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Canon: © Anne Bishop
Board's Plot: Blood Rites
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Established February 2010
by Jamie, Gina & Bowie.

* Plot Information for Shalador

The capital has been destroyed, replaced with the spewing ash and liquid lava of Shalador’s Eldest Sister. The surviving factions and Clans scramble for a new leader and a way to save the jungle Territory from the remaining volcanoes. The Black Widows, long held at arm’s length, have stepped up to guide, by force or willingly, the Territory towards salvation.
Culture of Shalador
Shalador's Unification
Tribes of Shalador
Tribal Heirarchy

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Author Topic: You will never remember who I was to you  (Read 1044 times)

Description: Erisian

Offline Anamelech Sayyadina

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You will never remember who I was to you
« on: Mar 31, 19, 02:26:26 AM »
Anamelech crossed the border into Shalador with nothing but the pack on her back and hope.

Escaping besieged Onn was easy enough when one was used to the mountain-edge paths of Dar el Salaam and the Citadel. Treacherous mountain paths had been her bread and butter as a child. Though she now lacked the weight and balancing capability of her wings thanks to her father's insanity, she compensated with Craft and the weight of a heavy pack on her back. A few days hiking brought her within reach of a Wind-end by the border of Askavi, and that made the rest of it easy. She was across Askavi in a matter of hours, touching down only rarely to make sure she knew where she was going.

Once she entered the jungle territory, though, she found herself at a loss. Could she really demand the attention of a woman like Erisian Maboya, who had been done horrible violence, simply due to a fluke of shared blood? There was nothing to prove her claim except for the touch of Craft, a maternity test that likely would mean, legally, nothing. Yet she wanted to know that her mother... knew about her. If Lady Maboya rejected one of the fruits of her half-century in the mines, then that would be fine. Anamelech could understand that. Would understand that. She'd make herself understand it.

But she hoped for something else, something harder to quantify than simple acceptance. Her father's hands had once been gentle, soft and loving. Once he'd been her friend, or as near to it as a father could be. Even though her mothers had raised her, it had been her father's ambition and drive that had had much of the shaping of her. She ached to know that, despite the violence he'd done and the crimes he'd committed with his own hands, she wasn't just as corrupted. Surely a Black-Jeweled Priestess Queen, gifted to understand the heart and the soul of the Blood, would be able to diagnose what problem there was in Anamelech's heart that Adramelech al-Sabbah had been, however briefly, proud of her. That he had once loved her.

She wanted to know that she was capable of--no, worthy of--someone much less twisted.

Anamelech made her way to Aztlan, her transport in relative comfort afforded by her clear gift with horses and the fact that she wasn't Tribeless, just a traveler. But once she got there, she found she didn't know what else to do. Suddenly it seemed such an imposition to demand Erisian's acknowledgement.

So there she stayed, unsure and uncertain, until the day she entered one of the city temples and found herself staring at the back of a woman who wore the Black. Her lips moved, two syllables, as she stared at the woman's dark wings, her dark hair. Mother. She gave the words no voice, but there they were regardless. Spoken into meaning, if only in her heart.