The Joining of Musings
The Chamber of Celestial Reflection
The air hums with the soft glow of wraithbone sigils, their golden light casting long shadows across the chamber. High Autarch Varys Dainthar, clad in ornate silver battle-plate, strides toward the meditating High Loremaster Elyria Vaelith, her robes shimmering with runes of prophecy.
High Autarch Varys Dainthar:
"Elyria. We must speak of the Ynnari."
High Loremaster Elyria Vaelith:
"The whispers of the dead have already reached you, I see." (She does not open her eyes, her fingers tracing the threads of fate in the air.)
Varys:
"Whispers? No. Reports. Hard truths. More of our kin abandon the Path to throw themselves at the feet of this… death cult. And you—you do nothing."
Elyria:
"I observe. I weigh. The Ynnari do not merely ‘throw themselves’ at fate, Varys. They seek to shape it." (Finally, her eyes open, twin stars of piercing Hyshian light.)
Varys:
"At what cost? Every soul fed to Ynnead is one less to sustain our infinity circuits. One less warrior to stand against the Great Enemy. We are already a dying race—must we hasten our extinction?"
Elyria:
"Dying? No. We are trapped. Bound by fear, clinging to the last embers of a dying fire. The Ynnari offer more than oblivion—they offer rebirth."
Varys:
"Rebirth? Or annihilation? You speak of prophecy, but what of logistics? What of the fleets we lose to their crusades? The warriors who abandon their posts? The souls that will never return to our halls?"
Elyria:
"And what of the souls that now serve She Who Thirsts? Would you rather our people endure eternity in the belly of the Dark Prince?" (Her voice sharpens like a drawn blade.)
Varys:
"I would rather we fight—here, in the real, where our blades still matter! The Ynnari gamble everything on a god not yet born. If they fail, we lose not just soldiers, but hope itself."
Elyria:
"Hope is already lost if we do nothing. The Laughing God schemes. The Dark Kin feast. The Mon’keigh swell like a tide. And we? We hide in the shadows of dead stars, reciting old mantras as the noose tightens."
(A silence falls. The chamber’s wraithbone pulses faintly, as if echoing her words.)
Varys:
(Grim, but measured.) "Then let us fight—but not as blind fanatics. If we must ally with the Ynnari, let it be on our terms. Let us ensure that every soul given to Ynnead is a soul saved from She Who Thirsts—not stolen from our own survival."
Elyria:
(Nods slowly.) "A compromise, then. We will not forbid the Ynnari’s call… but neither shall we blindly follow. The Vanari shall walk the edge of the blade—as we always have."
Varys:
"And if the blade cuts us?"
Elyria:
(A faint, sorrowful smile.) "Then at least we will have bled for more than mere survival."