(no subject)
The monestary was perched precariously on the western most edge of Grismynydd, on the bank of the Bywydol. At sunset, the small river looked like a thread of gold, and with its gilded domes and stained windows, the monestary became a pendant of glittering jewels hung upon the craggy neck of the great, tiered mountain. Though utterly devoted to Tehda, the monks were hardly aesthetics, their pursuit of knowledge and discipline was tempered with the utmost joy of life. Ever was there laughter and music spilling from the walls, worship was never a somber occasion.
Within the walls there were earthly riches and comforts coupled with a vast collection of knowledge, without distinction between arcane, divine and natural, for all things were and were of Tehda. Life, though comfortable, was not idle. Scholastic pursuits were rigorous and taxing, leaving initiates exhausted for weeks, and when studies were paused, there were always more mundane cares to be attended to.
It was here that every child on Tereth came to hone their Awen, their piece of Tehda, for the monestary was beyond all the boundaries of the world, nameless, kingless and understood to be property of Tehda only, no man reigned there. Many children would come with Graslon, an unbearable grace that made even the turn of their head painfully beautiful. Of these, some would learn a dance, with deadly, paper-thin blades that sang out as a bell when they struck, and they were called the Rhy. Others would learn a dance so seductive that the world followed, and with a wave of their hands they could cause a forest to bow, these were called the Dew. Still others found within their dance the ability to close wounds and draw out the poison of disease, a rare and cherished gift, these were called the Awr.
A rarer Awen was Brud, a painful and difficult burden of knowing before anyone else. Those with this gift were taught how bear the burden and those who were strong enough were given instructions for ancient and secret rituals to make their visions clearer. Those who were able to keep from losing their minds were called Llaes.
Within the walls there were earthly riches and comforts coupled with a vast collection of knowledge, without distinction between arcane, divine and natural, for all things were and were of Tehda. Life, though comfortable, was not idle. Scholastic pursuits were rigorous and taxing, leaving initiates exhausted for weeks, and when studies were paused, there were always more mundane cares to be attended to.
It was here that every child on Tereth came to hone their Awen, their piece of Tehda, for the monestary was beyond all the boundaries of the world, nameless, kingless and understood to be property of Tehda only, no man reigned there. Many children would come with Graslon, an unbearable grace that made even the turn of their head painfully beautiful. Of these, some would learn a dance, with deadly, paper-thin blades that sang out as a bell when they struck, and they were called the Rhy. Others would learn a dance so seductive that the world followed, and with a wave of their hands they could cause a forest to bow, these were called the Dew. Still others found within their dance the ability to close wounds and draw out the poison of disease, a rare and cherished gift, these were called the Awr.
A rarer Awen was Brud, a painful and difficult burden of knowing before anyone else. Those with this gift were taught how bear the burden and those who were strong enough were given instructions for ancient and secret rituals to make their visions clearer. Those who were able to keep from losing their minds were called Llaes.