Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Mith'en Cistern at the Citadel

The silver infused water was transformed
into Mith'en.

         Showers drizzled through the rafters ceiling of the long hall, filling the cistern with natural rainwater.  Each night when the moon drifted past and touched the wide pool, the silver infused water was transformed into mith’en.  The sound of thousands of droplets rushing to course together in the pool was soothing to Ry’llia.
            The Citadel was not only under cover of natural overgrowth, but there were a series of overlapping spells that had been cast upon the location, ensuring that it stayed camouflaged.  While it set the minds of the residents within at ease, it only served to constantly remind the noble lady that vigilance could never lapse, not for a second.
            In the forest, no one was safe from the eyes of the Bleak Queen.  Her power slipped through branches and limbs, playing hop-scotch amongst the shifting shadows of leaves.  When the less defended fae had started to disappear mysteriously, unrest grew amongst their population.  Who would harm the common brownie?  Yet they seemed to be getting plucked off by the droves until one-by-one they straggled to find the Cal’edhellen.
            Although every fairy had their own sort of magic, the high elves have refined and mastered the ars naturae.  There was no greater magic than what flowed in their halls.  By the codica neuma they were obligated to protect those with less - and there was no way the simpler fae could stand up to the might of the Bleak Queen to protect themselves.
            “What troubles thy brow, Amin Ry’llia?” the calm voice came from somewhere behind arched beams, here in the cistern turret.  She recognized it by sound and was unalarmed.
Even in this last bastion against the Bleak Queen
the Fae are being glamour-starved to death.
            Her finger tapped the surface of the aquasilver pool, sending a shimmering ripple to the other shore.  “What few risk their lives to reside with the resistance,” she swept her arm across the open room, “even in this last bastion against the Bleak Queen, they are glamour-starving slowly to death.”
            “Not even the greatest seers in the Verdant Forest were able to foretell these events.” offered the hidden companion.
            “It doesn’t change the fact that the Withering is killing us and we have nothing next to a clue to explain why.”  Ry’llia drew herself into composure, sitting more still than the latent ripples in the mirror-pool.  “As long as the Bleak Queen is able to sustain her dark glamour, while ours yet thins with every cycle of the moon, we all atrophy toward extinction – even she.”
            This last fact seemed particularly disturbing to the nobella.
            “The Tuatha say that the great always seek opportunities to help others.”
            “If we do not fast learn from whence her power is sourced, our shields will falter and she will kill us all for traitors to her throne.”  Tucking a caramel-roan braid behind a pointed ear, her words were very clear even in the shadows. “Murdered, we shall be able to help no one.”

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