#writing the damn praxis ceremony and using my list of headcanons

[sulphuricgrin]

WIP Wednesday

Since last week I have been tagged by: @sanza-17 @hircines-hunter @pocket-vvardvark @skyrim-forever @thequeenofthewinter and @lathez

I will tag : @skyrim-crossing @scholarlyhermit @bookworm-driven-insane @gamevoidartblog @illumiera @nyarevar @moriche @pinessydr @fangsandsoftgrass @yewphoric @flycasual

but like always, no pressure! Sorry if you've already posted and I've just missed it 😓

I had no intention of sharing WIPs until I finished writing my next chapter. But oh well. I've got no art to share. Mild burn out from art. So you guys get writing. Listening to this was great to set the mood for this scene lol

The catacombs run deep, far below their house’s estate. Elikar had only gone down there once himself, for his own ceremony, and hopes this time might be his last. There’s an eeriness down there that he wishes to stay away from. Marble-like stone surrounds them, every footstep turns to subdued echoes. When they get to the first proper floor, they’re greeted by the keepers of the crypt and the stinging smell of ceremonial incense and candle smoke. They continue further down, their spiraling descent marked by the ever decreasing temperature. The shallow alcoves in the walls flicker alight from the scones and braziers, briefly illuminating delicately painted urns of ancestors.  They walk in silence, one Elikar wishes to break, but can’t find the words to. Looking at the group, he finds he’s not the only one uncomfortable. Cinnara had at some point latched onto Lilliandra’s hand, fingers laced together tightly. His sister and mother seemed unbothered though.  The next large room they walk into is thankfully the last. It was square in shape, with the floor recessing in a cross shape down to the middle, where lay a small stone table as a shrine. In the walls, between stone statues of ancestors were more urns- some older than others, some painfully smaller. On the steps going down were half-melted, unlit candles, and his sister, with barely a move of her hand, lit them all, giving the room a deeper golden luminescence from sconces and candles combined. The three of them stand behind Lilliandra as she steps up to the small stone table, and watch in silence as she puts her hands together in silent prayer. It takes little time before a spirit appears. Elikar finds her vaguely familiar, but is unsure why until their mother greets the ghost.  “Hello, mother.” The spirit smiles. “Psylia, darling. Is it time for my granddaughter's ceremony?”  “Yes, grandmother,” Lilliandra answers for their mother, her tone almost bored. Not at all reverent as she should be. “I petition for your blessings.” “That drumming of your still beating heart mocks the dead here, child,” she seemingly berates her. Their grandmother’s spirit sits upon the stone table casually, with her hands clasped in her lap. “Well, recite your lineage, girl.” “I, Lilliandra Caemaire ‘len Psylia Suriwen Vallilina ‘ata Vandoril Rurelion Talomar ‘cal Nivulirel, entreat my ancestors for their wisdom and blessing.” Oddly, the spirit glances to their mother with a brow raised before returning her stare at his sister. Elikar shares a look with Cinnara, both confused at the interaction and the pause.  “You’ll be given hardships similar to those before you. You will be given opportunities our kind could only dream of, but have never been given. Follow the path. Listen to the wisdom of those around you. The divines bless you, my girl.” And with that, their grandmother’s spirit fades away.