18 August 2002

When Lisle does fortellings it is through a ritual that involves the entrapment of spirits. Then there is a negotiation between the spirit and the sorcerer. Often it is an exchange of information, knowledge of the future from the spirit in return for powers or objects from the sorcerer.

In this case the entrapment has already taken place, and the negotiation is just completed. Lisle, who has interacted with these kinds of spirits before, has collected (previous to this), enchanted rocks that give the spirit a doorway into the world of substance. This rocks mean much to the spirits because they also make it possible to inhabit bodies longer than would otherwise be possible. The negotiation is this. The spirit will tell Lisle her own future in exchange for a certain number of the enchanted rocks at her side. But Lisle has begun this task more tired than she knows. Further, she has underestimated how badly this particular spirit wants these rocks.

The canyon is narrow at the end, the strong, but glass-like wall rising between Lisle and the spirit, enclosing him completely. She is young and strong, and stands straight with arms raised, the flaxen blonde of her hair coming to the small of her back. Around her feet glow the rocks. In fact they pulse with a life's energy. It is only the way, when her arms lower, that she sighs, that gives away any fatigue, though the negotiation was twice as long as the trapping.

Lisle says, "And so we are ready."

The spirit -- well beyond the forms and shapes of men -- twists and writhes against this bondage; if only to test its limits. It has struck against them time and time again, to no avail, though it seems no lessened in the efforts.

The girl, slender girl at that, has bound the creature in a way that suggests she has practice doing so, and has done so in the past. And the bonds are strong, and yet, perhpas there is an awkwardness to their proportion and strength that lends itself to tearing. The girl seems confident, perhaps overconfident. "Tell me all, spirit. The sooner you tell me these things, the sooner we can part ways. Friendly."

"There shall be no kindness in the all I must share," replies the strong, disembodied voice. It neither quivers nor wavers, a pounding force in Lisle's mind. "For time is time and ravages all."

Lisle suddenly does look tired for all her youth and strength, and despite all her mental efforts to hide this tiredness it is plain to things sensitive to such emotions. She says, "Aye, tell me and be done with it," as if she /expects/ a certain answer, as if she knows already, though that cannot be so. A mistake of youth.

The voice falls to silence, a buzzing of insects running the length of Lisle's spine. Searching. Divining. The deal is made. Answers, the price of eternity. Finally, the voice rises again; powerful, imperious. "The paths are two and never entwined. One leads to questions, to study, to answers. To knowledge that none should know, nor use, did they."

It's not like you didn't have Lisle's attention before, but now there is a little more strength in her smile, -that- interested. And surprised. She crosses her arms across her chest, tight, as if she's cold. And she might be.

"The second is the path of thine heart's content," speaks the voice, so sweet as to be sickly. "Of passion and pleasure. Of love and marriage. Of children and children's children." Taunting. No, gloating. "For love is to be yours again. It waits in the wings of your mind, to be given flight anew. You shall never forget what was lost, but what will come is true, and pure."

A strong mind but a generous heart ruins that sometimes. The wall that is her best defense against the buzzing of the spirit in her body and mind fades a little, and with it the things that bind the spirit. But even Lisle feels this, for she panics a little, trying to reinforce it with her will. Her chin comes up, imperious as Eric ever could be. It's fear that makes her say, "Nonesense."

"They are two, these paths, and true. By your might, I am bound." The voice slithers back, then, contrary to its words, its presence suddenly looms large and mighty against its restraints. "I tell no lies, by your might."

How the words of her uncle reverberate in her mind, about what to do, what not to do, where she /must/ be strong or fail with dire consequences. Brand's features lecturing, voice dire, repeat even as the restraints give way, this mirrored in Lisle's mind, the wall not quite shattered, but by no means as strong. She sits, hard on the ground, nearly upon one of the rocks, but misses narrowly.

"Knowledge or love, girl," says the voice, with growing contempt. "Never both. Love is feeling and feeling is not fact." It rolls on, louder in Lisle's mind, railing at her. "One will consume the other. Trade the truth for your contentment. Love for knowledge. Two paths! You must choose!"

Lisle, on the ground, stares at the spirit, stares and tries to bend her will upon it, trying to dampen the 'sound'. But she winds up holding her head instead. She's not beaten yet, but she's giving way, moment by moment. She tries to shout over its railing, "There's no choice in that!" But maybe she isn't even heard, at least not through the soundwaves. Mental frustration and shock give it all way anyway.

Lisle, on the ground, stares at the spirit, stares and tries to bend her will upon it, trying to dampen the 'sound'. But she winds up holding her head instead. She's not beaten yet, but she's giving way, moment by moment. She tries to shout over its railing, "There's no choice in that!" But maybe she isn't even heard, at least not through the soundwaves. Mental frustration and shock give it all way anyway.

The voice batters at Lisle, unrelenting; like a shark smelling blood in the water. "Two paths before you, girl! The answers to every question, within your reach! True, pure knowledge! A world of knowing!" A second, seperate voice overlaps the first. "A love to makes worlds collapse! An ocean of delights! Children of your blood! In your image!" A vision creeps into this last, a girl child of flaxen hair, beautiful, inquistive. So like her mother.

The girl's uncle has, several times, said that Lislel's mind is like a fortress. But what is true is that every fortress can be breached. Every stone wall can be scaled. The force alone would not be able to crush this girl, but the images that pull at her tender heart strings -- those are. The vision is the last straw. Naked, she is as simple as a hand: minimal, supple, earthy, transparent, round as women are round. Amber's markings, the pathways to her spirit, are the spirits, with every memory of every time Caivar loved her; naked and slender as wheat. Gold is her color, the gold of fall leaves falling until there's nothing left of Lisle but a curled up form that barely hears.

Again and again, it strains against its bonds, feeling them give and give. Then shatter, explosively. It rips from its prison, jolting and tumbling the stones Lisle offered as a prize. It rips over them, taking them as its own. "There are your answers, girl. There is your future!" it howls in triumph. And then it is gone, the stones with it.

And the girl lays there, going unconscious just as Wisp disappears. Spent.