Thunder thrice asunder rang and swept over the cleric, gurgling time as the morn beamed and the noon burned. The usual consequence of slumber prompted birds building in song early and bees bustling from rotten lily to pushing daisy, as she tilted, falling backwards. This enterprise was not of Evermeet whereupon the Tel-Quessir would mount a graceful planar stairwell into the Feywild, adjourning from the mortal cares of one’s existence, to be ruled by grace and justice in the next. No, but a destined thud accompanied by a sweet fragrance which filled her celestial body as her feet became limp. The commerce of constitution compromised as the id’s sanctions upon the ego briskly flew away, imparting tranquility of a soul serene, conducting the pleasing scene of a visual forest, as her armor slammed into the ground near the monster slayer’s boots.

Her lips were soon adorned with a lurid blue, as the rosy ocean of color washed from her cheeks, throned on the overthrown setting of the librarian’s consciousness. Her remnant exhalations were mild cemeteries, full of bones which jostled when the tomb of her face, resurrected a wind, every now and again, that howled in and out, between the teeth of her living corpse. The armored scarecrow laid still, cold and sticky, like malleable clay, still fresh with the moistness of frailty. The delicacy of life, barked with a snooze, intermittently suggesting her bed, adopted as the reliquary's threshold of the looming [i]Green Man[/i], married the dark river of purple which filled the surreal sight in the verdant foliage she spiritually pranced upon, within the other bizarre side of events. The penetrating dampness of violet leaves and somber colors of an embittered winter soon engulfed her fastened mindscape, pricking and taunting her with a needle of autumn death, sewn as a black blanket, which covered her mental sanctuary as she physically kept prone and audibly mournful, afore Theodore.

The boisterous nature had fantastically changed seasons, as whiteness avalanched around the now elder elf, no longer ornamented with a youthful, angelic body, but tempest tossed, as a cloaked admiral, long-forgotten, entered, bearing a long familiar sickle.

Her very own patron's scythe, stood, facing the amnesiac in the requiem of her coerced dreams.

It waited, calmly, as icy sighs emitted from the frenetic frame, beknighted no longer of hope and glory, but the barren snow of terror that plagued nightmares. Abruptly, tendrils of murky miasma blew past the shadowy figure, into several whirling dervishes that coalesced into a hurricane of exercised emotion and exorcised demons, lost to the darkness, garnished by the contrast of polar hues that surrounded the silent screams of the soporific trance fervently bewitching Wick with waxed flames that ever smothered faith in the Light, once ignited in the Aasimar, one birth ago.

[Hider=Mechanics]
Wick falls prone and unconscious, in front of Theodore. She is soon tickled by the fancy of an elvish paradise which is soon swallowed up by an arctic ambiance, promised by the Archfey to which she is employed.
[/Hider]

[@The Harbinger of Ferocity][@Hekazu][@JBRam2002]