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Her Blood Through Your Veins [Monologue]
And now for something completely different. Original artpiece of Rafe, drawn by 
Mick39 , found previously only on her patreon, now available in a better light with a fully fledged story snipped from my fanlore. An introspective Monologue from Rafe. Apologies for the long-form read. And Special thanks to 
for allowing me to continue the tradition and fanlore tradition of naming stories in this format.
"Her Blood Through Your Veins" will be the definitive story arc title which will involve Rafe.
As always, lyrics are highly relevant.
I do hope you all enjoy this ephemeral view into one"s mind!
Artwork drawn by Mick39
Rafe Silves ©
Vilous - Artwork and Design @
Vilous - Story and Lore @
Mick39"s Patreon | Kiki"s Patreon for Vilous concepts in development | Vilous official website, featuring wiki, manga & store!
Mick39 , found previously only on her patreon, now available in a better light with a fully fledged story snipped from my fanlore. An introspective Monologue from Rafe. Apologies for the long-form read. And Special thanks to for allowing me to continue the tradition and fanlore tradition of naming stories in this format."Her Blood Through Your Veins" will be the definitive story arc title which will involve Rafe.
Themesong for the piece : "Begin Again" by Purity Ring As always, lyrics are highly relevant.
I do hope you all enjoy this ephemeral view into one"s mind!
My mind is aflutter and my dreams along with the visions or apparitions feel like they are meshing with each of my sunset and rise, like a vortex in a lakebed or a whirlpool in the ocean…
When I am amongst them all, within the crowd of people cheering, crying, shouting and pleading my name in unison with hers, at the center of it all, it feels as if a wave crashes onto me of nothing but the weight of memories past.
As the tide rises and then sinks in the lakes of Hazma, seething the seashells and feeding the populace, in an ever continuous cycle, perpetuating the motion of time and the flow of the rivers which are either natural or made by man’s hand. Not for minutes, not for hours, days, nay, but for all of past, present and future time. Day after day. Year after year.
The motions of the crowd wash over me and their prayers murmurate and grind away, eagerly thrusting themselves and basking in my presence, to each their own, pursuing their separate ends, goals and wishes of wellbeing.
Here, amidst the crowd, the sensations are all but almost numb as I try to drown them out sometimes and listen for her voice which never comes as it once did, when I was all but absorbed and rapt in my eager self, feeling as young as I was decades ago when I was but a brat hiding amongst her loins.
The crowd yielded and parted ways, pushing me from the back like winds into a sail and waves retreated left and right as they drove, pushed and carried me afar, to the dunes of the Sailzane, where they lambast their prayers amongst the winds with a stressful, feverish ardour. Our names. In unison. Like a spear, chucked into the vast nothing.
A spear of dynamic propensity, filled with spiritual force, unknowable and unwittingly skirting normal reason or will, akin to the forces that lifts the tides, shakes the leaves of the Forest and sends the clouds onwards across the sky.
The friction of these primordial elements mirroring that of the people’s own, thousand interests, as the clash and meld together like fire on metal, until a hammer comes battering down to mold them and their ideas into shape. A ritual in which both the world and man is moved to and fro, without considering the consequences of their forgery, and yet, the agitation of their lives is akin to a pool in which a rancorous child had tossed a stone in frustration.
Without thought and absence of preoccupation, it is obvious to me that the masses gathered are unconscious of these elements on the greater canvas of life, it is evident in the ways that they speak to me, how they act, pray and mutter our names across the veils of the dunes, but it is more sternly felt and seen in the way their stones and scrolls keep record of the things that they wish to keep but not of the ones they want to admit. Akin to a Gardener that selects naught but the prettiest plants and casts aside the weeds which form the underlying soil mulch or chooses to ignore all the pricks of the finger, cuts and hours of labour tilling the earth for them to grow and plant themselves upon.
For these are the seeds that will grow, foster and nurture the future of the world, and they are all drawn intrinsically towards me and driven by the push of happenstance and accumulated circumstances that lead them upon the path of faith. They cannot sit idly, they cannot be free, unless united in purpose akin to a slave with a collar around their neck, pushing against the plow in order to till the field for a sense thereof of impetus. Thus they are beaten and crash against the rocks, like seaweeds in the frothy unknown waters and waves that collapse upon turmoil jagged rocks.
I remember the times past, where I looked down upon the gathered crowds, myriads of people from across the Dukedom, and I could only weep, not because of the grandiose sea of souls, not of their plight or their imagined, perceived ability of mine to render upon them miracles…
But of the thought that in a hundred, or nay, perhaps thousand of years, they would all be gone and lost to the sands and winds. Where would all of these people be without their faith and union in which to guide themselves and build onto a collective, or further past the veil and down across the creek of time which flows like water down trodden, where would their labours and worship lead them to, if not towards the inevitable withering of their crops and seeds like summer grasslands and eventual dry season fields of decay and bark…
I remember in youth, how we used to go together to the garden, and stand near the edge of the cold lake, the pool of lilies was peaceful akin to your voice in the calm moments I faintly and struggle to remember. The same place where, it is now preserved akin to a bubble out of time, with nothing moved about or improved, next to the promontory of pavement and hanging flowerbed,I still go there to ponder and reflect on the things you’ve told me, of when we used to rest under the narrow valley and carved our stories in stone together.
The dark, black sky and the burning feeling of your hand across my head or hand as you pointed towards towards the sun and the moon, in the heat of summer, dry, as if there was light carried across the impalpable dusty winds; a dry, breathless heat that would not let our fur breathe and swathe up in the heat.
But beyond the heat and light, I felt your presence akin to that of the sun, even in your total absence. In that solitary valley. I wondered.
The one constant is belief, and the people that harbor it in us two, keeping us forever intertwined, is there any other theory out there, or perhaps philosophy… government or system, a culture created by people for their sakes and methods, able to reach out to fellow humans and touch them akin to this deeply rooted sensation and need to worship one as a deity, amidst the agitation in the murky waters of this pool we call life?
Something of which to be guided by, a hope to be kindled for and to look forward to?
Something which does not feel like my own illusion or the cravings of a broken heart, something real and tangible… Much akin to the seaweeds talked earlier about, would they be dashed or gathered, spread cross the world with each a smile and separate personality, something to shape the labours and dreams of all into an open form garden for all to enjoy.
I ask of thee, Mother, as I stand here in the burning sun, will you speak to me again?They worshipped, oh so the Shamans said, the ancient White Wolves, which lived aeons before there were any Eltus. Eventually they came out to the young red bloods in visions or sights from the Forests and bathed in the sun.
Those ancient ones were gone now, lost to the Forest or due to Eltus naivety, to the depths or naught but forgotten; but their dead bodies had shared their knowledge and secrets in dreams to the first shamans which formed a cult that lived to this day. The Wolf Mythos thusly so had a new heartbeat into the great nation of what would later become The Shigu.
This was not a cult, but a way of life, giving in reverence to the Forest saviors which had wrought them blades and bone to protect themselves against the terrors. Until the Golden-Eyed one rose up from the Forest itself, with a mighty White Wolf at Her side, ready to gather the clans before Her in unison in order to bring Talyxians to their knees and sate an otherworldly hunger.
He remembers the Hunger
Aching from previous years;
The same in the past where
They had not fed him
Nine Eltus; He remembers
Nine Humans; From Vetla brought
So that he may; Embody Her
Rain lives in Death
Rain lives in RafeArtwork drawn by
Mick39Rafe Silves ©
Vilous - Artwork and Design @
Vilous - Story and Lore @
Mick39"s Patreon | Kiki"s Patreon for Vilous concepts in development | Vilous official website, featuring wiki, manga & store!
Category Artwork (Digital) / All
Species Sergal
Gender Non-Binary
Size 960 x 1280px
File Size 72.1 kB
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