Ceyraia Dasuyri the Flaring Essence, Sunwarden of Thar-Eris

Role

Chapter 6

You snap from from slumber only to be greeted in darkness.
Canticles of dark rituals can be heard. A rasp voice unseen.
Your body is cold. Shivering and frozen. Limp and idle.
A sensation, however, can be felt as the hours pass.
A painful poisons erodes at you. You can feel your very
pores oozing your stamina away. The agony progress for a
time. This may be the most torturous death you've encountered.

The dark voice is heard once again..

Everything becomes confusing. Everything you just felt forgotten.

Then one word can be heard.

"Die!"

Role

Chapter 5

A sudden rush of knowledge fills you.

Your body feels strong. Your stamina healthy. As
you come to your senses you quickly scan each way
and bolt to your feet.

Something isnt right.

"Careful now, Elyrnia. You are in Darsylon."

You look around to realize this is correct. But how?

Your words confused, "I just feel out of place. How am I
here? Where is my party?"

You try hard to recollect your thoughts. You were outside
the Keep west of Balatore. Tending to the battlewounds
from an epic fight with Centurions of the most noteable
empire.

"You are here by.. luck. Perhaps fate. I'm uncertain how
you survived. My Lord, would say strength. But I know you
dont exactly follow his tenants.."

You continue to think but come to no conclusion.

"My question is left unanswered I fear."

... "You were given to me in critical condition. A young
woman, perhaps a druid or ranger--I'm uncertain--brought
you to me. I began immediately within the guildhall here
energies."

"Who brought me? Where are the others..?"

"A young woman. As I said. She didnt look native to this
area. She looked like, no offense, like a barbaric elf.
One of those who shun many of us...gliding as if on wind."

"And the others?"

"The various Guildmasters here have tried hard to locate
them. Only their bodies could be found.. their vitalty
also seems to have met their ends.."

Role

Chapter 4

You are sitting underneath a large tree in the Vale south
of the city of Darsylon. Tears streaming down your cheek.
A sense of fear. A sense of lose. A sense of betrayal.
You were a Commander. A leader. A fighter. You feel as if
you wished death had taken you. To die fighting for
what you believed in. Rather than receiving defeat and
not dying as the rest of your friends did.

You lift your head at that shout from some young male
voice. You pull yourself to your feet trying to regain
a sense of who you are. But you are left in a presenation
of a very confused elf with no sense of direction or idea.
Perhaps a first in your entire life.

"Come to the center!"

For some reason you listen to the male voice. And take to its
call.

Role

Chapter 3

"She nurtures all. Whether you want to see it or not. unfortunately,
people have become so civilized and live a life of conformity they
have begun to forget. Its hard to enjoy life when you cant truely live!"

You think to yourself on his statements and respond with, "I agree with
a lot of what you have said."

"You've been touched by some of the darkest energies. Defilement
the Goddess hates. I came upon the slaughter and noticed something
about you."

.."Icuhn, What is that..?"

"I sense life in you. A fertile beginning. A new hope. A blessing.
Your time had not come as you are on the brink of having a child!"

You are completely taken back. What?

Role

Chapter 2

We lived with the Druid Icuhn, in the vale of Arendyl, south of
Darsylon. I was tasked with working the earth, tending the shoots,
developing the growing plants, and harvesting the mature fruits
of the garden. Mother helped Icuhn, for he was old even in
Darsylonian years, and became his hands. They ranged the wildlands,
protecting the life there, making offerings to the Gods and Ancients
of the wild, deep places, and keeping vigil upon the defiling forces
that would threaten our home: the necromancers from the Galadonian
guild, the undead shambling down the slopes of Calandaryl, the
minotaurs hailing upon slave ships from the Sea of Despair... all
affronts to the Goddess, the Mother of our natural world.

Icuhn grew old and passed on, his spirit entering the Dream for
another long turn of the Cycle, he said. Mother took his place:
the years and Icuhn's example had given her a new vocation, a new
place to set down roots, to protect. We both knew it was my time
to go. The squash we hadn't eaten were drying, hanging from the
doorjamb, three-quarters of the summer wheat had been ground and
sealed in jars, and we had eaten the last of the tomatoes,
wrinkled and sour-sweet at this dark-golden Autumn day. I took my
Scythe, a pouch of waybread baked with vegetables I had planted
from seed and harvested. Mother kissed my scythe's wooden blade
and murmured one last blessing of battle upon it, and kissed my
forehead as I left.

It was my time to hunt, just as she did all those years ago. I
can still hear her whispers in my ear... just like when we were
stargazing all those years ago: Whether we see each other in this
life or among the Stars, the Goddess holds us both close. This
I know.

Role

Chapter 1

The halls have been barren of presence these days. Silent and still.
The altar is cold and lifeless. Fitting for the Altar of Death. Yet
I yern to sharpen my skill with the Crone. I raise my scythe often.
Sometimes in a swift motion I cull the weeds and hear ravens caw
oft in the distance. His wings flapping with great acceleration as
he takes the defiler to where it is he goes. The great beyond.

More often I find myself striken in great agony against the defilers.
My life choked. And for a moment I feel myself void and lifeless. Again
the flapping of Ravens wings can be heard. But here, of late, I find silence.


The time of transition has been upon this Temple. The Goddess riding the winds
of change. The time between. Raven's dominion. Even during such I endure, as
the mother of the Circle of Season would teach. The three Aspects are vital to
me as a Black Robed Witch of the Coven of Amaranthe.

While I focus primarily on the Rede of Death. I embrace the Three. And to a
degree, a fourth and silent Aspect. Though that one seems to be mysterious.
As it should be--or so I believe. In such, i continue my hunt and through
experience learn until the Crone might take to my mind and offer what wisdom
she bears. I'll learn as I can as time progresses.

My hunt has been interesting throughout my life. I felt incredibly agile and
offensive when younger. The use my polearms proved excellent for offense
and defense. The greatest achievement I can recall from even before I specialized
was when I was culling the magics and zombies within the Arkham crypts.

While pressing on our rafts to find rest over the Open sea we saw a boat headed
our way bearing a single magician. Though his name was not well known I could
discern he was a Necromancer. Perhaps he was doing the magic bidding of whoever
finds glory in the corruption they cause within the crypts? I knew not. What I
did know was that my polearms unspecialized would do little. I needed full out
offensive melee to cut this one down.


My group got riled. They, too, wished to kill this magician of blasphemious
magics. Two boats darted off faster than me to him. I tried to call them back.
For there is great danger in tampering with a death-mage. Their magics are
designed to corrupt and defile. They ignored me. And I heard pleasure
from the dark being in the distance. Tsvaris was slept. By the time I found
way I could see his body limp and covered in a incredibly infectious scourge.
The death-mage was fast. He tried to utter incantations that would make me
slumber. But I was resistant. I prayed to Amaranthe and was solid in my
stance to face and defeat this great defilement.


His failure to slumber me was greeted by the lashing of my flail in my
mainhand and some cuts from a sword in my ofthand. I felt this would be
the best way to lash and slice at him. And it succeeded. This will remain
that I despise above all. Raven came and then, Raven, flew.

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