Xellyndra: Birth of the Chosen
Sixteen years ago, deep in the midland countryside of this realm. . .
Lightning splits the heavy drapes of the night, drawn over the light, the Light. But the dark is strong, and seals the jagged rent in a fractured heartbeat. Lightning, and the rolling of thunder; still no rain falls. The summer heat is oppressive, smothering humidity a tangible thing to choke the throats of the living, but still no rain falls. For months it goes on, and crops wither and die, crops that should have filled the storehouses of the fertile land to overflowing, to carry its people through the winter. Winter comes, bringing bitter cold to mercilessly hew down the malnutritioned livestock. Starvation and sickness gallop over the peaceful people, these servants of death running amuck, trampling them down as they are helpless to resist. Summer comes again, and the killing drought continues. Winter inevitably follows, continuing the slaughter. Another summer, and another winter, and the people of the land, faithful and hopeful as they are, know despair. Only blind stubbornness holds them to the land, the perseverance of those whose ancestors passed the land on to them, who have worked it lovingly with their own hands all their lives. And it so happens, that some survive, and the third winter draws to an end.
She watched the suffering that beat down upon the simple countryside, and She smiled. The unnatural plague of bitter weather, spanning three full years, marked the location of the coming birth like a beacon, at least to Her keen eyes. Other portents had come to Her before, the first over a thousand years ago, when the last family of Sintanitus demons had been massacred, falling to the great hunt called down upon the race. She knew then that another would come, a child of a dead line, of the line yet not born of it. In Her wisdom and cunning, She knew this child could possibly be a great force, to tip the balance of power among the many deities. And so She watched, content to wait in Her infinite patience, and amuse Herself with other things. But now, the birth was at hand, the time set, the location established, and She turned Her eye to the far-off countryside, home of simple farmers and sheepherders, a humble place for such a beginning.
Harsh lightning dances in a clear sky. The people have stopped gazing to the heavens at this phenomenon, no longer daring to hope that it signals coming rain.
A quaint farmhouse perches on a hill, a hill bare of vegetation, as is the land around. Not far off are pens for holding sheep, half a dozen and large, speaking of prior prosperity. But now, only one of the pens holds a handful of sheep, emaciated creatures with patchy wool. Still, the house is well-kept, both outside, and in. The scene is peaceful despite the tragic element.
A woman screams in a hoarse voice, drawn out in painful effort. Peace is severed from the scene like a gangrenous limb, quickly, necessarily. The scream, or rather the Pain, is a beacon, leading into the house, into the bedroom, and She follows.
Upon the bed, a woman, drenched in the sweat of her task.
At her feet, a man, drenched in the sweat of his anxiety.
A face contorted in Pain.
A face contorted in worry.
Both are homely and caring beneath the masks of their emotion.
The air, drenched in tension and the screams of agony.
And everything else, drenched in blood, for things are not progressing as they should, and she bleeds heavily. Hours pass in this way, and She is pleased.
Forks of lightning flash in a pale and sickly sky. The scent of rain floats on the wind, but the people don’t notice, for they know despair, and it blinds them.
A final weak cry is forced from trembling lips, a final effort expended. The woman gives birth to a child not of her line. Unknowing, she rejoices as her smiling husband places the child in her weakened arms. She is a small thing, thin and sickly in appearance, and no lusty cries spring from her throat. In the strange, anticlimactic silence, the mother’s warm voice flows, “We will name her. . .Xellyndra.” The father looks to his wife in surprise, for he has never heard anything like the name before. In fact, she seems confused herself. They look upon the oddly quiet babe, and then at each other, and nod simultaneously in agreement. Somehow, it just seems right.
Sickly lightning struggles through humid air, and the wane sky gives birth to rain. A soft shower of warm droplets falls to the breast of the earth. Moisture slowly soaks in, replenishing. Spring has finally come, not only in name this time but in fact, and the land will be rejuvenated, after three long years of torment. Already, the sky itself appears more healthy, displaying the clear intense blue of a vibrant summer.
Day fades. Night falls. Exhausted parents rest peacefully. The newborn lies safe and silent in her crib, seeming to listen to the gentle showering of rain still falling upon the roof. The summer-blue sky reappears, its intensity distilled and concentrated into twin orbs, which appear suddenly over the crib, gazing down upon the undersized baby. A shadow-distorted figure emerges to claim the vibrant orbs as eyes. The vague shape of a womanly hand stretches down to rest with infinite softness on the newborn’s head. A feminine voice rolls forth, slightly husky, yet musical, and as clearly defined as Her form is vague and obscured.
“You do not look like much, but still I know you for what you are: child of rage, conceived in love; being of chaos, born in order; irreverence personified, destined to worship. The line of Sintanitus has been reborn, sprung from the least likely of seeds. I Mark you as mine, my Child despite your heritage, and my Chosen.”
On the soft flesh upon the undersides of the babe’s wrists, the thinnest of crimson lines quickly traces out a pair of Marks. So quickly the Marks of Carey form, and disappear, leaving not a hint of their presence, that it could have been illusion. Soft, full lips lay a gentle kiss on the babe’s delicate forehead. The breath of lovingly whispered words washes over the innocent face, “And now are you truly born, my Daughter, my Chosen.” With that, the figure of the Goddess fades away, vivid blue eyes holding a soft smile, brightening further just before disappearing, as the percussive monotony of the rain on the roof is finally broken by the full-throated cries of a newborn.
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