Special Stats: None
Circle: The Blue Flame
Adopted from Sionayra
The Tale of the Last Mirror
She had given the man a name, but not a true one–she had so precious little left to her, after all. That name was to be earned, to sit upon the tongue of those to which she granted it like fine spice or sweet ambrosia. Those before had worshiped her by that name.
“Spring,” he said, with no touch of awe. “A good name, for this place. I’ve need of spring.”
The windows were uneven holes punched from the stone walls. Winter prowled beyond, licking into the open portals and dribbling snow over the sills and floors. The man wore thick furs, and still he trembled. She did not feel it. Perhaps she was of Arctic Winds. But then what of the tight lacework of budding branches over her legs, the sprigs of her crown? Forest Song, maybe. But she would never know.
This unnerved her. She drew herself up. “What shall we call you?”
The man fumbled with the clasps of his hood, drawing it tighter to shield his pinched face. His countenance was rather like a shriveled nut, but his eyes were young and flashing, brighter than all the mirrors lining the walls. Whatever warmth he could muster spilled from his eyes, and she felt it wash over her as they met her own. “Oh dear, it’s been a long while since such a question. For you, I shall be Rahat. I don’t believe I’ve ever been anyone else, but for you I’ll make a true effort.”
His manner of speaking was odd, the casual eccentricities stumbling into her ears and knocking all her thoughts askew. She was not used to being spoken to like this. “This place is too cold. We wish for sustenance, and a fire.”
Rahat nodded, or she assumed he did–the hood bobbed and he turned. “Of course. You’re not the first to come through the mirror, you know, but it has been long. I should still have some things. The cold keeps them well–one of the perks to it, keeps the stores, keeps the glass. You have to be so careful with the glass.”