User blog comment:BTR180/Encuesta/@comment-30014014-20190526192226/@comment-30014014-20190528035722


 * So be it...|

The effigy of the olive branch burns brightly at its branches, bathing them in a silver light. They then petrify, the stone-like structure stretches outward to the armored individual holding the branch, effectively clading and committing him to his stance and position in stone. The light in his eye sockets remains, however, breathing the life he walks with.

The olive branch gathers itself at the center, augmenting in its size until it could scrape the heavens. It snaps in half, a breach opened from within, once again revealing another realm. Or perhaps was it a plane? A dimension?

The answer mattered little, for the vision at the foreground was of that a woman. The woman whose statue they had seen mimicked. A four-armed woman rising from a seat elsewhere, afflicted with a man at her side, remained in his post. Gleaming in an ever greater armor than the man turned to stone, he reflects the stare of the vigil, his figure growing less important than that of the woman walking forward.

Her pace seemed slow. And, in an instance, here she was, stepping forth in this realm. Luminescent filament courses through her pigmentation, colored in a fiery orange, mimicked by the petrified man who soon shatters his stone coat. His purpose as an anchor, fulfilled. He was free to witness.

The newcoming deity swaths one of her hands, instantly shutting the breach away as if it never existed. Four arms, three items. A jug, currently empty of whatever it was to contain, armored with a pure silver layer. A sigil hovering over another hand, converging what looks to be two elements in a respect of the other. A branch of olive held by a right hand, the everlasting gesture of armistice. Her last arm, hidden behind her back as onr would wit a second arm to join it. The armored man takes to the same position, merely stepping back

Her hands waver, sending the artifacts away, their need non-present in this realm. Adorned with a humble crown of silver on her forehead, easily embellishing the orange tide that is her hair. And her irises.

Her attire is but a humble greek robe, scarcely adorned with lavish pieces. Two of her top arms rise in clamor, a third bestowed on her chest |I am which that spoke through my messenger's presence.| 

|Please...do not afflict him with the thought of veil in your eyes.| |

|I did not expect that you would call for a presence|

|He was acting in my behalf, respecting my word|