The golden Aurilana.

[sandcastles]

... of the woman who writes in the pages ...
~ by garlic's pond beyond Loudwater ~

Sitting upon a tree stump the elven maid is at rest, her eyes glazed over in the distant gaze of reverie. It is when the nearby fire crackles with a loud pop of sap that her expression sharpens. Amber eyes drift across the surrounds and take stock of the solitude offered. Her companions not yet returned, she knows they will not arrive again for some time. Her lips take on a whimsical smile. It is time. She leaves her pack, stave, double sword bearing baldric, bow, and boots by the stump and moves closer to the shore. She moves gracefully and uses her feet to spread the sand, making a wide swath even, shaping it to her need. Once satisfied with the swath she lightly steps away, returning to her supplies. There her delicate hands gather a velvet pouch from her pack and picks up her stave once more. Time begins to pass by as she stands there, before the sand, her eyes drifting closed, focused on an inner vision. Blood and fire call. This is the answer. What is the question? Her eyes open again, an hour past, and she turns, placing down her stave and taking up her double sword, pulling it free of the supple leather baldric that held it. The vicious weapon is large against her supple frame, yet she holds it with a sure grasp. Then with almost childlike exuberance she turns and hops, feet landing in the center of the smoothed area. She licks her lips and considers, then with a determined set she crouches and brings her hand to the bottom edge of her weapon. Blood flows along the blade as she pushes her palm against the magically keen edge and a soft gasp interrupts the still air. She holds the blade thus and lets her blood flow down the steel. Standing again she then sets to motion. I know my Art for it is born in me, and so Art I will make of it, and be as I am. She spins, the tip of her bloodied blade cutting through the sand, leaving her surrounded in a circle. Spinning again she makes a second circle, wider than the first. Both made gracefully, her eyes shut, guided by instinct. Eyes open then, she begins to write between the lines with sharp script, draconic symbols, five. A long pause, as she considers, she carefully sets down her blade, and takes the velvet pouch off her belt. Then she sheds her dress and under things to stand naked, throwing the garments beyond the circle, so that only her and the tools of her art remain within. Her body is beautifully sculpted, lines of lithe muscle encasing her slender form that is unmarred by time or mark. Freedom is being only that which we are. She bends and takes from the velvet pouch five stones, glimmering fire agates. Unto each in turn she speaks words of magic, sharp and growling, in thick draconic phrase, evincing about them roiling flame. Each she places them carefully upon the symbols etched in the sand. From the pouch she takes a vial then, which she handles with extreme caution. Her breath comes in low pants as she removes the stopper and replaces it with her finger, tipping the vial to wet her finger with the thick red liquid within. Over her heart she traces once more a sharp symbol, before she turns the vial to the sand, trickling thin lines from the symbols inwards, to herself. Her expression now is one of passion, a trance, her motions no longer graceful are made by one driven, in haste by need. She stoops to gather the last stone from the pouch, discarding the empty vial, to take up a glimmering fire opal. She holds it aloft and frees a cry into the air. I shall honor what I am, in heart, soul, and body. The echoing cry grows into growls, fierce and commanding, evincing flames about her that rage wild and hot. She points into the sky and fire blossoms above her, thick plumes that rise smokeless, made of the Art, driven by her vision. The moist sand around her feet steams. Again and again she evokes fire, as she begins to sway and twist, ever holding aloft the fire opal. Her long golden hair dances about her somehow untouched by the inferno. The fiery dance contained in the etched sand, goes on, spell after spell evinced, until with a sudden roiling conflagration, the woman wavers. Her gaze glassy she falls to her knees in the blackened sand. The last of the flames fade, leaving her bare. Cold from the fire. Time passes and rain begins to fall. She sleeps in the sand, exhausted and worn. When she wakes she sits and stares ahead for a time, focused inward. She rises then with a weak but whimsical smile on her lips once more, and moves to put on her clothes. Her movements are weak and slow, yet over time she cleans the site of her work, collecting the stones and scattering the sand charred before she departs, leaning heavily on her staff. She leaves the smoldering campfire to fade in the rain.

// as this is a public area it is possible that characters may have witnessed it, please only decide your character has done so if your character has some reason to be in the area

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~ The Fifteenth Page ~
... in elven ...

So it was in Semberholme,
Where once my mother dwelt,
Under oak and maple tall,
By water pure and still.

There I learned of things once known,
Pushed aside by loss,
For they said in Myth Drannor,
My sires line once walked.

The histories did speak to me
of Scaled Maid once true,
Auri'Amari, the Golden Flame,
Brilliant as sunset hue.

Ah what lost in days to come,
When ruin swept into,
That which is forgotten now,
For me to seek anew.

Come now far from Semberholme,
And under verdant leaves,
Here I've found the path I've sought
Since my days of youth.

Harken ye O Heart of Hearts!
Awakened now in me,
I shall be as the ones before,
Golden through and trough.

~ Along the outer edge of the page is sketched an elven woman that sprouts a vast pair of wings that fill and shade the background of the text ~

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~ the Sixteenth page ~
... in Celestial ...

Bones cold,
Walking still,
are Bitter things.

Fear those,
Betraying Death,
the Final journey.

Grant them,
Final end,
Sundered then.

~ A drawing of a decrepit skeleton sits along the inner margin, it's fingers clutching a massive tome with a tattered timeworn look to it ~

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~ Upon Page Seventeen ~
... in elven ...

My cousin dear,
Grant to me
Comfort near yet far.
Walking still
Distantly,
We are alike,
though Unique as stars.

What paths we walk
To be as this,
Beholden yet anew.
Ideals made
and found in leaves
Gilded golden truths.

Dear Celad,
O peace to me,
That I am a Heart of Hearts.
Ever that change
On whispered wind
This course is set with you.

~ the backing of the page is an etching of a wild elf, presumably the mentioned Celad ~

[Snubletraad]

Thank you very much for this.

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~ the Eighteenth page ~
... in elven ...

O, blade to me,
A truthful thing,
And so we Dance.

One turn is two,
For the length of you,
is a Double edge.

Beautiful, blade to me,
A truthful thing,
And so we Dance.

Grace kept in turn,
And traced in step.
A partners leading hand.

Stranger, blade to me,
A truthful thing,
And so we Dance.

When the path has passed,
I'll see you home,
To rightful past.

History, blade to me
A truthful thing,
And so we Dance.

Teach to me until,
Such time comes then,
When Red Tiger claims you yet again.

~ The page is decorated with tigers that prowl up the margin, interwoven with vines with scale shaped and shaded leaves. ~

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~ Upon page Nineteen ~
... in draconic ...

And so the scale of time
Like the scales that grow upon me
Are balanced to move ever patiently.

In me, of heart, and of heart,
I become more of what was before me,
And learn to shift at a different pace.

The stars shine upon the land,
Gift of the Father for all those to know,
We are not alone as we traverse these paths.

I ponder a different sense,
The kinship endured in fang and claw,
And so shall I seek once more again.

O Sinosynax of Golden Hue,
I shall come to you as a child and hope
That you shall look upon me as your own.

~ A great wyrm is drawn upon the page, though colorless, the shape of the body and long barbels that hang from its uprisen jaw suggests it represents a golden dragon ~

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~ Page Twenty ~
... in elven ...

Ever so the yearning,
Where have you gone?
My love, My dear, My sweet,
Lost in days before,
Beyond the leaves of Semberholme.

Ever so the yearning,
My love for you goes on,
My charming, My darling, My star,
Lost in days before,
Beyond home and hearth while seeking.

Ever so the yearning,
The heart has not forgotten,
The flowers, The songs, and the Promise,
Lost in days before,
When you sought to prove to me.

Ever so the yearning,
The hurt in me dwell still in anguish,
The Loss, the Blame, the Heartache,
Made in days before,
When you died for me for hoping.

Ever so the Love,
I had for you even before you went,
Seeking Proof, Seeking Honor, Seeking Heart,
For love already had,
I would have held you then.

O Dearest Alush'Arael,
May it be that peace is with you now,
In Arvandor, With the Father, With the Mother,
For you should be blessed,
And know the love I hid from you.

~ An elven man is drawn along the margin, tall and proud, wearing a circlet studded with gems and holding aloft a beautiful rose, his pose one of offering, to an unseen figure. Small stars and teardrops dapple the rest of the page ~

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The Twenty First Page
... in elven ...

So quickly have you passed me by,
Days upon days
Beyond the standing Maples
And Oaken shaded ways.
O Semberholme,
So far away,
Yet in my heart so Near.
I will soon again return to thee
And walk those paths
I hold so dear.

~ The page is decorated by lightly sketched towering oak trees along a lake shore. ~

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~ Pages twenty two through forty six are filled with writings and drawings that relate to semberholme and time spent traveling there ~

Upon Page Forty Seven
... in elven ...

Footsteps along we walk so far,
Yet again I stand so still,
Returned to thee, O journey till,
Answers found anew.

Once here we spoke,
under quiet leaves,
and told of many truths.
Now here alone I remember you,
Like a well loved gift
From my youth.

~ An etching of a wild elf adorns the bottom of the page, though the sketching is made hazy as if to be insubstantial around the edges. The elf looks quite reminiscent of one drawn on a previous page ~