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Crow's Honour: A Ritual of Power
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In which a faithful crow of the Murder honours K'ian Doim and his Aspects.

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Cast (in order of appearance)
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Arianor, a Blacktalon druidess
Lhiannan, Queen of the Slaugh
A Willowisp, of Faethorn
Crow, Great Spirit of the Glomdoring

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| Scene One |
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Dusk approaches. Ethereal Glomdoring sussurates imperceptibly, the air filled
with a subdued hush thrumming in expectation of the coming night. The Master
Ravenwood towers protectively in the semi-darkness, every twig and leaf
resonating with the subtle song of the wyrd, murmuring atavistically of growth
and life.

Pulsing with unexpected energy, the Master Ravenwood throws off glimmering
motes of light. Within the glow, a shadowcaster faeling steps forth, wielding a
gnarled cudgel in one hand and a golden sickle in the other. An ebony satchel
has been slung over her right shoulder.

She glances up at the skies, then wends her way surefootedly through the
darkened woods, her feet treading a well-worn path. Before long, she nears the
form of Lhiannan Shee-Slaugh, who stands amidst the trees surrounded by
Daughters of Night, Shadow, and Darkness.

ARIANOR. (as she approaches) Greetings, Queen of the Slaugh.

LHIANNAN. (tilting her head regally) You seek me with a purpose, child?

ARIANOR. (sinking into a deep curtsey) Lady, I come to ask a favour.

LHIANNAN. Ask.

ARIANOR. I wish to honour Brother Crow on the Moonless night imminent. If it is
not impertinent, I request the attendence of a fae serving their tah'vrai, that
K'ian Doim may partake of Mother Night's power.

Lhiannan regards the druidess with glittering eyes, appearing to weigh up the
faeling's intent. Arianor shivers involuntarily under the pressure of the gaze,
but keeps her head bowed in a pose of silent supplication.

LHIANNAN. Mother Night sees all, Arianor.

She pauses, then pulls a scarab from her airy robes of black.

LHIANNAN. This pleases Her. Take this scarab as a symbol of Her blessing, that
the fae which you seek will know of their obligation.

ARIANOR. (dipping her head and rising) Thank you, Lady.

She receives the scarab with both hands, then performs a brief curtsey and
exits.

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| Scene Two |
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Faethorn lies quiescent, the singing of birds in the gently lowering light a
soft murmuring that speaks of peace and content. To the south, the white mists
that swirl within an archway of thorns churn with a sudden energy. The eddies
intensify briefly, then settle as Arianor steps out of its depths, moving
purposefully towards the center of Faethorn.

She pauses for a scant moment, pursing her lips in thought, before grasping a
low branch and pulling her slight form into the trees.

A ball of light floats in from the northwest.

ARIANOR. (lips curving in a slight smile) Greetings, little one.

WILLOWISP. Ah.. Is it time for my tah'vrai?

ARIANOR. Mother Night awaits your promised period of service under Her shroud.

WILLOWISP. (uncertainly) I.. that is..

ARIANOR. (silkily) You are, of course, not thinking of leaving your tah'vrai
unfulfilled.

WILLOWISP. No, no, of course not. It's just that it is said that Mother Moon
will shelter and give us sanctuary in her light.

ARIANOR. And what do you know of Moon's light?

WILLOWISP. As much as I know of Mother Night's darkness. I have stayed in
Faethorn all my life.

ARIANOR. And have you gained much knowledge and experience of the world, having
stayed here?

WILLOWISP. Only that which is to be known in Mauve's realm.

ARIANOR. (quietly) Only in Mother Night's cold embrace will you learn the ways
of the world beyond, little one.

WILLOWISP. But I am content here.

Arianor studies the willowisp broodingly for a moment, then raises her arms,
encompassing all that can be seen of Faethorn.

ARIANOR. What will happen when strife comes upon you in this place, knowing of
nothing else as you do? You are content now, but what would you know of those
who would ruthlessly use you and your kin to serve their own purposes? What
have you seen of the horrors that the cosmic planes of Nil and Celestia can
work upon fae such as yourself? Ahh, such delusions, little one, thinking
yourself untouchable and entitled to a life of peace. There is so much that you
do not know.

The willowisp trembles slightly, and the druidess, sensing weakness, presses
on.

ARIANOR. You say that you would allow Mother Moon to protect you, to shelter
you within her light. But Moon has many faces, and her power waxes and wanes
like the wants of a fickle child. When you desire her light, she might not
shine, and her favour is neither absolute nor everlasting. You learn nothing
when cocooned from the world, nor grow in any way when all that you know is of
empty joy. What use is contentment and happiness when you find yourself beset
in Faethorn, with the world invading upon your sanctuary? Tell me.

WILLOWISP. I.. do not know. It is not something that I have given thought to.

ARIANOR. Then it is best you do so, and quickly. Your naivety and innocence is
no protection from the vagaries of happenstance. Mother Night will teach you
what you need to know, and in your tah'vrai give you the experience and
knowledge you would not otherwise gain, here or in Moon's false light.

She extends a hand, the scarab in her palm.

ARIANOR. Come with me, little one. Only in adversity does the spirit grow
strong.

The willowisp tinkles a whisper of a sigh, then floats into the faeling's arms.
Wispy tendrils of shadow reach out from the scarab to encircle the ball of
light, wrapping it in a fine web of darkness.

ARIANOR. (glancing up into the rapidly darkening sky) You will serve Mother
Night by buoying Brother Crow's wings tonight.

WILLOWISP. (in a subdued tone) As you wish.

Arianor pulls open the lip of the satchel and guides the willowisp inside, then
sets off towards the archway of thorns. Stepping into it, she exits.

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| Scene Three |
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Mother Night descends upon the Basin, casting a cloak of shadows across the
land as her bright counterpart recedes beyond the horizon, taking with Him the
last reluctant ribbons of light. Discordant cawing echoes through the twisted
trunks of the Glomdoring with the onset of twilight, shards of obsidian cunning
glittering in anticipation from within the darkened foliage as a murder of crows
settle into the treetops. Leaves eddy and hiss as the wind whispers through the
forest, silken cords of chill caressing bared skin with the faint, playful
promise of intimacy.

Arianor stands beneath the Master Ravenwood Tree, eyes raised to the
intertwined boughs and the glimpses it affords of starless skies.

ARIANOR. (satisfaction flickering briefly in her eyes) The heavens are
unblemished by the false rays of Moon this night.

Carefully hitching up her satchel, she springs into the air and weaves her way
upwards into the canopy, navigating the dense branches with practiced ease.

Crow comes into view, head cocked in such a way that the single crimson eye is
fixed on Arianor's approaching figure.

ARIANOR. (bowing her head as she stops before Crow) I stand before you, K'ian
Doim, beneath the protective shroud of Mother Night, and once more surrender
myself to your embrace.

Crow caws once in acknowledgement, stretching out his four wings. The
intangible shadows of feathers swirls around the faeling's form, making her
shiver with delight.

ARIANOR. May his all-seeing Eye strip the veils of uncertainty and misdirection
that surround me, and guide me ever onwards towards the path of Truth.

Dropping the satchel on the branches before her and kneeling, she raises her
sickle and makes a single, decisive slash along her arm with the honed inside
edge. Stained black by the night, droplets of blood splatter the leaves and
soak the fabric of the satchel with coppery darkness.

ARIANOR. (in a carefully even tone as she straightens up) The blood within my
veins flows for Crow. The spirit within my body burns for Crow. The
consciousness within my mind worships Crow.

ARIANOR. (voice rising in reverence) Crow knows all, encompasses all, is all.
Glory be to him who guides us with his unimpeded sight!

In the trees of the forest, crows answer with in a cacophony of screeches and a
flurry of wings, dark shapes and bright eyes darting through the treetops.

Fingers slick with blood, she pulls open the mouth of the satchel, cupping her
hands. A ball of light coalesces between the curves of her palms, the bells of
the willowisp chiming faintly.

ARIANOR. (steadily) In honour of Blood Thirst, I deliver to K'ian Doim a fae
who has pierced the insidious lies of Moon and wishes to serve tah'vrai within
the shadows of Mother Night's wisdom.

With a soft murmur and flick of the wrist, she sends the fae towards the aura
of shadows around Crow, which retreats for a moment before encasing it with
tenebrous tendrils of dusk.

ARIANOR. Blood Thirst teaches us to harness our hunger to serve Crow. Without
control, we are as nothing, directed only by a primitive, unthinking desire. We
may wish for Faethorn, but we will not carelessly overstep our boundaries. Let
the greed of our enemies be their downfall. Crow will wait patiently in the
shadows to feast upon their remains.

The druidess picks up the satchel and cradles it in her hands, tipping it as if
pouring out something within.

ARIANOR. In honor of Black Sorrow, I bring back under Brother Crow's wings a
shadow of his children.

As she tilts the bag further, a shadow spills from the lip, pooling momentarily
into the shape of the crow before it darts forward to join the darkness at
Crow's feet.

ARIANOR. Black Sorrow teaches us to turn our innate anguish to our advantage.
As the wandering shade only requires our intervention to rejoin the greater
flock and fully realize its potential, we must seize our despair and make it
our strength, lest we be consumed by it. Let others suffer the burden of their
grief, unrelenting and unceasing, manipulated to our ends. Crow will master
misery and show us true power.

She reaches into the satchel again and pulls out an ebony feather, glossy with
a sheen of mauve.

ARIANOR. In honor of False Memory, I return to Brother Crow one of his
feathers.

Arianor stands and holds out the feather. Crow reciprocates her action by
extending a single wing, a slight ruffling of the pinions revealing a barely
visible break in the smooth plumage. She ceremoniously places the feather over
the gap, and it melds seamlessly with its fellows as the great bird folds back
its wing and is flawless once more.

ARIANOR. False Memory teaches us to focus on our victories, for it is those
that matter most to Crow and the Glomdoring. Why dwell on our weaknesses, our
defeats? It is not those who will allow the Dark Forest to triumph over its
foes. Crow will show us the unquestionable Truth, as seen through his Eye, and
liberate us from the twisted histories written by those without the benefit of
his sight.

Trembling slightly, she empties the bloodied satchel upon the branches. A
globule of swirling shadow tumbles from the soaked black folds, a concentrated
ball of dark miasma that eddies with an insidious energy.

ARIANOR. In honor of Dark Spirit, I offer up to Brother Crow an essence of the
Glomdoring's power.

Crow cocks his head to one side and regards it with one scarlet eye, before
returning his piercing gaze to the faeling's form. With a flash of beak faster
than the eye can follow, he spears the twilit sphere and swallows it whole.

ARIANOR. (returning Crow's gaze for but a moment) Dark Spirit teaches us not to
defile the magnificence of the spirit of Crow and the Glomdoring with our
misgivings and doubts. Our absolute belief and steadfast conviction is the only
way we can serve the Dark Forest with our entire being, the best way to fully
utilize Crow's unhampered vision and guidance. Crow will show no mercy for even
the merest shred of skepticism, for nothing matters but Glomdoring.

Arianor kneels upon the cloth soaked with her lifeblood, fanning out her
faintly iridescent wings to their fullest, even as Crow mirrors her actions and
spreads his four wings out wide.

ARIANOR. (voice marred slightly by fatigue) With these tributes of power, I
reaffirm my loyalty to Crow. Though this ritual ends, my faith and trust in
Crow and the teachings of His Aspects persists to the end of eternity, as I
serve and strive together with our beautiful commune towards the inevitable day
Brother Crow, Mother Night and the glorious Glomdoring conquers the Basin of
Life.

She throws her head back and lets an exultant caw rip from her throat. Pulsing
with a palpable aura of mauve-tinged darkness, Crow screeches and takes off in
a turbulent whirlwind of feathers and leaves, joined by his murders in
vociferous cries of triumph as the scene is blotted out by night-black flurries
of crows.