A collection of Lantra's Memories in the Fonts

Purity:
The statue of Lantra, the White shines with immaculate light as an immaculate stone basin slowly fills with luminous waters from the Font of Purity.
"Drink," a calm, feminine voice echoes through the chamber, "and know of the Soul, and that which must be defended against all corruption."
 
You can hear the shy smile in Rhapsody's voice as She beckons: "I want to show you something." When the winged Goddess lifts Her voice in song, your heart stirs, as it always has, to hear even a memory of the Song of Creation. And yet, you sense something new to its melody: an aching sweetness, a latent strength that uplifts the spirit with the rise and fall of each note from Rhapsody's lips. You are startled to recognize this healing power, for it is an echo of your own. How long had this Goddess watched you, to understand your arts so intuitively and convey them in Her song? "You... inspired Me," Rhapsody admits, breathless in Her confession. There were those of the Hamadhi who believed that Dynara would tie two souls to one another with the strings of Fate, entwining them together for an eternity. You had never given much credence to the notion. Until now.
 
Zvoltz names the First Circle Elders whom shall serve the Hamadhi, and with Dynara's departure, each undertakes tending the half-formed of a single unfinished creche. Carsini tends to Shallamar, Eventru to Celestia; countless others serve even further, far-off planes. Amberle alone stands apart as these appointments are made, and you alight beside Her, concerned. "Have you no creche to tend to?" you ask, and Amberle merely laughs, shaking Her head. "Lantra, I shall tend to them all, wherever I am needed," She says warmly. "For you see, I could never choose among them." Of course, you realize with clarity and shame; Hers has always been a boundless love, freely offered to all living things. "Worry not, Lantra," Amberle comforts you. "Together, We shall finish Dynara's work." She clasps your hand in Hers, and the Goddess's sense of hope and optimism radiates through you, shining like sunlight on the sea.
 
Maylea murmurs, Her fingers cradling the star lotus as it raises high above the still waters, "I have been painting this bloom for many weeks, and each week that I return, its radiance grows. Its colour is like starlight itself in the black of night." Her voice carries a hint of wonder, and you think back to how you first discovered the flower blooming within the depths of Keph's lair, cleansing the muddy waters. "To think," Maylea continues, "such beauty is found in a place such as this, even in the darkest, most unforgiving of places." Maylea lifts Her golden eyes, which gleam full of admiration as She finishes, "That is the bloom's character, Lantra: beauty in adversity." And strength, you think to yourself. Like life that persists even before the face of death, or like a star that twinkles alone in the darkness. You hold it close to you always, for it is a light for when all other lights go out.
 
"Is it my time yet, Lantra?" Raziela's voice calls. Always the half-formed ask you this, but never are you able to answer when. It could be tomorrow, or in hundreds or thousands of years. Only Dynara truly can say. "Not yet, young one, but soon," you say instead, smiling. You study her with warmth and affection - perhaps with time, you may come to see the patterns that Eventru claimed were already made manifest in each nascent Elder. Raziela's expression turns radiant with delight at your words, and you turn to the Lord Exalted as you muse upon these thoughts, saying, "Perhaps one day We will be able to help Dynara - to nurture the half-formed alongside Her." If only you knew how such a simple statement would predict countless aeons of laborious work that would end, inevitably, in failure.
 
Mother names you Lantra, and says that you were born to restore that which would be broken in this world. "Where there is death," She tells you, "there shall always be life, too." She does not ask you to follow Her, and yet Her song is irresistable, compelling you across the planar sheaths to witness the birth of thousands upon thousands of Star Gods. Many Elders stay to watch Their siblings be born, but Their interest fades once Mother leaves Their creche for another; of those who remain, few watch as intently as you. You Elders who follow Dynara to the far reaches of the world become kindred spirits, tasked to understand the balance between all things. You call yourselves the Hamadhi.
 
"Our healing mounds reflect Us," you explain to Elfenehoala as you wander the ethereal plane of Daiev Mamornhai together. "Who We are, how We work. It is important - without being in tune with these places, We cannot hope to tend to the gravest of wounds with sufficient power." Pausing almost reverently, you take Her hand in yours, recalling the awakening of Moon and how She shone beside Her sister, Lisaera, radiant in this intimate act of Creation. "Being close to My friends is important to Me, Elfenehoala; it is what gives Me strength." Together you stop and stand before a magnolia tree that blossoms with brilliant ivory petals, where the Goddess Maylea joins you with a gentle smile. An odd ache fills you at the memory - a hot flash of anger, intermingled with sadness and regret - and without warning, the vision is abruptly thrown into darkness
 
"I envy you," you sigh to Rhapsody as the winged Goddess holds you in Her arms. "There are many times I wish for your gift to uplift spirits with words alone. I... rarely know what to say to those who despair." You shudder at the memories of the bodies on your healing mound, mangled beyond all recognition by the Soulless. What comfort could you or anyone offer those left behind? As if sensing your distress, Rhapsody draws closer to you and silences your doubts with a kiss. "You are the Light of My Soul," She says with conviction. "You uplift Me every moment of each day. If I am able to lift the hearts of others, Lantra, it is surely due in part to the love you bear Me! Do not doubt yourself." Even now as She smiles at you, Rhapsody makes it appear so effortless, this genuine outpouring of compassion that cannot be taught, no matter how diligently you study. You marvel at Her, that such a selfless Goddess would love you.
 
Devotion:
The statue of Lantra, the Blessed Mother shines with ardent light as an immaculate stone basin slowly fills with luminous waters from the Font of Devotion.
"Drink," a calm, feminine voice echoes through the chamber, "and know of Faith, and that which guides a purposeful existence."
 
How long had it been you drifted upon clouds of white, watching as Mother drew Rhapsody into form? How many aeons ago did you watch Her grow, small at first, calling you Elder, though you were so young yourself? How long ago was it She departed Her creche, shedding off infant essence and form, molting into a beautiful young Goddess? And when had She first begun to mimic Mother's song, and learned to sing it so sweetly? All the other Keepers of Song have left Celestia, having failed to restore the Supernals with their chorus of the Song of Creation. She alone has not abandoned you. "Do not give up hope, Lantra," Rhapsody says, pressing a kiss upon your cheek. "I have faith in you." The warmth of Her touch lingers long after.
 
You concentrate upon the familiar scent of moss and you chant your healing words before the stone altar; in response, vines flower over the stone and the domothean crystals pulse with auron energies. Hajamin winces, but you reassure Him: "It is a shallow wound." Even so, healing one of the Golden Circle is a task the Firsts entrust to few; to fail here would be to lose that trust. "My blade hesitated," Hajamin admits, to Himself more than you. "Hunting the wild Half-Formed is... a task I do not relish." His eyes implore you for penance, for He is not like Shikari, who glorified in the bloodshed and the slaughter. Your heart breaks for Him. "Not all suffering can be avoided," you say gently. "But at least I can spare yours."
 
You have spent all of your life pursuing the Song of Creation, and in the icy chill of its sudden absence, you fear you shall spend the rest of your life chasing it still. You shrink into the starlit mists of your creche like a newborn child, closing your eyes and ears to the unbearable silence. It is Darvellan who discovers you cloistered in solitude. Of all your siblings, after all, only the Navigator could have found you here. "The Hamadhi have called for you, Sister. They seek your wisdom." There are many Elders who wept in one another's arms, or who sought to rid Their fury in rampant destruction, but your brother offers you neither pity nor chastisement. Instead, the Navigator extends a hand and offers you purpose: "They will not begin without you." And for the first time, but not the last, He leads you away from the darkness and into the bracing light.
 
More have joined the Hamadhi at Eventru and Amberle's behest, the initiates circled around Raziela as she smiles upon you with absolute trust. The Lord Exalted nods to you to begin. "Watch," you say to the initiates quietly. One by one you place the domothean crystals in the air above Raziela, channeling ribbons of energy into them; each glows and spins in place. Seven in all, each crystal floats with purpose and shifts in colour. "As We know," you say, "there are seven points of energy associated with each immanidivinus etherea. Utilizing these crystals - look, here - they synchronise with this energy point. Were there some affliction, We could manipulate the flows of energy. Restore them to their proper order." Dorgori and Weiwae watch you work in silence, but the one called Malmydia corners you with questions, as a hawk might a mouse. No matter your patient answers, they never satisfy Her.
 
"To the Crimson Eyes! To the Hamadhi! A toast to victory!" Kalikai cries, lifting Her firemead as She celebrates the aftermath of a successful battle. Your sense of unbelonging among the Second Circle is acute and painful, so despite yourself, you drink. Immediately you remember why you do not: liquid anger pounds through your skull, intermittent visions of carnage and death flashing in your mind like a distorted memory crystal. Fury courses through you at the empty laughter of your cousins, and before you can stop it, your silent judgments are given voice. "A victory," you scoff, as if the word itself appalls you. "Elders were lost today, Kalikai, and We celebrate Their fall?" Silence descends. Abruptly you are led away from the festivities, and Crumkane faces you squarely. "There can be pleasure in forgetting," He says, not unkindly. "There is no reason to deny yourself that release." Even now, you don't know how.
 
Fury flashes in Loboshi's eyes as you approach, and the injured Goddess growls in warning. "Thax is right," She snarls. "You Hamadhi are all weak!" Even the shape of Her words has changed since Volkh's death, each now a dagger poised to strike. You remain calm, imploring that She needs healing. But it is Czixi's soft, yet hard-edged plea -- "Loboshi. Please." -- that convinces Her Sister to relent into your care. When your work is done, Loboshi's rage and sorrow remain an open wound. You know it well. So you whisper an incantation into your lotus flower's petals, watching it blossom into radiant, rainbow hues, and hand it to Her. "This lotus bears healing properties," you say. "Know that even in the darkest place, light may yet be found, and blossom anew." Loboshi takes it from you and says nothing, vanishing without a word of gratitude. You are told Her shards bear Her grief and Her anger to this day.
 
Your quiet plea causes Keph to shake with laughter, rippling through the caverns like an avalanche as you stumble backwards. Your hand falls upon a single star lotus, your only light in the darkness; shaking, you clutch the luminous blossom close, like a candle. "Lantra of the Third Circle, I know of You," Keph hisses. "You speak of the plight of the half-formed, but that is not why you seek Me. You wish to become Dynara. You wish to understand Her Creations, that you might walk in Her footsteps. Yet this is folly, and the path to Your ruin." The star lotus in your hands illuminates the Primal's monstrous face as She chuckles bitterly. "We are reborn from darkness into light, and that light fades to darkness again. All is rebirth," Keph says. "You chase Your mother's shadow and search for answers that do not exist." She winds Herself into the earth, Her reprimand echoing in Her absence.
 
 
Fortitude: 
The statue of Lantra, the Lady Mediatrix shines with soothing light as an immaculate stone basin slowly fills with luminous waters from the Font of Fortitude.
"Drink," a calm, feminine voice echoes through the chamber, "and know of Hope, and that strength which refuses to be extinguished by despair."
 
It takes you a moment to process Carsini's stern words: the mad half-formed must be slaughtered, to prevent further devastation. Doubt fills you as you look to Amberle for an answer, but She only turns away in pained silence and acceptance. "Carsini is right," She says at last. "There is nothing more We can do for the lost ones, except to end their suffering." The senseless destruction weighs down your heart, but you learn to steel yourself against it. There are others you might yet save; you cannot spend your time grieving the fallen. "Lead Me where you require Me, My First," you say, bowing as you step forward. The others follow your example as Amberle leads you away, but for a moment you meet Eventru's gaze, and a silent apology passes between you.
 
Meridian's screams of anguish pierce the air as Eventru and Carsini stand transfixed, lost to the spectacle of horror that is the slaughter of Their Circle. Amberle, the gentlest of the Firsts - no, your First - has fallen. Everything slows as your body glides on pure instinct towards Meridian, calling for the other Hamadhi to tend to Him at your side. Your leaders have gone. Like Aslarn, you must ascend to Their place. As you reach for Meridian, you receive a glimpse into His link with Amberle; with no healing mound, His raw pain is absorbed as your own. A primal terror fills you as the Soulless's endless hunger flashes into your mind, vast and insatiable. Long after, you weep in Rhapsody's arms, still unable to shake this infinite dread and sorrow that is not your own.
 
"Thax! That is quite enough!" Meridian thunders, rushing to your side as you scream in pain. Like all Hamadhi, you were meant to learn the art of warfare and study it alongside the Seconds so that no more healers would be ambushed in the Elder Wars. When Thax had charged towards you with His spear, though, the loathing in His eyes was unmistakeable. "You tasked Me with teaching Her," He sneers, wrenching His blade from your shoulder. "Is She so weak as to be unable to bear the lesson?" Thax had called you that before, hadn't He? Weak. You cradle your wound, glaring up at Him as anger courses through you like holy flame. After the other Hamadhi have tended your injuries and you return, Thax is nowhere to be seen. Instead, it is Hajamin who greets you to spar. Neither of you speak of the incident, but when He asks you to wield a weapon, without hesitation you claim the spear. You will master it, as you have mastered all other pain. You swear it.
 
Rhapsody sacrifices Her voice mere days before Zenos claims Her. Yet the world is too cruel to even let you grieve, and as more wounded rush in, you veil yourself in mist to shroud your tears. You must harden yourself, until you finally feel nothing; such distractions risk only further suffering. "You need not punish yourself," the Lord Exalted says, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Rest." But you have seen the state of this war. You know how few Hamadhi are left. "No!" you refuse; have you ever before dared to yell at your First? "Let Me be useful! I am not a child, Eventru!" The Exalted views you with equal parts kindness and pity, saying only, "No, Lantra. We suppose You are not." You sense the First's concerned presence for many days and nights as you work, though He says nothing more. And though you would not admit it, this comforts you.
 
When Mysrai declares rebellion upon Zvoltz and the Circles, you do not expect the Beckoner Beyond the Maze to seek you. Naively, you assume that only warriors are courted for armies, when it is healers who rebuild soldiers and allow them to fight anew. You tell Mysrai you shall be impartial, but this is impossible; to do nothing is to accept what the Firsts have decided. "Though you are of the Third Circle, are you not a leader, Lantra? Do you not speak on behalf of the Hamadhi you have founded?" A vision enters your mind unbidden of a Goddess with the grace of Amberle, the conviction of Eventru and the careful mind of Carsini, heady and intoxicating. You reject Mysrai's war, but the doubts, they linger.
 
The devastation of the Daath Sequence haunts your return to your creche, Ailustris. Of all your siblings, it is strangely Nocht who greets you here. You have never been close, you and the Silent: alike in your detached nature, and apart in everything else. For you walk alongside Eventru tending the half-formed, while Nocht lingers by Shikari's reckless slaughter; yours is a fixed flame of unshakable resolve, while the Awakener is as tenuous as His shadows. "Amberle's fate is not your doing," Nocht murmurs, and gratitude spreads through you at this unexpected mercy from your most distant sibling. "Hers was a foolish decision," He continues, "punished for its idealism. Our First and the others suffered for it." The casual cruelty of His words stuns you, until your grief surrenders to flaring rage, igniting His own like kindling. His wrath is ominous, yours incandescent: time wastes until at last Nocht slinks away into the darkness, the embers of your anger left unquenched.
 
You do not ask Darvellan what His mission for Meridian is, nor why He must depart so suddenly upon the precipice of war. You siblings are too alike, too bound by a sense of duty: how can you fault Him this shared flaw? No matter how far He roamed, after all, your brother always returned to you. Even when you retreated to the far-off mists of your creche, His light could always find you. And you realize now, too late, that you took this for granted. There is so much you wish to tell Him, but instead you say only, "I shall wish You a safe and swift return, Brother." He smiles at you, sorrow in His eyes. "Be well, Sister. May We find one another again in the stars." An eternity shall pass until you hear His voice again.
 
Wisdom:
The statue of Lantra, the Empyreal shines with muted light as an immaculate stone basin slowly fills with luminous waters from the Font of Wisdom.
"Drink," a calm, feminine voice echoes through the chamber, "and know of Truth, and that which pursues knowledge with humility."
 
Should you have stayed by Krokano's side? The doubt gnaws at you as you turn to see Malmydia at Her healing mound, now barely visible as She shrouds Her work in a fog of secrecy. Damn the pride of the Second Circle. Your hands tighten, knuckles white, as you recall Carsini's words: "In the art of war, Lantra," the First had chastised you, "there is only one victory - to restore life, no matter the cost. You would do well to remember that." And, unspoken: "Don't allow your pride to compromise another's healing." You have heard other Hamadhi whisper of your failures, and of Malmydia's successes. Are they right to think you envious of Her? When Malmydia finally reveals Krokano's restored, single eye, there is no gratitude in His gaze. "I can see quite clearly now," Krokano says softly, but you can't face the version of you reflected in His luminous eye.
 
All your thousands of years of knowledge are not enough to save Orlachmar. Illith has claimed too much of Him. "Fain, it is too late," you whisper, but the First screams that you must attempt this futile task. The public judgment of your Elders is almost too much to bear as you work - you did not kill Orlachmar, but you cannot save Him, either. Yet when you are cast aside as a failure, you accept the quiet truth that nothing more could have been done. This is the limit of your power. Then Fain brings the miracle forth - the Elixir. You watch, transfixed, as the impossible becomes reality: the altar breaks, and a new Orlachmar arises. As you meet His baleful gaze, a deathly chill grips you. For behind Him, Malmydia is smiling.
 
You can sense Elfenehoala behind your healing mound; the Goddess's pity is cloying, unbearable and infuriating. "Lantra, I heard what happened to Rhapsody," She whispers, tenderly taking your hands in Hers. As if Her touch is fire, you shove Her away to resume your work. "You shouldn't be here," you say, drawing your veil close. "If you are not of the Hamadhi, leave." A harsh silence falls between you. The moment Rhapsody's name leaves your lips - the moment you allow Her loss to become real and tangible - you will be useless. In that moment, you will be broken, and no one will be able heal you. You have seen grief enough to know this. "You've changed, Lan," Elfenehoala murmurs at last, withdrawing. You see the pain and concern shining in Her bright eyes but acknowledge neither. "Yes," you agree softly. "The war changed all of Us." The loss of a friend stings in its own way, however quietly.
 
"Compromised." That was the word that Meridian had used. Your heart stills; you didn't intend to eavesdrop upon the Exalted's conversion, but you cannot unhear what has been spoken. And you cannot bear to leave. Eventru's warm, golden voice murmurs, "We do not share your concerns, Meridian. We believe that Lantra would be an asset to such a gathering." There is a deep sigh. "They are not My concerns, Eventru," Meridian says at length. "But it is Lisaera's wish. You are the only member of the Hamadhi She trusts. There have been too many... miracles." Once more, Eventru invokes your name, stubborn and unyielding. And once more, Meridian denies Him. "We both know Lantra has changed since Rhapsody's death," Meridian says quietly. "And Lisaera will not take any risk." You do not chase after Meridian for an explanation, nor do you follow the Lord Exalted to ask what He knows. When the tears come, you only ask yourself what you could have done differently.
 
You recognize this foul presence for what it is, no matter the face it wears: a minor Soulless, reeking of excoroperditio energy. Nohaji, the Face-Thief smiles at you in the guise of Carsini, beckoning you in the Void by name. You have long suspected this since the cycle of Life and Death was broken: that the essence of those Elders consumed still existed, in some form, within the hunger of the Soulless Gods. Save for His appearance, however, you sense nothing of the Elder truly remains in Nohaji; all that is left are the faint traces of who Carsini was. Enough to deceive many of your Cousins in the Void, you fear, and yet not a Hamadhi of your age and experience. How fortunate that Nohaji was not accustomed to chasing His prey. "Come to Me, Lantra," Nohaji whispers, irritated at your failure to approach. The sound of your name in His mouth fills you with dread as you flee, Nohaji's merciless appetite looming close behind.
 
How many millennia have passed in darkness? You cannot recall when you last saw the swing of Hajamin's golden blade, or heard Viravain's shrill cries and Shikari's snarls; your group of Elders all scattered in the Void after that first attack. For eons you have had no company but silence, and emptiness. Yours is the cold exile of a Traitor, though you have done no wrong. Despair grips you within its cold, familiar clutches, and only the memory of Rhapsody's sweet song keeps it at bay. And then, you glimpse it - a single glimmering light that shines in the distance. Familiar. Impossible. "Darvellan," you whisper as you reach for the thread of starlight, following it to the brother you had assumed to be long dead. And for the first time since the Elder Wars began, hope dares to blossom within you.
 
"It is not just hatred and despair that consumes me!" Orlachmar cries, beseeching the Elders gathered to vote against the Elixir. "It is hunger! Hunger for destruction!" And you can sense it - that wrongness emanates from Him, reminiscent of the Soulless which devoured Amberle and who haunt your nightmares still. You had avoided Orlachmar, but now you understand why. Surely such a perversion of the soul cannot be your salvation? Fain's honeyed words cannot sway you, but you see the way the others' eyes light up with false hope. No, not hope. Desperation. One by one, an overwhelming tide of hands raise in support of the Elixir, and your heart sinks to see the Hamadhi among Them. Malmydia's betrayal you expect, but not Carsini's. He turns to see you at Eventru's side, your mutual refusal adamant, and a divide you cannot explain opens up between you. Some wounds you already know can never heal.