Once upon a time, Alisa D'Medvyed had dreamt of being a wizardess. This was in early girlhood. Years before she'd begun to hear the whisperings of the divine Defender, and was oriented on her life's true path. It was the usual sort of childhood fantasy and whimsy -- flying through the skies on the back of a charmed dragon; enchanting the crops so that it was always a bumper crop; casting dazzling glamors that enthralled and entertained kindly people, while driving off or banishing the evil. The usual sort of thing.
Her father certainly hadn't taken her interest at all seriously; half-elven or no, insightful for her years or no, she had entirely average brains when it came to book smarts. Not a poor student, but certainly not one cut out for the very rigorous, ongoing studies of wizardry. It was a fancy that Alisa had to let go of as she grew a bit older. But not one she let go of without some sense of sorrow. There was a side of her that almost seemed to yearn for the
otherworldly -- as if, years before awakening to Acavna, she innately sensed there was something out beyond the pale of the physical world that she
must touch.
And then one autumn came the night when she
had awakened to
Her --
It was hard to breathe
She was dark at the top of the stairs
And she called to me
And so I followed...
And gradually, over time -- and a deepening and strengthening of that relationship, and much dedicated rehearsing and practicing of things that she was shown -- became a spell caster. She counted herself mostly a caster, in fact; although her Lady's sacred weapon was the spear, and Alisa had trained and drilled with it for no small hours, she had to own up to the fact she would never truly have a warrior's hand or heart. It just wasn't her nature. Thus, she practiced extra diligently at making best use of her casting and channeling. Which meant having on hand needful components -- for her, that was often only Acavna's sacred symbol. But not always; she shared with wizard-kind the need of being properly prepared, especially with those of her spells that were more arcane like.
Once it came time to consider seriously the matter of a business, it was a combination of those things that led her to finally decide upon a supply shop for spell casters. Oh, opening and running a shop was hardly the
real goal. No; that always was and would remain the founding of the temple. The
other possibility would have been to begin with a small, simple shrine, and then build upward from there. But in reflection, that hadn't struck her as too great an idea. Acavna was all but forgotten in this age -- she needed a structure that would strike and please the eye, as well as impress that its founder was dead
serious, and not some
moonstruck eccentric.
So, this little endeavor was a means toward an end.
Mostly. Because, as she began to plan and to prepare, she found herself more and more caught up in the aesthetics of the project; of the fun and the whimsy of it. It was recapturing a facet of her childhood, she came to realize. And this pleased her. And though Acavna wasn't a goddess of magic, per se, her lunar motif would be wholly fitting. A way of including Her presence, yet without making the shop denominational, which Alisa didn't feel was appropriate.
* * * * * * * * * *
Out in the vicinity of the college, stood a small, elegantly designed cottage like structure, painted in midnight blue and grey, with white trim. A hanging sign out in front signified it as a place of business --
'Sisters of the Moon :: occult supplies and accessories.'
The sign depicted a pair of female figures with long hair, in side profile, sitting cross-legged and back to back. The figures were both featureless, as though in silhouette, one pure white and the other jet black. Behind the pair was a crescent moon done in silver.
Alisa was here this late morning to make final preparations prior to opening day. In stepping into her role as a proprietor, Alisa had chosen to attire herself differently than was her wont. Her hair was freed of its usual braiding, and instead loose about her shoulders. She wore a white silk blouse tucked into fitted breeches and a pair of soft leather riding boots. (and of course, she
had ridden here; Somala stationed comfortably out front)
Acavna's sacred sigil did not hang about her neck, but instead on a wall-peg behind the counter. She was never going to hide it. But, she was not presenting here as a priestess.
There were few clerics who took their obligation and vows more seriously than she did. Priestess and woman were usually much in unison, with little separation between. However... she hadn't been a priestess her entire life. Sometimes... sometimes it was ... healthy to step back from it a little, she felt. In the name of staying self-aware. Self-
honest.
Doing so inevitably brought her back to memories of her earlier life ... before Acavna, but also the early years after the awakening. When she'd been connected, but certainly no priestess. Awkwardly striving to find her feet in an...association that was vastly intimidating, if she paused to think about it in earthly, sensible terms.
As friends often do
I cared not for love, nor money
I think she knew
The people, they love her
And still they are the most cruel...
"Moon haired, shadow eyed little witch!"
It was not the only time she'd get called the latter. But it was the first time ...
Bethanna, her father's second wife. Little love lost in that relationship. In one way, Alisa could not blame her - she was far from the only one trying to make sense of what her step-child was going through. Why she was able to work orisons, perform the first vestiges of channel healing, without ever training at a temple. And by calling out to a goddess whom, if known at all, was considered to be dead and gone.
In her step-mother's case, though, the core of dislike wasn't only born out of that, and witch was far from the worst of names that would be applied. Bethanna later tried to convince her father that she was
prostituting herself, while she was spending so much time away in seclusion, practicing what she was shown in both waking vision and dream. Alisa shook her head faintly in remembering:
I've so often been too *something* for *someone's* liking. Even when it's more of a backhanded compliment. Mm hm, story of my life...
And lately, there was Domitius. Sometimes...
sometimes, she had a sinking feeling she wasn't doing him any favors. Happy go lucky spirit that he was, that he would be better off without herself, and those things attached to her.
So we make our choices
When there is no choice
And we listen to their voices
Ignoring our own voice...
Leaning up against the shop's counter, arms folded, she mentally shook herself from the track of thought she'd gotten on to. It was too beautiful a morning. Things were going too well. For the people she cared most about, as well as for herself. In addition to other things, she now had this charming little shop, and whatever further blessings and connection it would bring into her life.
Over the eastern window, Alisa had hung a crescent shaped dream-catcher. The late morning sun caught in the crystal that hung suspended within it, and was refracted into a vibrant gleaming of beautiful colors. She canted her head slightly, gazed upon it, reflectively, pensively for a time. Then crossed the distance, raised her hand, and touched it with her fingertips, gently, but with purpose.
She'd already managed to catch some dreams. And decided that catching some more was quite possible... as well as very, very acceptable. Her serious expression became a smile.
Lyrics from "Sisters of the Moon" by Fleetwood Mac (from the album "Tusk", no less)
https://youtu.be/Sujmxj9TmDY?t=106
This message was last edited by the player at 20:20, Sat 25 Jan 2020.