Invocation Solo Prelude

---...⬩11/14/25, Early Morning ☽☆☾ Alptraum-Leveret Residence⬩-
@Meenauh Silmataurea

November was quiet; all whispers and butterfly kisses; a period of rest after the storm.

Morning's colors had only just begun to paint the sky, with silvery moonbeams warming into golden rays of sun. Xailah was the first to witness the change, having slept little throughout the night. They were frequent- those lidless hours- they had been since her youth. It was worse then, but having found one- no, two- effigies of peace, repose came... easier.

The darkling woman was curled against her husband, Barrow; her body spliced between his arm and ribcage, with her head resting atop his shoulder. Her hand laid against his sternum, rising and falling with the steady tempo of his heart. Through half-lidded eyes she observed his placid rest. She was still like that for a very long time. Watching. Listening. Being. She had acquired a taste for this sort of motionlessness; these stretching minutes of quietude. If time could be trapped in a bottle, this was surely a sample of what it looked like.

It was then, from her side of the bed, she heard it: the tiniest, softest coos. The first sign of morning life. The pantheress' ears peaked toward the sound, a small toothless smile spreading across her face. She rose from Barrow gently, her frame parting from his with the lightness of spider's silk in a draft, as she backed her way to the edge of the bed.

A crib held the source of the sound, and peering over the edge revealed a very small baby: Bishop, not yet a month old, swaddled like a little silkworm in his bassinet. Words would never be enough to express how much joy Xailah derived from seeing him there every morning. Reaching for a carrying sling draped over her nightstand, she slipped the looping fabric over her body, and scooped him into the pouch fixed at her front, before taking off for the kitchen.

It took some time, but she was finally getting used to the whole "newborn" thing. She knew by now that he'd likely be hungry shortly after waking. This new routine was becoming second nature to her. Stained light painted stepping stones on the kitchen tile, for mother and infant son. Xailah made a game of it by walking between the patches of color until she reached the counter.

Producing two dishes from an overhead cabinet, the changeling would begin to warm a bottle for Bishop and some water for herself. Bishop gurgled at the familiar kitchen sounds, at which Xailah gently chirruped back. The water came to a boil before the bottle was warm enough for feeding, so she continued with her regimen for tea preparation. Teacup. Leaves. Strainer. Water. Douse.

It looked different today. The tea. Darkness bloomed in the steaming water. She found herself unwilling to look away.

Early morning's birdsong thinned to silence as her gaze deepened in the cup. The water went inky, blackening to tar. Taloned fingers flushed white against the clasped porcelain. Not a breath dared to draw from her being and play distraction; the inner eye summoned audience, so audience it would have.

Godric's Hollow. She stands at the core of the memorial square, watching the shadows of the looming monuments slipping with time. Sounds of the Hollow are smothered by the wind- the same wind that whips her skin raw with its chill. It feels like the inside of a fishbowl, and she's looking out through the glass. Her attention draws away from the memorial.

The village smears like watercolor around her. Time is a sieve. Silence is deafening. She finds herself rooted in a different place, and she is observing the exterior of a dilapidated cottage; ministry markings flutter against the peeling exterior, as dying moths do in soil. The air is dead here, and the chill is no longer violent- it's unsettlingly numb. The cottage groans; it is an undecipherable testimony.

Minutes lurch ahead. She is inside. A vertical shaft extends into the throat of the cottage. Peering down, she can only see darkness. The infinite void stares up at her as she tries to pull up from the edge of the chasm, but something grasps at her wrist- fingers, cold and slick. Sweat penetrates her gloves. Her arm aches as she tries to pull this thing up.

No.

Not a thing.

A someone.

Lamik Fillestar.

“Xailah… Please…”

The fingers slip. Lamik falls. The darkness swallows.

And then-

Wailing.

A shriek- sharp and sudden- ripped her into the present. Eyes wide and hands shaking, her attention shot down to poor Bishop who was audibly frightened. Although he had no viewing to what his mother spectated through her mind's eye, he had been left to witness the consequences of her brief unconsciousness in the physical realm. Remnants of her morning tea pooled at her feet, shattered ceramic threatening to slice her underfoot. Thankfully, none of the blistering liquid got on him, but the abrupt clattering of her cup was enough to badly startle him.

Xailah hadn't the chance to reflect on any of it- the lapse in attention and thereafter- all focus went to the screaming baby bound at her chest. She padded through the tea puddle, whisking him off to the nearby sunroom with a panicked speed, with the hope that she'd get there before Barrow heard all the commotion and awoke. "Shhhhh," she whispered, holding him close. Tears blurred in the corner of her eyes as she rocked him, guilt snagging her heart at each tiny whimper. "Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry." He wouldn't understand the ache in her voice, but he'd quiet all the same. His scared cries dwindled into tired sputters once she began to hum to him.

Alas, her attempts to subdue him proved a short-lived victory. Xailah could already hear stirring from beyond the sunroom. The tea and broken dish was still on the floor in the kitchen. Barrow would be wanting an explanation.

At least Bishop was safe and calm. She could tell him that much.