Cordir - Descriptions

(Oftentimes her descriptions have been poems found in her Ebon Book.)

Mortal Titles:

Hum [ Ma:16             ] Cordir walks an ebon road alone. Wyrm. 3rd Circle.    (August 1996)
Hum [ Ma:20             ] Cordir, Witch of the Black Conclave                   (October 31, 1996)
Hum [ Ma:24             ] Cordir, Witch of the Black Conclave [Apprenticed]     (December 4, 1996)
Hum [ Ma:25             ] Cordir: Fellowship Witch. Triat Nashite. ...padl      (Date Unknown)
Hum [ Ma:28             ] Cordir dances through Silver shadows. Fellowship.     (February 2, 1997)
Hum [ Ma:30             ] Cordir smiles brightly through the tears. Fellowship  (February 23, 1997)
Hum [ Ma:30             ] (KILLER) Cordir: Fellowship Witch, Triat Master, NewbieHelper (2x's dying moments)
Hum [ Ma:30             ] Cordir: Fellowship Witch, Triat Master, NewbieHelper  (Oct 26, 1997 - 3x install)
Hum [      Questor      ] Cordir Fellowship Witch, Ebon Bard, Triat Master      (December 14, 1997)
Hum [ Ma:27             ] Cordir, caraid du An-Shalach, Ebon Bard, Weaver.      (April 25, 1998)
Hum [       Ma:27       ] Cordir: Ebon Bard, Triat Master, Weaver, Nashite      (October 03, 1998)
Hum [       Ma:28       ] Cordir: Ebon Bard, Triat Weaver, Fellowship Witch     (December 28, 1998)
Hum [       Ma:29       ] Cordir and Mireya An-Shalach, Fellowship.             (January 1999)
Hum [       Ma:30       ] Cordir: Crosses her fingers and prays.                (January 1999)

Mortal Descriptions:

Mortal: At her wedding to Keller, August 11, 1996
Huge, liquid cobalt blue eyes gaze back at you, clouded with thoughts both terrible and beautiful. There is depth in those eyes now, and a lack of the madness that - until recently - was all too easily seen there. Her once glorious long blonde hair is short now, hacked off haphazardly at the shoulders, and has changed to an unusual smoky grey color streaked with glints of silver.

Old scars delicately crisscross most of the pale skin that is visible on her slim and lithe body. A slight wound on her neck remains unhealed, the place where she received a vampire god's kiss, and her right arm is permanently marked with the stigmata where a Lich once touched her.

Her garb is still simple, similar to what a peasant would wear, but with one exception. Basic woolen trews, linnea, and tunic woven in shades of brown and green are covered by a rich cloak of superlative weave, the clasp finely worked gold with a heraldic insignia. Pinned on the cloak is a sigil, which writhes and moves of it's own accord, the details of it escaping your eyes.

Bizarrely, a black iron shackle with the same insignia as the cloak clasp is locked around one thin wrist. Her head lifts as she notices your gaze, and one eyebrow lifts in silent inquiry as to why anyone would want to be looking at one such as she.

Cordir's Score, Circa 1996:
You are Cordir..... Oathbreaker, Outcast, 121 years old (208 hours).
You are a level 16 Mage
You have 82/169 hit, 143/160 mana, 191/191 movement, 2 practices.
You have 0 training sessions remaining.
You are carrying 19/33 items with weight 120/220 kg.
Str: TRN Int: TRN Wis: TRN Dex: TRN Con: TRN Chr: TRN
TRN = trainable, MAX = untrainable.
You are fairly lucky.
You have scored 117770 exp, and have 5 gold coins.
You need 13861 exp for level 17.
Autoexit: yes. Autogold: yes, Autoloot: no. Autosac: no.
Wimpy set to 84 hit points.
You are standing.
You are wearing clothes.
You are Neutral.

Mortal: Level 16 mage - During a Storytelling contest by Nalya
Cobalt blue eyes seem to swallow you up, as you gaze into them. Zephyrs move about her, flaring her robes and making snakes of her hair. Her visage blurs before your eyes, as you hear the voices in her head...

Mortal: During the Adventures in Demon Washing. December 4, 1996

.... impressions... 

..hair like the silver-grey ghost-light of the moon from behind the clouds...
..Garb; a strange mixture of peasant, noble and whore, covering a lithe body 
the size of a child's... 
..The sharp scent of ozone as lightning dances on her fingertips...
..Poet's eyes: joyful, tragic, insane, yearning, empty... now sharp chips of 
sapphire, hard and cold..now like the southern seas, warm and gentle
..An angry red burn cauterizing a delicate wound on alabaster skin... 
..A blackened stigmata branding her now and forever the Lich's property.. 
..old shackle scars braceleting tiny wrists, quietly revealing her as one 
who has known - and in some ways still knows - slavery... 
..A heart like shattered ice, splinters piercing her very being... 
and that of others... 
..A soul dimly lit by a faltering ember of goodness trapped in blackfold terror, 
like a seed awaiting germination.. with the terrible knowledge the mask is becoming 
the maid; the blank slate being rewritten.. the old story lost... 
.. The barest echo of a weaver's web still enwrapped around her, a wyrm's 
coils loosened but not released, a wyld wind subdued but not stilled – but 
she sees them not... 

Now comes an arcane gesture and a murmur of Thoras in a softly accented voice 
as her startled gaze meets yours. Invisibly she slips away, shamed to have 
been seen...

Who is she? A cypher to be sure. 
Better to ask who she has been: Bard. Oathbreaker. Criminal. Baroness. Nashite.... witch.

Cordir is in perfect health.
Cordir is using:
<used as light>     (Magical) (Glowing) a war banner
<worn on finger>    (Magical) (Glowing) the ancient obsidian ring
<worn around neck>  (Magical) the Amulet of Blocking
<worn around neck>  (Magical) the Amulet of True Seeing
<worn on body>       a French Maid's Outfit
<worn on head>      (Red Aura) a witch's hat
<worn about body>    an apron
<wielded>           (Glowing) the Ebony Blade
<held>               a duster
<worn with pride>   (Red Aura) the Mark of the Black Conclave
<worn with pride>   (Red Aura) (Magical) (Glowing) a black pearl brooch

Mortal: Date Unknown
... Strength.

Puzzled, you look again, seeking to understand where that first impression came from. But yes, there it is again... the delicate strength of spider's silk or the grip of a serpent's coils or the grasp of madness... or fate. It couldn't have been from her physical attributes, as she is hardly an imposing woman, slight of stature and built as she is... (Really, the word 'waif' springs to mind, not warrior). Perhaps it was the echos in her sapphire eyes, that whisper of hidden mysteries and knowledges shared with few. Perhaps it was the color of her hair - a strange cobweb-like gray which hangs down to her hips, almost like a shroud. Or perhaps it was the strange scar on her breast that somehow, horribly, _moves_ on her flesh, not in time to heartbeat or breath, but of its own accord; a Sigil, a Ward, a potent and eternal declaration of past, present and future allegiance.
Perhaps it was none of those things. Perhaps it was just your imagination.
Perhaps not.


Mortal: Mage Level 24ish.
A tempestuous woman of inherent contradictions stands before you - the White Witch of the Silver Fellowship. Her aura at last matches the color of her piercing, steady gaze; the hue of the sun-dappled waters of the southern seas. A haunting smile, half joy, half sorrow plays over her lips as she wrenches her gaze from yours. As she turns away and her cloak falls, the shadow of a scar on the line of her throat is revealed and a blackened hand-print is laid bare on her left shoulder. She flips her moon-grey hair over the marks and her pale features somehow grow more ashen.

'Everyone has their scars... some within... some without... old marks of allegiances, they are... but... no matter. In Lord Nash's name, blessings and greetings. How may I serve you?' she murmurs, her voice slightly accented with a colonial dialect of Thoras. She lays aside a slim ebon leather bound book and quill pen, and offers you a hand in welcome. Peeping over her shoulder, you can just make out the words written:

'I told myself it mattered not, the color of a soul
But instead, the Path that's tread, and the final goal.
I told myself so many things to keep myself content
But friends three, they aided me; the veil of lies was rent.

In Service Silver I rejoice, Gryphon the Lord I serve
Still Weaver's Chyld, not the Wyld's, as any could observe.
And though behind, burned bridges lie, to my eternal sorrow
I face the future with some hope and no fear of tomorrow.'



Mortal: Mage Level 28 - During pregnancy with Mireya.
Cordir raises shining sapphire eyes to meet yours, and you are stunned by the changes in this usually reserved, dignified woman. Her laughter is exultant, and she smiles radiantly, simply because it feels good to do so. She twirls in a circle, the circle of her dress flaring out to bare shapely ankles, her hair floating out behind her like a silver-gray cloak... and for a moment, you could have sworn you heard... no... it couldn't be... not Cordir giggling??

Her precious ebon-leather bound book has fallen negligently to the ground, and upon the open page thus revealed, lies the answer to this mystery. You read:

"I love him.
So simple a phrase, so utterly inadequate.
I am a woman... nay, a goddess... reborn,
rebirthed like the phoenix
from the flames of his heart
There is color, now, in a world
no longer simply shades of gray,
as if the Realm itself rejoiced with me.
I long to sing out like the robin for all to hear,
unable to contain in this finite mortal form
the joy that sweeps through me like the summer tides.
Laughing for the sound of it,
Loving for the thrill of it,
Weeping for the beauty of it,
I, finally, am whole."

Looking again, you notice a glow about her that you have never seen before, and she seems a bit more... plump... than usual...


Mortal: Mage Level 29 - During quest for permission to marry Deamhan.
Slim and pale as a shaft of silver moonlight, the woman before you acknowledges your gaze with a nod, then lifts sapphire bright eyes to yours. In them, you see something ageless, ancient, the echo of an Incarna that has not been praised in this Realm by any lips other than her own since the Ascension of Thaygar.

She has changed much, this woman, this witch, altered forever by a Quest for Immortality and a newly found love that has taught her more of love and Life than her previous four hundred years of experience in this Realm. The joys sorrows of motherhood, the deep sorrow of the loss of her lifelong dream, and the continuance of a belief in the Three that have guided her steps ever since her Ebon rebirth. All of these have carved away the chaff from her soul, leaving her the essence of her self - mother, bard, lover, witch, weaver.

A slight smile flashes across her features, and almost. as if sensing your realizations, she nods once more. 'Clear Pattern to you, and may Darkness ever guide your Path.' A swift gesture, an arcane murmur in Thoras, and the last servant of the Triat slowly fades from view.

January 10, 1999: Level 30 Mage - Interviewing with Tynian for Immortality:

You are using:
<used as light>      (Red Aura) (Magical) a red dragon's eye
<worn on finger>     (Magical) (Glowing) a circle of moonlight
<worn on finger>     (Magical) the flaring sapphire ring
<worn around neck>   (Red Aura) (Magical) a black mantle with jeweled breast clasp
<worn around neck>   (Magical) the rainbow glass amulet
<worn on body>       (Magical) (Glowing) a sheer gown of fine white silk
<worn on head>       (Magical) a samanite silk headscarf
<worn on legs>       (Magical) golden dragonscale leggings
<worn on feet>       (Magical) some dragon wing slippers
<worn on hands>      (Magical) a pair of soft grey leather gloves
<worn on arms>       (Magical) golden dragonscale sleeves
<worn about body>    (Magical) the Ward of the Triat
<worn about waist>   (Magical) a jeweled belt with filigreed buckle
<worn around wrist>  (Magical) (Humming) the scintillating agate bracelet
<worn around wrist>  (Glowing) (Tattoed) the name-rune of Alak-Nacha
<wielded> (Magical)  a long sword
<held>               Red Aura)(Magical) (Glowing) a crystal ball
<worn with pride>    the mark of the vampire
<worn with pride>    the Golden Quill of Word-Craft

Immortal Titles:

Hum [     Ambassador    ] Cordir: how can I help you?                           January 10, 1999
Hum [     Ambassador    ] Cordir, Lady An-Shalach, Ebon Weaver                  March 20, 1999
Hum [     Ambassador    ] Cordir An-Shalach, Oathed to a Kindred. Ebon.         April 2, 1999
Hum [     Attendant     ] Cordir An-Shalach, serving Balance.                   April 14, 1999         
Hum [     Attendant     ] Cordir An-Shalach, Ebon Weaver serving Balance.       Jun 21, 1999
Hum [    Demigoddess    ] Cordir really, really wasn't expecting that           Jun 21, 1999
Hum [    Demigoddess    ] Cordir An-Shalach, Weaver Incarna, Mistress of Fate   June 28, 1999
Hum [    Demigoddess    ] Cordir An-Shalach, Lady of Fate, Webmistress          August 24, 1999
Hum [  Lesser  Goddess  ] Cordir An-Shalach, Lady of Fate, Webmistress.         December 31, 1999
Hum [  Lesser  Goddess  ] Cordir: Karma, like Fate, never forgets. *D*          August 19, 2000 
Hum [  Lesser  Goddess  ] Cordir An-Shalach, Lady of Fate.          *D*         September 9, 2000
Hum [  Lesser  Goddess  ] Cordir An-Shalach, Lady of Cookies. Er...Fate.        January 23, 2001
Hum [  Lesser  Goddess  ] Cordir, bereft Lady of Fate.                          March 3, 2001 (1)
Hum [  Lesser  Goddess  ] Cordir: Judge Me by My enemies. *Fate*                August 10, 2001
Hum [  Lesser  Goddess  ] Cordir wears mourning black. Weaver of Fate.          September 11, 2001
Hum [  Lesser  Goddess  ] Cordir: Penitent Ebon Weaver of Fate.                 October 10, 2001
Hum [     Ambassador    ] Cordir, penitent weaver, teacher of the young         October 28, 2001
Hum [     Attendant     ] Cordir seeks her Dark, Shadow y Night                 November 10, 2001
Hum [     Attendant     ] Cordir busca su Dark, Shadow y Night                  November 11, 2001
Hum [     Attendant     ] Cordir: Evil? Third time's the charm...Dark Fate?     November 13, 2001
Hum [     Attendant     ] Cordir: Booga-in-training. Dark Shadowed Night.       November 22, 2001
Hum [     Attendant     ] Cordir goes bump in the dark                          December 3, 2001
Hum [    Demigoddess    ] Cordir: Fate reborn, arisen from ashes.               December 3, 2001
Hum [    Demigoddess    ] Cordir, Lady of Fate, UberGeek.  *Stormreaver*        February 25, 2002
Hum [    Demigoddess    ] Cordir, bereft. Fate.                                 March 19, 2002 (2)
Hum [    Demigoddess    ] Cordir: Fate & chocolate chip cookies. *Stormreaver*  May 22, 2002
Hum [  Lesser  Goddess  ] Cordir bounces and grins. Fate. Stormreaver.          May 22, 2002
Hum [  Lesser  Goddess  ] Cordir: Fate. Stormreaver. Beware of snakes.          July 15, 2002 (3)
Hum [  Lesser  Goddess  ] Cordir has bad CTS, not typing much. Fate. :-(        August 17, 2002
Hum [  Lesser  Goddess  ] Cordir, Fate's Weaver, Ebon Bard *Stormreaver*        December 21, 2002
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir Lady of Fate, Weaver Incarna *Stormreaver*     March 9, 2003
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir, Fate|Oook Groupie|Oathed to the Stormreaver   May 11, 2003
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir ponders the Dawn of Arcanely Wyld Mayhem.      July 14, 2003
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir, Lady of Fate, oathed to the Stormreaver       September 15, 2003
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir is in the shower.                              October 10, 2003
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir: seeking Khore. Fate. Stormreaver. Ty-TMQFC    December 11, 2003
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir, Lady Fate. *Stormreaver* Ty-TMQ-FC            January 3, 2004
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir: Girls of TFC Calendar! Volunteer Today!       January 24, 2004
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir, Lady of the Chosen of Fate, Ebon Bard *Abe*   April 11, 2004
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir wears black in mourning.  *Fate* *Abe*         April 22, 2004 (4)
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir, Mrs Musk Ox, loves her Hubby & her Fate.      May 16, 2004 (5)
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir, Lady of Fate. (or something) *Abe*            November 13, 2004
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir, Lady of Fate.    *Abe*    10k Club.           January 3, 2005 (6)
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir: Not cute. Just Scary. *Fate* *Abe*            September 4, 2005 (7)
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir: Is ready to run a team quest! Any takers?     January 7, 2006
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir, Lady of Fate.    *Abe*    11k Club.           February 9, 2006
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir is hoping to speak to a god+ Tells pls.        February 2, 2007
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir wants spell scores for Cadee. Fork em over!    August 1, 2007
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir, Lady of Fate. *Abe* 12k Club.                 January 8, 2008
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir, Lady of Fate, Ebon Bard, Triat Master         March 2, 2008
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir burns...                                       April 28, 2008 (8)
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir is content.                                    April 30, 2008 (8)
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir, Lady of Fate, Ebon Bard, Triat Master         June 22, 2008 (9)
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir: Ebon Bard, Triat Master. Weaver|WYRM|Wyld     February 6, 2009
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir: Ebon Bard, Triat Master. Weaver|Wyrm|WYLD     February 12, 2009
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir: Ebon Bard, Triat Master. WEAVER|Wyrm|Wyld     March 15, 2009
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir: Just Visiting. (Abe/Fate/Ebon)                July 18, 2010
Hum [    Triat Weaver   ] Cordir is looking for Tynian. (Abe/Fate/Ebon)         July 24, 2010
Hum [      Goddess      ] Cordir, Lady of Fate, Ebon Bard, Triat Master         January 23, 2010
Hum [      Goddess      ] Cordir, TFC Amateur Historian. Ebon|Fate|Abe.         January 24, 2010

(1) March 3, 2001: Deamhan An-Shalach fades from this world. (2) March 19, 2002: Cordir releases Nyx as her Ordained. (3) July 15, 2002: Cordir names Myronides an Enemy. (4) April 22, 2004: Cordir wears black, mourning the loss of several who retire all at once, including Kerriariadne and Bliss. (5) May 16, 2004: The day before, Cordir and Abe marry in RL. (6) January 3, 2005: Cordir hits 10,000 hours of play. (7) September 4, 2005: In response to Mystaya's title (Mystaya, Insanely cute and extra scary!). (8) April 28 - May 5: Nunya bidness. (9) June 22, 2008: Retirement.

Immortal Descriptions:

Attendant: 1999 & Wedding Desc
Enduring.
Odd, how that was the first word to enter your mind as you gazed upon this, the Realm's newest Immortal. There is something about her that speaks clearly of perseverance; the strength of the oak against the storm, the stone against the sea.

Inexorably called, you look deeper into eyes tinted like moonlight dancing over still water, darkness striated by light. There is compassion there, and wisdom also. Loss. Love. Pain. Joy. Failure. Success... All of the infinite possibilities of a life lived to its fullness. And yet, beyond all of that, something deep within. Something more. You spy a hint of something intangible - perhaps a shadow of something greater, like the whisper of the butterfly to come, seen in the chrysalis.

"Greetings to you," she murmurs, her voice so soft you must strain to hear it. "I am Cordir An-Shalach, an Ambassador. I am here to guide and aid those new to the Realm. If you are in need of such, you have but to ask, and I will aid you as I can."


Immortal Description: Halloween, 10/31/1999, also in 2000
Surely this must be an illusion! For there is no way the quiet, reserved Lady Cordir would appear in public in such a state of dress... surely not? Oh. Wait. Its Halloween. Even Goddesses get to wear costumes on Halloween.

You examine her garb carefully, and realize with widened eyes that the French Maid's Outfit that covers her form so scantily must be the self-same one that was made for her by the Great Implementor Madman, in ancient days. The tiny black velvet skirt is fluffed out by several crisp white crinoline underskirts, and a tiny white lace apron and cap add to the ensemble.
She waggles her feather duster at you reprovingly, scattering dust everywhere.

<worn around neck>  (Magical) the marks of a vampire's Kiss
<worn on body>      a French Maid's Outfit
<worn on legs>      (Magical) a pair of black lace stockings
<worn on feet>      (Magical) a pair of 3-inch stiletto heels
<held>              a duster

DemiGoddess: 1999
Falling....

Looking into Her eyes, you lose your sense of self, and plummet into those orbs of deepest blue which darken to star-lit midnight as She registers your presence. Somehow, you feel safe here, in the place of Her regard. Her gaze is gentle, and holds the fullest measure of your existence up to this moment, and what your future may-yet-be. You can almost read it, almost see it... unconsciously, you yearn forward, to know what is written there.

With a slight, graceful gesture She tilts her face to the side so that the silver curtain of Her hair cascades forward, severing contact with those eyes.

'Such knowledge, friend, is not one lightly gained.' Her voice is soft, huskily accented in Old-Thoras. 'The future comes soon enough. Seek you no knowledge of it here.'

Portrait by Jerome

Demigoddess: October 23, 2000. Also used in March 2008. Written by Khore
The light seems to intensify slightly as She glides into your view: a dim, barely perceptible radiance bathing Her delicate features. She is formed like a statue whose sculptor's hands this Realm will never again know - petite, lithe, but with the curves of a woman who has borne a child. The room is stilled and yet the translucent gown She wears with an autocratic grace moves about Her with a mysterious will of its own, in concert with a web-shaped tattoo at the pool of Her throat.

She says nothing, but Her gaze speaks volumes to you. You would call them a color you had never seen, had you the strength to return their unwavering judgment. They rest upon you and your head bows of its own volition, and just as quickly, the tangible lifting of weight is felt as that Immortal gaze leaves you.

There is no smile on Her lips. Only the softly upturned edge that dares a smile to be. She has much to teach, and you have much to be taught. Perhaps the answer is not as important as knowing the question that should be asked.

DemiGoddess: January 24, 2001 - Written by Tirayel & Cordir
A small woman's light-boned figure moves lithely before you, with the grace of the turning stars. She stands out sharply from the background, somehow more real than the world around Her. As you dare to look directly into Her face, you find yourself tumbling headlong into the abyss of Her eyes. Time shatters, moments and eons swirling in the wind. Your spirit collides with blazing motes of possibility as your vision is filled with a whirling kaleidoscope of lives, beings, instants of joy, anguish and wonder.

* A devout mage-bard crawls upon black glass and fire, her own blood the water to wash them clean * A hollow woman, stripped of self-knowledge and choice, is bound to those she hates * Hair a cloud of spun mithril, her angry, narrowed eyes blazing with indigo light, a witch stands fast before the Inquisition stripping her of her faith's name.*

You are once more in the body you had nearly forgotten, and She smiles softly at you. "Few can look upon their own Fate without trembling, and in time all come to my Loom. You have dared much. Now you must grow beyond what you have known."

Her words bring both trepidation and comfort, for she is the final incarna and servant of the Three. She is Wyrm, placing your beginnings within the Tapestry itself. She is Weaver, knowing you and your place in each cast of the shuttle, entwining your life with that of others. And she is Wyld, cutting all Threads at the end.


Dark's Attendant: November 21, 2001
You say, 'I need a new description.'.
Lanfear says (in common), 'A mean one!'.
Tranquility laughs.
Ebonie shakes his head.
You blink.
Lanfear says (in common), 'a seductive one!'.
Tranquility says (in common), 'She does not need a mean one'.
Ebonie says (in common), 'Something short and simple'.
Tranquility says (in common), 'A softer one'.
Lanfear says (in common), 'its time for one!'.
Cordir is bathed in the essence of charisma.
Cordir is in perfect health.

Cordir is using:
<worn about body> a long robe of pure white linen
<worn with pride> (Artifact magic) (Glowing) (Humming) the Medallion of Goddesshood
<worn with pride> (Tattooed) (Writhing) The Covenant of the Chosen


Written by Tranquility: November 11, 2001
The silver-haired Lady who stands before you has the bearing of warrior-maiden, yet the womanly curves and gentle features of any heroine of the oldest tales. As her gaze meet yours, the calm they reflect mimics that of a sun-warmed, indigo lake in a hidden and unknown forest, bearing not a ripple upon its surface, but with depths enough to drown in.

As her intense, observant gaze looks deeper into yours, lifetimes pass before your eyes, all one soul but many incarnations. How many lives have you led? Even if you do not know, the Weaver Incarna does. As she stands before you now, the glimmering hint of your strand is stretched between her slender hands. It is She who minds the threads, who chooses life, death, happiness, love, sorrow, whatever is needed that the pattern be set as it should.

Equally at home in the pure energies of the Pattern as she is taking small steps teaching the young of the Realm, the Lady moves with grace and modesty, yet the sensuality of a woman awakened to her fullest potential. The slight hints of icy reserve about her melt away, and a delighted smile curves her sweet crimson lips. Tilting her head to one side, her eyes fall upon a soul in the Weave beyond your sight, perhaps one she calls her Chosen, her friend or her beloved. Laughing gently, teasingly, she murmurs an answer you cannot hear, and whispers a spell of protection and warding.

Perhaps there is a side to this Goddess that few know.


Mortal Again!! June 2, 2002: Pfiles Corrupted (Later restored from backup)

The blue eyes of the lass before you seem ancient, ageless,
utterly at odds in such a young woman. Her smile is secret,
knowing, and she toys with a lock of her long, spun silver 
hair. Pale skinned, small boned and waifishly slender, she 
seems almost ethereal, as if this mortal shell was somehow
utterly unfamiliar to her. A shiny black spider crawls out
from the protective web of her hair, as comfortable within
those locks as it would be in its own spun home. 

(Winning) Holloween Costume Contest Entry, 2002:

The woman who slouches before you has a sardonic, feral smirk curving her lips.
Her pale, scratched hands move restlessly at her sides, as if unable to keep 
from typing 'whozone' at a meteoric rate, and trying to keep the cat off the 
keyboard. Glancing at a notebook covered in a astonishing array of facts and 
bits of data including home towns, reports, and stolen glances at inventories 
and equipment lists, her hazy blue eyes scan the horizon, searching for prey. 
A large, forgotten mug holds a no-longer very cold quart of some unknown, 
caffeine and sugar laced substance to help her maintain the long hours needed
to track down the smallest possible character in her level range and pounce. 
A row of blinking lights reflect up on her face, from the row of IMs calling 
for her attention. She chews reflectively on her lower lip and her eyes narrow 
once more as she glances around her surroundings. A quick movement of one hand 
checks her macros and aliases once more, and a soft, muttered curse escapes as 
she sees someone depart the Realm. 'Next time, bloo, you gonna be my biatch!'
Cordir the evil PKer is in perfect health.
worn on finger    (Potent magic) raggedly bitten fingernails
worn on body      (Potent magic) a blue t-shirt badly in need of laundering
worn on head      (Potent magic) a ballcap worn backwards
worn on legs      (Potent magic) droopy, torn sweatpants, stained with catsup
worn on feet      (Potent magic) a pair of mis-laced sneakers
worn on arms      (Potent magic) hand and wrist support braces
worn about body   (Potent magic) a flannel bathrobe
wielded           (Potent magic) a slice of day old pizza
worn with pride   (Potent magic) logs from her last four PKs
worn with pride   (Red Aura) a PK'er's grim determination
Cordir is bathed in the essence of charisma.
Cordir is in perfect health.

Lesser Goddess: October 22, 2003
Haunted eyes of a indigo so deep you could drown in them meet yours. There is a fire in them - that of one whose faith and foundation has been shaken to its core, shattered beyond healing - a wild, recklessness terrifying to see. Her calf-length hair is disheveled, snarled, spattered with what may be blood, and tangled with leaves and small twigs as if she passed through wilderness with no care for her own well being. Dirt smudges with the same breadth as her knuckles drag across one cheek where tears were dashed from her face. The full curve of her lower lip is bleeding and swollen from the spot it was bitten to keep angry, bitter words from escaping.

'I knew this world, once.' Her voice is soft yet intense, her eyes like a hammer, crashing into yours. 'I knew and loved its people. I knew my place and I knew my path. Now? They that inspired me are gone Ages ago. The low have Ascended high, blades of betrayal pierce my very soul, and one by one, friends depart. I have resisted change, time and again, fought against the inevitable flow of the Pattern as it wrenched this world from one I loved, to a prison that keeps only ghosts within.'

She takes one hesitant step forward, chin lifting, expression growing icy, resolute.
'But this was my home before it fell to the dogs. I will not abandon hope, nor those who give me their trust. But perhaps it is time for Change to be embraced.'


Lesser Goddess: May 17, 2006
A corona of deepest indigo hue is the last you see as you fall into Her eyes. Lost within those Immortal orbs, you are surrounded by the Great Pattern itself, whirling motes of light representing all that was, all that is, all that may yet be, each guided and shaped by She who Weaves. In a fraction of a second, the tale of Her life screams through your mind, shredding your heart bloody, leaving you wracked and sobbing for air. Joy, sorrow, pain, She has known each intimately as the forge of spirit that they can be. Birth, death, rebirth, She spins each in time, an awareness of every life within the Pattern indelibly a part of Her.

With a slight, graceful gesture She tilts her face to the side so that the silver curtain of Her hair cascades forward, severing contact with those haunting, haunted eyes. 'Such knowledge, friend, is not one lightly gained.' Her voice is soft, huskily accented in Old-Thoras. 'The future comes soon enough. Seek you no knowledge of it here.'


Lesser Goddess: 2007
A corona of deepest indigo hue is the last you see as you fall into Her eyes. Lost within those Immortal orbs, you are surrounded by the Great Pattern itself, whirling motes of light representing all that was, all that is, all that may yet be, each guided and shaped by She who Weaves. In a fraction of a second, the tale of Her life screams through your mind, shredding your heart bloody, leaving you wracked and sobbing for air. Joy, sorrow, pain, She has known each intimately as the forge of spirit that they can be. Birth, death, rebirth, She spins each in time, an awareness of every life within the Pattern indelibly a part of Her.

Like an insect released from a clinging web of thought, sensation, and memory, you are granted escape from that gaze. Returning to your senses you see Her standing before you, watching in silence. Slender, yet with the womanliness of a lover and mother, She is cloaked in a cascade of silvery hair that reaches her calves and garbed in a flowing feminine gown impossibly spun of silvery spider's webs, the lingering scent of wild roses, and the rumbling, cloudy aftermath of storms. A tiny hint of what might be a smile dances at the very edges of Her soft lips; whether it shares in kind humor or cruel mockery, you cannot discern. A chiming tone catches your notice, drawing the eye to its source: the three implements at her belt. There hangs a spindle, a shuttle and a pair of bloody shears, each a tool wielded by the Lady of Fate as She spins, weaves, and cuts the Threads of the Tapestry of existence.


Retired Immortal: January 10, 2009

Shadows swirl around the form of the woman before you, concealing her from
anything but the most intent gaze. The strands of darkness flow like smoke
from an ebon flame, weaving around her like ghosts flocking to the subject
of their wrath, or sable spiders swarming over a larger prey.  Glimpses of
pale skin can be seen here and there, a silken bit of fabric, the gleam of
silver, the crimson of a thin line of sanguine fluid dripping from a gaunt
wrist. She almost seems to flicker in and out of existence, as if here but
not, like a candle dancing in a strong breeze, nearly extinguished. Unseen
by you, something catches her attention, and she stills for a brief moment,
the concealing smoke and shadows thinning. Only one brief glimpse of those
hellish azure eyes and your soul shudders within mortal flesh: they scream
with agony and pain held tightly and silently inside - trembling like iron
made brittle and nearly about to shatter. Blood streaks her arms and clots
her long silver hair, staining the scissors sheathed at her waist, and old
scars in the shape of the Sigil Odegra have been freshly renewed in bright
scarlet burns upon her flesh. Feeling the weight of your horrified gaze, a
single gesture is all it takes to wreath her in flame and shadow, granting
the mercy of veiling her from sight once more.

Retired Immortal: 2010:
Shadows seem to flow and shift around her, like a sentient fog, partially obscuring the Lady Weaver from view. Only quick glimpses, here and there, can be seen: the flowing length of her silvery hair, the storm-blue color of her silken gown, the bloody silver weapon sheathed at her waist... and those eyes: a dark azure, illuminated from within by strands of light - a web, a Pattern -- painful remembrance of things that have been, awareness of things yet to come and most regretted and hurtful: knowledge of things that will never be.

March, 2011:

Cordir stands before you.
She is not impressive, physically: a slight build - almost waifish, really - 
and short of stature. Long silver hair cloaks her form, as if she was wrapped 
in a spider's web, and her hands are bare of any weapons. Her eyes are an odd
shade of blue, like still, deep pools of indigo.  Scars crisscross her flesh:
her hands, in particular, bear the mark of many a blade on the palm.  Crimson
blisters dot her fingertips. Visible through the delicate fabric of her gown,
the blackened mark of a Lich's grasp. Upon her breast, Covenant and Sigil are
ever-moving, shifting, living within her flesh. One hand steals upward to cup
a small locket hanging about her throat and she tilts her head to one side, a
calculated gesture that lets her hair fall such that it hides her expression,
and those thoughts that might be mirrored in her eyes.

The Weaver stands before you.
Her Manifestation is overpowering, the weight of Her gaze staggering  - almost
more than mortal senses can bear. Her eyes are shifting pools of Ebon black, a
shifting Pattern of Threads visible within. The Triat Weaver is. Was. And ever
shall be: Weighing. Measuring. Persevering.