I L L Y N X
take a look in the mirror - see the truth in your face


The night fell slowly, ethereal and splendid as it usually did at this magical altitude. Much to her happiness, the isle was held in a neutral temperature this evening, the sky clear and without a cloud and the winds docile despite the normal chill of Orangemoon, and while a tiny ghost of her breath can be seen as she exhales, it is most suitable to a woman who has lived many years in the snow. She hopes that the guests manage to make it here after being told to arrive in the Basin for the festivities, but its fleeting and last minute; she had learned over her years that many things do not come to be because they were never meant to, and so she will not cry over faces that do not come to honor her God.

He will know who loves him, even if it is only her and a handful of her herd who have made the venture to honor his power, to give regard to the grandeur of her people beneath his rule.

With a last look at her preparations to insure they are even and balanced and a final glance to each stand her members have provided to ensure they are prepped before stepping out into the pale blue glow of her dance circle, trotting with long golden legs to the fore of the region where most of the traffic will be arriving through. Her armor has been left at home in her cave for the evening, the woman having seen little purpose in wearing it to a party, and the darkness ripples silken across her golden spine.

Worries of what she has left behind on the earth after her conversation with Zikar and the God in question have since filtered out in her excitement, though as she assumes a position of welcoming and adorns her usual grace and arrogant stance, a thought trickles in, a dark wonder if all will go as she hopes it will this evening.

Or if death, fear, and darkness will reach them even here.


[ OOC: Thread for arrivals/general chit chatting, as well as eating of food stuffs. :3 ]

Death, rancor, and all the darker edges of life failed to consume and devour her inner workings, the lacings and plaiting of her finer edges; the Mender has always coveted, hoped, cherished, longed, and yearned for particles of jubilation instead of unwavering grief or laborious anguish, the maddening consumption of violence and villainy. The sylph had no desire to waste it on the timeless passages of what if and what could be, for once sanctioning the moment into her heedless desires and rampant ecstasy – joy, wild and effervescent, brimmed and brewed from her eternal cup of elation, spilling over the boundaries of her soul until she was seemingly lit on its wondrous fire. The midst, the mist, the surroundings beckoned, and she was coaxed, a moth to a flame, a spirit to a kindred artifact, into the labyrinthine concoctions of their unearthly void. Made angelic by the hymns bursting from her lungs, from her softened mouth, from her eager smile, her petal soft footsteps lingered over the wispy threshold as a nymph, as a laurel, as a sienna plume in the midnight oil. Blossoms and blooms, gathered from the few vestiges of unwavering flowers still remaining, held aloft in a circlet, a crown, along her ears, dangling and brushing over her brow in a dainty whirl and twirl of sprite, fairy, and pixie essence. Like a child of the trees, of the wood, of the flourishing copse and all of its beatific riches, she slipped into the boundaries of gods and goddesses as a reverent being, dancing a fine tune to the ease, to the sway, to the rhapsody of her otherworldly possessions. She sang and she hummed, she breathed radiance, she craved idle musings, the beckoning summons of others, to relish, to enjoy, to taste, the token bits levity, zest, and passion had to offer. Eyes aglow, body enlightened, she prayed into the balm and alms of benedictions and invocations, asking, begging, pleading, for an endless, ardent evening filled with bliss, with enchantment, with revelry, and not the unspoken threats gathering in the shadowed boundaries.

They followed the dainty precipice, the divine raptures, until they were soaked in its wild candor, another being chased and bitten by the beatific. Summoned and taken for the joviality, the amusement, the festivity, she slid into the beaded, glowing world, undimmed and undaunted by the steady glow of their amble bliss. Illynx was spotted nearby, a golden presence amongst the shadowed oils and twilight ambience – though the aurora’s horizon would have been perfection for the backdrop, for the scenery, of their vivid dances and glorified hallelujahs, the world was beautiful here too – and she moved towards the Lady, apparent and vivid in her floret coronet, in her undaunted, unmoving grin. “Evening!” Bold and valorous, she stole glances towards the opening wings, pondering and wondering how many were to follow the sketches of their patterns and invitations, how many would be emboldened by the heights and fanciful folds, the crisp, autumn enlightenment of a Gods’ celebration and the wondrous things in between.

Deimos’ version of entertainment ranged from warfare to bloodshed, and with none currently in sight, he took his time in wandering along the trivialities of deities and heavens. If it were possible, his impassive, reticent features appeared even more distant, unyielding, and dispassionate, paying no credence to the unwinding reverence of their chieftain God or regarding the splendor. He held no intentions of dancing, savoring D’art’s wares, or partaking in any sing-along. The glowing mushrooms were ignored, the passionate display of tapestries and fabrics were disregarded, and the wholesome charities of newcomers with invitations at hand were spurned. The beast, the demon, the infidel, sought comfort in the things he knew; veils, desecration, mutiny, and revolution. Instead of drawing himself amongst the shadows, into the mist and depths (perhaps pretending he wasn’t there altogether, disappearing the moment another turned their head), the Reaper maneuvered carefully amongst the entryway – too far to be considered anything more than a marble-cast statue, a fixture of the forgotten décor, a deadly, writhing, nefarious piece eager for temptation to be waylaid. A protective beacon along the charades and follies; as the children of the Basin wound, laced, and plaited their way through merriment and decadence, his pernicious stature would ensure their security, their safeguarding, their defense. A part of his soul, the blackened, nefarious bits (large and imposing, gathering close to the dark, chiseled-out heart), almost yearned for an opportunity to maim, to distort, to destroy some ridiculous, foolish wanderer who dared to trespass, or remained completely oblivious. The latter notion alone kept him along his place, piercing, penetrating blue eyes staring upon the aperture, daring, challenging, provoking, and goading the scenic venue, a chance to spill ichor in the wild essences of throngs and serenades. It’d be the only tune worth hearing: the pull of his sword, the sweep of demise.

[Literally just standing near the entryway in case tomfoolery is about. ;D]