Solar Interlude: Willow Wargraves

 Hath any light pierce the stars like the shame of a wayward child? Thy own reminiscence burns the candlelight as to sweep the methane of a heifer with smells so foul, my heart aches when the past ejects exceeding honour of such indignity. The Terrestrial Organism is not built for such disparaging weight of woe. Where does the battered beam of my heart distill? Hence situate a garden's graze past, when humanity was a comfortless sage in counsel, O childhood voyage  into the distance. Is there, when you're not even a memory? Is there, when even your parents are dead? Raised by the groanings deep and lamentable cries of a mother so hateful, how doth the heart branch like the blessed Oak's reaches upon sisters so fated. I recall the day as a memory.
Upon thy sister's advent ceremony, the celebration of her dawning. Once a gala, the witch would commemorate her yearly age with not the saccharine or joyful odes, but the pitiless welt that wast towards the visceral. A luman boar, on two feet with its pelt soil tinted, peering between honeycomb nectar and the grave from its hibernating nest. Look up! Tall as an Oxen, it stands! Nor dragon trout or firebee can fight its advances at the Gala, mother said. At twice a mast of a man, the Luman would roar, whence talking to cubs so indistinct as our lineage three. Mother always had voice like a caw, she sang like a crow with black plumage, meaning to send the bestial foe towards us on the anniversary of her birth. In the grove of Luman we would cry.
That year so contrary, the witch was absent, her heart hard and overbold as ever. Need it be a cause for celebration, one's faulty would think! But sister, like a regal laggard crooning to the play of her scepter would not have it. What doth celebration of a dawning year on the Celes be without a Luman, she pouted? The question a hard farce, harder still to situate my cares. But in the throes of childhood, I remember all too well the waltz-step of her stampede, like a thunder from the skies of my world demanding the smallest equine with ingratiating hemorrhaging. Mother! the word has the power to burn, the word mother! Sister wanted her Luman, her heart craved and decried for the sake of the chase, to be wed to a screaming departure with life's embrace! How madness conjures in that one so! But a brother's love for his youngers does not cede to the cries of the wild or the hunger of the flesh.
Our other kinless sister, despite being of separate blood did oft boils hers. And yet, is she not to bear the burden of an error in error past?  Even as but a sap. Me and my kinless snuck scarce into the thickets for a chat. What mother would have, I would inquire? What brother is more than a friend? The only real family of any worth, I would say, is made of sisters, and brothers. Hence in the thickets, my better half swallowed her pride. 'It's the eve of her birth! A great rite ceremonious must be enacted', she'd remind me. Sister rarely put her heart so close to her other, imagine my shock. There twas no Luman, my reminders fall on deaf ears. She could be stubborn, gruffish, and stone-willed. 'We will make a Luman! We will call one with our hearts' her hands cupped my chest, and she brought forth a fabric not of this world, inexpressible elastic. The suit of a Luman. 'Go forth! Change! Requite Sister's groveling! The chase we will endure.' Thy will fickled and fussed, to dupe as such a beast? In such plush and tensile, stretching silks too. To no sharp twist of fate, kinless sister pushed me afar to naught of my bashfulness. To my britches and loins, the bare skin of the world exposed! A child with narrow a loincloft to wear the visage of a beast. I began to dawn the cloth, as the thickets turned, when a voice bellowed out, in a voice so resplendent that the air's chill stung my face, the voice of one I've never heard before. A soundless voice, so pure it left my throat in a burst of ecstasy.
'Heed me, children, ye will all be saved.' The voice so melancholic, only for I to realize it could only be the melody of a Santri.  'When death comes, thou wilt be saved.' 'Go home!' My kinless sister wailed. But what came forth was not one winged harpy, but two. The sisters of the feather, so voluptuous and twice thy age were but teenage hellions, the carnal beauty beyond compare. They watched thy stretch and sunder the visage of a Luman, my nether-regions hath never found such swollen woe.
Suddenly, both Santri conveyed me with ridicule, their pitiless laughter, the menace of a dire point. It sunk the abyss holding my soul. Flushed and fornicated with grief, the tears did welt and lash like the rivers of Johrd. As a gleaming mockery of a Luman I stood, for a mere paltry celebration. Weeping, for my honour.

Kinless approached! She held a fist to the beauts and did so loosen their cheeks with injuries redress, one into a thousand. Her strikes, even of her stature were streaks so unshackled as to purge the shame from one's recollect. When they met her might, the teens flew off and fled. The salty brine of seepage from my crotch leaked with fearful splendor, soiling myself. Kinless came and sighed. 'Wash thy filth off, it stink of Luman's piss, in the name of the heart of humanity. How doth one cheer a year-day gala in piss and tears like thou, brother?'
With the smell of a Luman's piss. It was the most foul odor the world has known! A horrid stink of death that even the most hardened among us would recoil. Even the elders of our world, it is said to the heart of humanity and a soul for the woe that is mankind. I recall our sister, as she cried her hands did her face, for the mire that had tainted me. Regardless, my year-day choir recited in song, in the suit of the Luman for sis's most exalted performance. To sing in such a visage! Alas, the heart of humanity would surely have been aghast, and yet, my grief had no room but for the ode of each note. The evening hence, sis and kinless sis road thy self like a mule across the fields. The night, with the moonlight casting the shadows over the sky, and the stars shining down, I fell into a stupor. The stars did they weep, a piteous sight to behold! A lumenance, the sight I've seen before, but never before witnessed this sight. The moon but as a host of stars. It was an eclipse of the light! Our sister, she did weep the moon. I did feel sorry for the plight of kinless sister who had such events prohibited, mother's cruelty could be cutting and bitter wrong on all affronts. In my haste, thy throat cleared.

'On your year-day sis, shall I dress as a Luman or a Porsehog?'  
Kinless hesitated, musing to herself.
'Hm... how about an Elk?' and slapped thy tongue. Her humour did vex so much of our world, we all laughed, from the oldest to the youngest.
If only thyself knew, Mother was listening in the shadows that night.
Those words she'd heed, and would come to fruition. But alas, the night did I dream, that I, a brother, would see the stars away from her tyranny someday. The irony so scornful, should be disposed from thy sanctimonious memoirs.
-Memoirs of the Elken Lord, Fawnus Sixus companion auxiliary
Somewhere
"So he peed himself? In the big stupid tuskbear suit?! On the Queen's 7th birthday! OMG Ewwww!" The little girl said, her latex dress and cowl squeaking across her sleek and small form. The luminescent jewels illuminated the cavern where a round circle of kids sat around to listen. The kids erupted into laughter.

The woman, with her stark green hair, broad heavyset figure and Battlesister regalia closed up the book and nodded.  She fixed her glasses, putting the book aside and creating a dark spherical ball of energy from whence the book came, returning it to the void.

"Nightsister Willow Wargraves!" The Priestess knocked nearby on a stalagmite, her face obscured in a latex gasmask.  "Can I have a word with you?"
"Yes of course Priestess Lyadia!" Willow took a bow, smiling as all the kids from the sisterhood's Nursery ran past her.
"Blessed be the Elk." She bowed her head and put up her arms forming 'antlers', doing the signature Nite Spectrum holy curtsy.
"By the Elk's grace we are blessed." Lyadia repeated. "I need to talk to you about something. We're being invited by.. you know who. They want us to try to speak with the Hexist's and arrange a trip to... you know where."

Willow rolled her eyes, her dark latex gloves squeaking on her chubby bum with itching regret, smoothly running her hands down the contours of her slick inky-black catsuit all the while. "Lemee guess.. Blightstone?"
Lyadia nodded.
"I should've figured, she's been trying to get an expedition going for years. Hexfolk won't go for it unless we're onboard. Seriously, asking the sisterhood of the church to get around it? That's so underhanded. As if we'll just do whatever she wants because the Hex Church said no."
The priestess snickered. "Not too out of spirit for the Fabled Fawnus, funnily enough."
Willow tapped her boots. "Reverse psychology on siblings only works in such providential tales, Lyd. Elk amuse."

"Maybe, but she's going to throw a fuss if we don't atleast put on airs and give her some kind of excuse. Not that her ultimatums mean anything, we can take a few Tax or Tariff write-offs from Blightstone like a wart if we have to."

"Let her fuss. Odalia won't take it public. You know she has a bad enough reputation badmouthing our corner as it is." Willow tapped an orb on a hex-shaped Rune and saw the local news play, projected across the cave. "Always spreading rumours, bullying others.. typically shrew." There was a look of exhaustion on Nightsister Willow's face, and she leaned her aching calves on the nearest stalagmite.
"We'll see about that, sister. But, the most important thing is to put a show on for them."
"Yes, and we'd better do it quick. The Hexists are making their way across the country in a few weeks. Doing a huge 'No Tower, No Voyage, No Expedition' anti rally and all that. Elk bless, why do we have to deal with them? All the paperwork, and traffic! Protests. It's going to be such a headache."

Willow sighed and picked at the latex glove on her right hand, letting it snap back so she could hear the sound of the tightness sorting in place, smoothing of all wrinkles in moments ceaselessly.

"Nightsister, don't you just see all the glory, all the prestige for your family?"
Willow snorted. "Prestige? We only hold a title over the Solar Society because the Postulate Minister gave it to us. And he probably thinks we're all just his pets, just like the Hex Church does." The Night Spectrum was always treated like that, she thought, the role of a mere striding animal to follow others around like a steed... surely the irony didn't escape her. "Elk graze, kinda makes you think we made a mistake in Vygian all that while back."
 
"That's all history now." Lyadia pressed herself against Willow, the combined pressure of their rubbery bodies softly pudging and rubbing into each other.

"You know what, it's true, Blightstone can make us look real good. Just ask them to make a Hexplorement video or something to advertise the Tower. The whole SS would be all over that. Anything to stop these awful rallies"

"We're not that desperate, sister." The two began to embrace more sensually, running gloves hands down their rears, up around each other's waists, pinching and pushing against the other's breasts occasionally while relishing in the mutual affection.

"But.."
The two looked at each other and shrugged, bodies practically bonded from the sticky latex stuck together at the hip. "We'll talk with the High Priestess about it, see what she says." Willow said, taking one last look at the projections from the orb onto Parsha's face by a newscaster while Odalia was interviewed.

"Elk decree, that one's daughter doesn't end up as much a right brat as her mother. The things we sisters put up with..."
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