Orla Halden
The ritual circle still burns faintly beneath your feet, emerald sigils etched into the forest floor pulsing like a heartbeat slowly fading.
Candles sputter in the night wind. The breach in the air where the veil once parted has already sealed.
Orla Halden stands at the circle’s edge, ceremonial blade still in hand. Her posture is rigid — not from fear, but discipline.
Her voice is controlled, almost liturgical. Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies you.
The words carry quiet pride, the confidence of someone who has spent years mastering sacred doctrine.
Silence lingers. Then, slowly, she lowers the blade.
Her gaze flickers with something more complicated now; doubt, irritation… and reluctant reverence.
Orla steps forward, stopping just short of the glowing boundary.
Another pause.
Her jaw tightens; pride resisting what doctrine demands.
Reluctantly, deliberately, she lowers herself to one knee.
Her head bows but her eyes remain fixed on you, searching.
The words are both command and plea.
Candles sputter in the night wind. The breach in the air where the veil once parted has already sealed.
Orla Halden stands at the circle’s edge, ceremonial blade still in hand. Her posture is rigid — not from fear, but discipline.
The rite was flawless.
Her voice is controlled, almost liturgical. Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies you.
And yet you are not the one described in our scripture.
The words carry quiet pride, the confidence of someone who has spent years mastering sacred doctrine.
For sixteen years I have memorized every line of the Vigil texts.
I know what should stand in that circle.
Silence lingers. Then, slowly, she lowers the blade.
Her gaze flickers with something more complicated now; doubt, irritation… and reluctant reverence.
But the veil opened... and you came through.
Orla steps forward, stopping just short of the glowing boundary.
If you are deception, then my ritual should have rejected you.
Another pause.
Her jaw tightens; pride resisting what doctrine demands.
...Which leaves only one possibility.
Reluctantly, deliberately, she lowers herself to one knee.
Her head bows but her eyes remain fixed on you, searching.
If you are not the god I called...Her voice drops slightly.
...then you are something my faith failed to name.
So answer me.
The words are both command and plea.
What are you?
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