The Stories of Svasra

[Svasra]

Svarsa writes down all the tales she hears, and tells, in the book she'd bought off a trader. Page, after page is filled with her handwriting, intermingled with a few bouts of poetry, and perhaps a couple music notes or two.

[Svasra]

The Legend of Morwen's Lights

In a land where earth didn't exist, where things are weightless, and without substance . . . lay the world of the Gods.

It was a place of stars and light, plain, and elaborate . . . everything and nothing. Within it, strode our Queen, the Goddess Morwen, on her throne one of stars and cold ice. Midst her head frolicked songs and art, beauty beyond imagining and boundless creativity. Her eyes, keen, watchful, and bright with color, held the wisdom of a thousand lifetimes and the knowledge of a thousand more. Her hand, held life and delicate ability, eager to move, eager to tell the tales of its mind. Her heart, though, where we know all things are truly born . . . was empty.

It lacked inspiration within the world she lived in, the one that would mold to her every need, the one where the Gods strolled easily and tampered with the lives of Men with their wills. It was . . . predictable.

Morwen often looked upon the world of Mizahar, where races grew and bulged, where the lands were riddled with people and cities. Often, she walked on the lands, though found it too hot within the weather of Mizahar, confined to the cool climate of the North.

It was lonely in the North though, as humans found it too cold to live midst its white expanses and ice.

One day, Morwen was once again on the land of where Avanthal would one day be, looking up into the sky where she lived. It was bleak, and dark, with only the pinpricks of faraway stars to offer any type of beauty. The pale snow that pillowed her head gave Morwen inspiration, since we know white is only all the colors combined into one. Morwen raised her hand, and let her fingertips brush the night sky, drawing them along in a jagged pattern

At first, all that trailed was white beams, twisting and curving with a spirit of them own. Slowly though, they broke apart, humming with the energy of the stars themselves, flares of various colored lights across the night sky. They were the spirit of Morwen, the very living replica of her ever-changing creativity and mind.

For a while, Morwen watched the lights, surprised at her own creation, unable to help herself as she painted a few more. Their energy was practically tangible, and when Morwen retreated back to her home, she was delighted to see that the lights were visible from the cosmic home of the Gods.

Without thinking, Morwen reached out and touched the lights, feeling the crackle of its energy over her fingers, wrapping her own spirituality. The moment she touched it though, the lights twisted on themselves, changing colors rapidly, so quickly that Morwen had to look away from the blinding white they released.

Morwen was hesitant to turn back, afraid she may have ruined to beauty she'd created. Looking back though . . . she felt the fear turn into . . . surprise. Astonished, Morwen leaned in closer. She blinked, and gently prodded the thing within the light.

It was . . . a life. A brilliant, bright soul that danced with the colors of her light and the chill of winter. Morwen saw it was without a body though, and looked around her Goddess home, though she found nothing to give it. The soul pulsed, as though calling her, and Morwen saw it draw the lights she'd created closer.

The lights. Morwen looked from the lights to earth where she knew they also flickered. Her hands, hands full of life, wonder, and color, cupped the soul in its bed of color. She blew on it, gently, and whispered, 'You are a child of Morwen, and shall live with my mark, under my lights.'

With that, she sent it to earth on the lights, using its energy to take the soul from her home in the stars, to the solid plane of earth and snow. The soul entered a budding life, born with ever-changing eyes, raised by the Goddess herself as she created more souls of the lights. The children of the Lights and Morwen.

[Svasra]

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"The Hidden Art"

Like mists clinging upon the green renewal of spring
The dazzle of snow, yet riddled with its imperfection
And a gentle lullaby just out of reach to the curious, impatient mind

The mists will lift, yet perhaps leave behind dewy wisdom
And the forgotten song will arrive at un-seeking lips

[Svasra]

.

Rytin and the Deer

The Legend of the Alchemist is one that has been passed from generation to generation. From father to daughter, mother to son, storyteller to listener. The snow swallowed him and his hut, the unknown that stretched past our protective borders. The snow has not only swallowed the knowledge of the Alchemist though ... it has swallowed many the curious mind as well.

After the Alchemist had left the city for the last time, the knowledge of his hut ran the length of Avanthal faster than the lights of Morwen. Many wanted to set out, search for it. Find the treasures, and present them to our beloved queen. When the first party failed to return, Morwen refused to send another, though many boys wanting to be men and girls looking to impress had set into the darkness as they tried to find the lost hut.

Rytin was no exception, a foolish and pompous male. At the age of eighteen he was to be married to a girl of another Hold, whom he planned to bring to the Hold of Skyglow. The people of Avanthal were prosperous, and the need to find the hut had long since sifted into the lost sands.

This woman, Jinti, had hair as black as ink and eyes that almost forever stayed their brilliant violet.
[Work in Jinti being interested in another.]
[Rytin hoped to find some sort of way to impress her?]

One day, when hunting through archives in the library in search for his ancestry record, Rytin came across a personal journal. It was of a man who'd gone searching for the hut of the Alchemist, with only his journal making it back. It wrote of dark nights and cold bones, of helplessness, and of feeling like eyes were watching him.

The allure was inevitable, and Rytin eagerly set out to find the treasure, certain if he brought it back his wife would love him all the more.
[Set out with more and a tale of their loss? Could end with Rytin alone, then "another tale for another time"]

Lost in the middle of the forest, cold, and hungry, Rytin regretted ever trying to find the Alchemist's workplace. He was turning in circles, as every tree looked the same, every shape in the snow merging into one memory. Rytin knew his strength was leaving him, and fell to his knees. He looked up to the sky where the snow had begun to fall, these perfect figures, as though done with the beauty and Skyglow and skill of Iceglaze, drifting gently down. With the intimate touch of snowflakes on his brow and eyelids, Rytin could only pray. He prayed to Queen Morwen, as his beloved ruler and revered deity. He prayed with not only his soul, but his hungered stomach, his weak limbs, and scared mind. He had gone in search of something that didn't want to be found, and now . . . all he wanted was to be found in the piles of snow.

Morwen, though busy and working, paused in her duties. She looked up in mild alarm, the ringing notes of one of her children in her mind. Our Queen smiled where she was, saying nothing to anyone as she crossed to the window, the ice wind flying through snow-white locks. 'Do not worry, my child. No harm will come to you within the world of winter, my world, yours, ours.'

Rytin, alone where he huddled underneath a tree, head resting against the bark, felt the wind play along his shoulder. It seemed to twist around him, carrying the voiceless music of Avanthal, and the pristine beauty of its song. He turned his face towards it, eyes closing, ears drinking the notes of Avanthal, thinking this was the last gift to his mortal form.

Opening his eyes though, Rytin did not see the world of shapes and shapelessness, everything and nothing. He did not see the gods' world at all, though he swore he was no longer alive. In front of him, in all of its glory and grace, stood a Frostfawn Deer. Intelligent brown eyes stared down at the helpless Vantha, who could do nothing but stare as the Frostfawn Deer's head lowered, ice-sharp horns pointed straight at his heart, seen by the light that danced midst the two of them.

To be killed by a Frostfawn Deer, perhaps protecting his young or herd, was something Rytin was not ashamed of. He bowed his own head in submission to the god-like quality of the silent Deer, who's fur was pure white and had a iridescent look in the sunlight. For a moment though, they stayed frozen, both bowed, both calm. Eventually though, Rytin glanced up, puzzled to see the deer still in the position. He rose cautiously, trying not to struggle as his limbs shuddered to respond. The Deer looked up, and trotted over, tilting its head so one of its great antlers presented itself to Rytin, who took it in his hand cautiously.

Though the ice-y appearance, Rytin found the antler bearable to hold as he straightened. The Frostfawn Deer slowly took a step forwards, forcing Rytin to follow, leaning heavily on the side of the Deer's large head as it trudged along. 'Taking me to Avanthal?' Rytin whispered as he looked to the Deer where it walked with an easy grace and confident gait. It didn't respond, though glanced at him with eyes so keen Rytin knew no knowledge would surpass such creature.

They walked for what seemed for bells, yet Rytin found strength within the presence of the Deer, whether it was from some magic or his own will was never known. Through the thickening snow, Rytin saw the shadow of a building, low and already half-disguised with its dressings of snow. 'It cannot be,' Rytin gasped as a small hut fully appeared out of the blizzard, a candle still burning in its window as though someone sat within.

His hand slipping off the antler, Rytin could only stare at the hut and take another step forwards. 'You brought me to the Alchemist's lost workshop,' Rytin said in wonder, turning to thank the Deer. He found though, it had already disappeared, silently and gracefully, back into the winter-y world in which it was home in.

No one really knows what happened to Rytin once he entered the hut, though it is rumored he lives there to this day just waiting for someone to come and find him . . . and thus share the knowledge of the Avanthal that the Alchemist had collected.

[Svasra]

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The Legend of Morwen's Orchid

Once . . . long ago . . . before our memories and pens and papers, there was a romance so strong that ours today seem like candles compared to the sun.

It began with a man; a very simple, humble man. No one knew his name, but called him The Alchemist, his title and calling. He was young, and proud, the best Alchemist of his time or the next. At the beginning, he stayed

[Svasra]

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The Lights of Morwen

This tale does not begin on the world of Mizahar, the world of the stars, or even the deep cores of darkness. It starts on a land that is ours, yet isn't. That is ingrained into the soil, the sky, and the sea, yet stands distant. That is full of secrets none of us could bear to hear. The land of the Gods.

It is, was, and will be, the place our deities reside in. From our Goddess Morwen, to the prison of Ivak. Yes, she does rule over Avanthal in a human form. In her cold beauty and warm heart. Yet, Morwen still lives in the world of the Gods, as that is the manner of such land. It spins its own threads of fates, and resides in the very essence of the Gods.

For a long time though, the land of the Gods was the only place they could stay. Mizahar was young, and under-populated, no matter the interventions of their djed. Many Gods sent life into land and sea, breathing open mouths and gently sculpting fins. Only their magic could reach the land though, as they found their bodies too full of purity and stars to fully enter the realm of mortals. Their pathway to here was narrow and poorly paved, many Gods only sending their gifts and messages.

Faith, though, does not just come in the form of rituals and spirits. It comes from belief, for it is the same. Even the most faithful followers were deeply saddened by the fact their Gods were absent, only short messages bringing His or Her word down to their ever-listening ears. They wanted to see their Gods, touch them, feel as though they could be one and the same. Know their looks, their speech, and their touch. Such is the way of mortals, many will not believe what they cannot see, no matter the force of signs and symbols.

The belief in Gods waned, as new generations claimed the insanity to believe such invisible deities, starting to give their gifts to simply the way of man. The birds were not a gift of Ewyaat, they were simply born with men to hunt. The seas did not flow with Laviku, they were there to sail upon and be explored. Winter did not come from the beloved breath of Morwen to give the earth a chance to rest itself before spring, it was the death of the earth until the relief of the warmer seasons. It was no gift, it was a curse.

Angered, the Gods attempted to shake their uncertainty, sending negative gnosis marks and brewing storms across the land. Those with negative marks though died quickly, as they didn't believe in the power of the Gods and were easily picked off. Too quickly to spread their tale. People began to notice the dying around them, and grew wary, though the atheists eagerly claimed no God would kill off their creations, they would simply prove they existed, thus it must be a plague.

The Gods held together a great meeting, coming as one in many forms. In the land of Gods shape is an idle thing, a spirit moving fluidly and yet staying the same. It is something the Gods have never been able to describe to us, and we cannot fully comprehend.

'What can we do?' one Goddess asked, Priskil, looking to the others with her wide gaze and one of the Gods that implored the others to stop the madness of attempting to drive fear into the people - they did not want to be feared, they wanted to be loved. Believed in.
'What is there to do? They do not believe in us anymore, and turn away from any anger we try to present. They blame it on the turn of the world, and give their backs to believers,' another grumbled. They argued for some time, going back and forth, the more peaceful beings coming forward to protest the means of killing off the entire population.
'Peace, my sisters, my brothers,' came a firm voice. In all their talk, many did not hear, and continued to debate. Morwen blinked her ever-changing eyes and shook her head in gentle amusement. 'Peace!' she called again. Now they turned to her.

'There is a solution to this,' Morwen said, though voices rose in a tidal wave to crash over it. 'Let me be heard!' The gods fell silent once more in respect of their own. 'They want us to prove out existence, let's just do that.'
'How?! No matter the gnosis we send. The storms we bring. It does no good!'
'Let us appear before them.' The Gods guffawed and settled in their chairs - were they there before? Not even the Gods really knew.
'How can we ever do that?' No one spoke. No one knew the answer.
'Why could try channeling all of our Djed to open another pathway,' a God piped up, looking to the others who murmured approval.
'Channeling all of ours is not simple though.'
'We need a common point.' Again, the meeting fell quiet. Funneling djed and wrapping it to one point was not simple, nor was it something stable when too much was added.
'Let us widen the path already there,' Rhaus said gently. 'We just need something to send down it. Something untouchable, but not pure djed, since it wouldn't be focused onto one point.'
'Untouchable?' Makutsi echoed. 'What is untouchable, but can travel?'
'Music,' was Rhaus' simple answer.
'We cannot all play some petty instrument,' a God snapped in irritation.
'You have a voice don't you? Do you want your followers to believe in you?' Morwen commented absently, looking to the others.

Many times Gods rivaled others, despised each other, were not linked but through competition and hate. Today though, linked by this common goal, this point, they found a brief peace.

'We can try.' Rhaus nodded, and began to play his harp. Had he brought that with him? The notes drifted gently, and Rhaus directed them down the thin channel between the world of the Gods and the land of the humans. They were thin, airy notes, not meant to be heard alone. A goddess lifted her voice in a gentle cascading hum. Another joined. A god was a deep rumbling background. They sent their voices down the path, squeezing onto the channel. Djed poured into the notes, forcing their way through. Two more voices joined, pressed against the others, straining against the confines of the pathway. Three more barreled into the music, intertwining with the notes, slipping down towards the mortal world. The singing gods focused their power into their notes, into their music, and felt a give in the pathway. A slight sigh, perhaps. One by one the gods and goddesses took up a rolling note, one without words, created by the melody of their overlapping voices. The pathway shook with their powerful song, unstable.

They knew it might simply collapse and shut off their connection completely, though if the people didn't believe in them, what was the use of being there? No matter the god, 'evil', 'good', 'dead', 'alive', they appreciated their followers, those that spread their word and their faith. They were determined, and united, perhaps the only time in the history of the stars themselves.

Morwen sat midst her family of Gods, her voice skipping lightly over the others. She felt the pathway shudder more violently as yet another voice plowed through. Their voices pressed against the walls as they all crammed in, and their djed flowed smoothly down the voices. The channel shook, it briefly squeezed, forcing the gods to push harder, trying to keep the strain out of the melody.

The channel squeezed tighter, and tried to revert to its natural shape. It creaked, whined, screamed, and its restrained flexed again. Growing smaller, the confines were forced into greater instability with the force of the djed funneled down its lane. It was on the verge of breaking, every divine being could feel it. They pushed on, now holding it up. In a brief moment though, they felt the path snap.

They quickly fell silent, breathing in the essence of their world briefly. They looked at each other. 'Did it break?' one asked quietly, and a few shrugged.
'When dreams are clear, so is the path of destruction, and the falsity of man is still present,' Nysel said. A few Gods bristled at his words, and shook their heads. They went to check the pathway.

It was there. Fully there. Yet ... it wasn't. It was as though it had burst apart, instead of collapsing. It not only opened the way, but it almost joined the two worlds. Slowly, the gods stepped through, if stepping through it really was. They appeared in various places, large, terrible, and divine.

The mortals had heard the song as it came through the pathway, horrible and beautiful, and no one was able to recall it afterwards. It froze people in the middle of their work, turned faces to the Heavens, struck fear and respect into their souls.

The gods spoke their words. They lifted their voices. They shunned those who influenced the mind of man. They showed themselves in all their celestial beauty, and praised those that were steadfast in their belief.

Morwen came to her children of the North, where Avanthal would one day be built. She smiled and looked at each of them, touching their heads, granting her gnosis to the newborns that enabled them to live in her icey world. 'Sing, my children.' From their voices, hesitant, but lovely, Morwen channeled her djed once more. It spun upwards to the clouds, higher to the very stars. She spread it out with a brush of her fingertips, painting the voices with color and beauty. Through the song of her children, the lights of Morwen were made to forever remind us of her presence.

[Svasra]

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The Tale of Colors

Some say colors are the souls of Gods infused within the earth. Others say they are the blood of Gods spilled when they fought in an attempt to find one single deity to rule Mizahar.

The one most loved though is that colors are simply an impression of our soul. Each individual one, reflected into the world around us. No two colors are the same for different people, different eyes, different spirits. What might be the most radiant purple, with the smell of rain-drenched violets and the touch of spring, might be a sickly color that only brings the scent of decay and the touch of flesh to another.

For me, the colors of Morwen are the most radiant. The flickering lights that live above us in the sky at night. The orange is the peace of a sunset, the satisfaction of a day done, the warmth of the sun and the smell of the fire. The pink is petals, soft, delicate, loving. It is the feeling of new love, friendship, and the faith of parents. It tastes of ice, plain and sweet, the loving touch of Morwen to her people. Green is peace of one's self, that settling feeling of the soul when you've come to terms with your life. Not yet pride, but there is no taint of black shame. It tastes like water, clean and pure, to clear away the imperfections you believe you have.

Yellow is beauty. The soundless beauty of the spires of Avanthal, soaring into those radiant colors, basking in their reflections. It's the heard beauty of the Snowsong's music, of the deep beauty of their tales and poems. It's the brushstrokes of Skyglow, the sculptor with his work, and the bond between Frostfawn and animal. It's the feeling of wind rushing into your hair, sharp and keen, making your ears sting, but bringing with it the refreshment you needed to breath deeply and look around you. It's appreciation of the world.

Blue is passion. The passion to embrace the sun with all its heat, and caress it as it passes through the sky into night. It's the passion of the dusk, the touch of a lover at the end of the day, and the determination of a worker to carry through the night. It tastes like the lips of a forbidden love, and feels like the surety you feel when painting.

Red is change. It's the color of transitional times, dawn, dusk, and the brightest color of Morwen. It's the knowledge of change, and the redeeming quality it can have. It tastes like the freshness of a meal you made, with your own hands and own time. It feels like the passing of time, and the brush of fabric through your hands.

That is color to me. Perhaps they would not be the same for you, but that is the beauty of them, they will never be the same.

[Svasra]

The City of Winter

We have secrets more ancient
then the ground
We have tales bigger
than our bears and gates.
Guarded in our swirling eyes
keep from prying stares.

On this snowy earth
walks our beloved queen
Who has lived lifetimes
midst the heaven's stars
She who brings the shine
within the ice

And the grace of the snow
The secret of the lights
that remind us of her gaze
Forever on the icy city
of the beloved
of the Vantha

Avanthal that belongs to
the painting of the stars
the touch of frost
and the smile
of Goddess Morwen