in the private sensorium at the specific request of the donor.

Beneath the roots where wormwood lies,
A gnarled old soul curls up and dies,
Lost that day and not regained,
The hope that faded when betrayed.

The darkness called and has not forgot,
In your heart, that festering clot,
Desire for love, this is your hex,
Endless craving, unsated by sex.

The fires burned upon the stone,
NeÂ’er quenched; up, up it rose,
Your claws extend; hold not them back,
Behold your form! Avenge, attack!

Bleed them now; have you not seen?
A sacrifice that has never been,
Shall be again upon your heart,
Like a fierce and piercing dart.

Your end has come, it is so close,
Time to pass along the ghost,
The firstborn one, it is her place,
To put on her your mantelpiece.

Blackness glows on your remains,
Leaving only darkened stains,
Broken dreams are yours to find,
Scattered in your shattered mind.

A lick of silver in your flesh,
A name reclaimed, your final test,
In loveÂ’s form it must rise up,
Drink in full; it is your cup.

Hear, at last, the curse of yore,
Ending now and evermore,
When beneath the roots where wormwood lies,
Old Man stoops again, and cries.