[center][h1][color=92278f] ⚞  [u]WREN[/u] ⚟[/color]
⋰ ⋱ ⋰ ⋱ ⋰ ⋱ ⋰ ⋱[/h1][/center]

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[sub] ๑ Chapter 1 - Welcome to Corinthia ๑
Friday 6th February
4:00AM, At The Lee Household, Newham
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[indent]The Dawn hadn’t quite broken over the city at the hour in which Robin Grace Lee had woken. The dark shroud of a cold winter’s night lingered outside of the windows of her Grandmother’s townhouse in Newham. The old, storied structure creaked and cracked like aged limbs as it settled and weathered a mild breeze against its front side; somewhere in the house, a window rattled. The outside of the glass surfaces bore a layer of frost built up over the course of the night prior, obscuring the image of the outside, where the light of streetlamps served as the sole source of illumination. Through the walls, the residual noises of sleeping neighbors in the connected homes on either side could be heard: a knocking of a headboard as one might roll over in bed, or an overly loud snorer, or perhaps the sound of an early riser preparing their breakfast. 

For all accounts, it constituted a peaceful morning. 

Such was one upon which Robin, or “Wren” as she preferred to be, would have otherwise been content to remain adrift in dreams. Indeed, the comfort of her mattress, the warmth of her covers, and the firm hold of her pillows called to her, wondering why she would abandon their protection on such a morning. Instead, she had set herself deep into ritual. She sat alone in mediation in a small, windowless room; an inner-sanctum of the townhouse. With her, the warmth of the furnace and hearth were joined by the subtler radiance of candles. The scents of Sandalwood and Pine from burning incense had consumed the room, and elevated her mind closer to the spirit plane. A hungering rumble of the stomach, and a thirsting dryness upon the tongue were both willfully ignored by their owner, who had, for the moment, transcended; she’d feel both in full once her consciousness returned to the mortal world. 

All of this: the early rise, the burning wicks, the smudged incense, and the fasted state, were not without their purpose. They were all necessary for achieving the purest, and deepest connection with one’s ancestors. 

And why the need to reach out so? 

Wren, as a ‘Hedge Witch,’ drew the greatest sum of her Magika through a spiritual connection to those that preceded her in her family’s bloodline. Their power flowed into their descendants like a long river letting out into increasingly greater pools of water. While many of her powers could be exercised without the formalities, the greatest feats required ritual; the greater the feat, the more time, preparation, and energy needed to accomplish it. 

For this morning, her need for her ancestor’s gifts of strength and fortitude were almost as great as they had ever been. In fact, only once in her life thus far had she needed more from this bond to her past; she hoped that she’d never need it that much again. For today, the occasion was simple, yet momentous. A time of departure. She would be leaving the home of her Late mother, and her Grandmother, still alive, before her. Her adventure would be brief at the outset, merely bringing her to another part of London. But in the longterm, even her predecessors could only offer speculation on. She’d be joining the Corinthia Coven, where she hoped to find a solution to a matter that had been a feature of her bloodline for generations, and which had been the curse that had taken her mother from her before either were ready to be apart. 

Wren cared little for the admonishments that some of her ancestors offered. From beyond they could all see that Corinthia was in track to try the Elders’ patience… perhaps an understatement. The spiritual conversations were less discussions and more like shouting matches, which might have woken the neighborhood if they had been engaged in spoken words. Wren’s ancestors would finally relent and offer their protections once she had declared that the line was hers to carry, and that their contract was to support her in her goals, not push their own agendas upon her. 

When Wren finally emerged from her meditation, it was though she had woken from a fierce battle. Her soul felt sore, and riddled with the lashes and bruises that being assailed by dozens of foes would have brought about. But these feelings didn’t last long, fading quickly behind her awareness of her body’s state of thirst and hunger. 

[i]“You’re ready, dear.”[/i]

[color=92278f]“Thank you, Mom.”[/color] Hazel eyes opened to the warm, soft glow of the candles. Slowly, Wren arose upon her feet. With respect to the ceremony, she extinguished the candles one-by-one, and tamped out the incense until the aromatic smoke ceased to loft up from them. Only when the room was dark and scentless, did she offer her final respects, and exit the small room into the living room. 

“Did it go well?” Her Grandmother had awoken before her that morning, and stood vigil in case the ritual had taken a bad turn. 

Wren yawned tiredly, rubbed her eyes, and answered her Grandmother’s inquiry with a sincere smile and a courtly nod. The meeting of the pair’s eyes, and the noticeable trickle from Wren’s. told all: ‘They are with me; SHE is with me.”

“Very well then,” her grandmother said, standing up with the aid of a gnarled walking staff. “Then let’s get you fed, hydrated, and off to Corinthia.”[/indent]

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[right][sub]6:15AM, At the Corinthia Coven[/sub][/right]

[indent]The four o’clock hour went by. By five-thirty that morning, Wren was in transit across town to the south side of London, where the Corinthia Coven had set up its house. The journey there held little of pertinence. Wren remained inwardly focused, thinking of her plans, goals, and intentions. Any attention given to her fellow commuters was for the simple sake of her being aware of her surroundings, rather than dedicated people-watching. 

Shortly after six, she stepped out from a bus. Carrying her packed belongings a short distance down the sidewalk, she arrived at the address she had been given. It was just about as expected: a dark-hued building, built of brick facade, that cast an imposing shadow over the lot before it. Collecting herself behind what guards her ancestors had offered her, she approached the old Victorian. The feeling of passing through the threshold was as heavy as the doors themselves, though it lightened significantly once she set foot in the open entry space where she found herself arriving shortly behind another arrival. 

[color=92278f]“I take it I’ve come to the right address? I’m Robin Lee, though I prefer to go by ‘Wren.’”[/color][/indent]