Once more the story goes over quite well and is accepted into the Tricksters' Library. It is quite a vast library, and it is constantly growing. This one is snapped up in a green haze of light and disappears in the massive robes. Kuma Lisa bows and disappears from the podium as swiftly as she arrived.

The air stirs as the leader acknowledges Kuma Lisa's contribution. "Well chosen indeed."

Hermes jumps up again. He lifts his hand. "I must be next. Let me go next!" The wings on his sandaled feet flutter with rapid energy.

"Hermes." Dionysius pops up from under his own hood and offers him a large skin sloshing with red wine. "Have some."

"In a minute," Hermes says.

Various recommendations for what Hermes could do to himself follow as Dionysius tugs his ankle. "Come down. Your turn will come. Have some wine."

"You'll all love my story," Hermes says. He gives another robed figure a good shake. "Come on, Susanoo. You have heard it already. It deserves to be heard this session."

Susanoo sighs, and with his breath crackles like a distant storm. But he smiles indulgently. "It is. Even if the one who wishes to tell it is overeager. Amaterasu and Tsukyomi heard it, and they liked it too. If we do not take it this time, they may attempt to add it to their own collection." He gives a half shrug, though I know he knows full well what import this adds to the hearing. It's a matter of pride among the Tricksters' Cadre to gather all the best stories and to gather them first and in their best formations. From what I heard, the battles over Shakespeare, Tolkien, and a few others even led to bloodshed and great demonstrations of trickery and skill.

"Very well then," the leader says. There's a note of amusement in the voice. "Bring forth the offering."

Hermes flies to the podium. He rips out a yellow book, kisses the binding, and sends it out above the flames. "This is one I found from a story weaver I like to call Elise. I like to call her Elise because that is what she calls herself." He gives a slight nod as his face is bathed in the warm yellow light emanating from the book.

"Brilliant," someone calls from the crowd.

"This is a story that she wove and that captured my attention from the first. I'm sure you'll feel the same." Hermes leans on the top of the podium, resting his chin on both his fists as his lower body floats. "It too is in a land quite different from ours."

Matter of Perception - @EliseBlackpool

"Look away!"a hushed voice warned.

Corris followed the words to the one who spoke them, a slender young mother clutching her overly curious little girl tightly by both arms. They both wore long flowing dresses the shade of forest moss, or perhaps their gowns were turquoise, Corris wondered. The toxin that turned her irises white sometimes made it difficult to distinguish colors. Keeping her eyes open hurt too, a sharp stinging sensation impossible to get used to. But it was a necessity, part of the act and part of her job.

The Prefect welcomed her with a nonchalant nod and a furrowed brow, but he was careful enough to avert his eyes when she approached the wooden dais where his high chair stood.

"The noble Seeress Corris has arrived as summoned," Dag announced in a ponderous tone and raised his left arm high above his head for everyone to see. The intricate spiral symbol of the Sorrowful Goddess was distinct even in the evening gloom of the hall, a vivid reminder to those wild Northerners of his lifelong bond and immunity from their lordship.

Corris suppressed a smile, he was still so very young, just a boy with childish squeaky voice. But he spoke for her, he was her guide.

"We trust you will bring us justice, Völva", the Prefect stated crisply. He used their local name for a female seer, "And we trust your loyalty to the Crown," he added with a clear emphasis on the last word. He never stood up from his chair though as was customary when welcoming a Völva. Corris regarded him appraisingly with her unmoving eyes. She took good note of the statues of proud winged wolves on two sides of the dais, the amber inlaid silver clasps in his bushy beard and the display of ancient, ornate armor at the back of the hall. This gods-forsaken city was rich and powerful, no doubt, but it was as far from the Crown City as one could get.

"The prisoner awaits", the Prefect admonished when she watched him still.

There was an undertone of disdain to the way he was pursing his lips when he spoke. Corris ignored it and focused on the promisingly large pouch of gold waiting for her on a stately tray beside the throne.

***

"Welcome, Seeress." The prisoner gave her a stiff, slight bow, respectful but unyielding, "I should perhaps say that I am honored by your presence and entrust my life to your wisdom and your mighty gods, but we both know that you're here to send me to the gallows."

She nodded slowly in part greeting him and in part agreeing with his blunt words. At least she could abandon the false pretenses of this game. This man was intelligent and knew what was to come. That was rare.

Once the heavy door slammed shut, he looked away from her, through the tall arched window opening onto the vast peaceful lake. Even in this light and with her vision blurred, Corris could see that his skin had a dark amber tone to it. His hair was black and thick but cropped neatly in the fashion of Yilandra, and his odd accent was barely noticeable. He was probably foreign but brought up in these lands.

She studied his face for a long moment. There was a certain unmistakable sternness about the way he held himself, an air of pride peculiar only to those high of birth. His garb was plain, all black withered leather, no gold, no silver, no gems nor even embroidery, a simple ranger's garb, and yet he had more dignity than that conceited King's Prefect could ever hope for.

His handsome features were visibly tense, sharpened by the obvious fatigue of uncertainty, by sleepless nights and helpless days of his imprisonment. He must have sensed that he was being watched. When he looked back at her his bronze gaze mirrored the vague light of the dying sun lacing it with sorrow so deep that she held her breath. That look told a story of grim solitude though not caused by this forced confinement. That emotion must have been still fresh, foreign to his ways, he seemed not used to ever feeling so wounded, his spirit effervescent, daring and vigorous underneath the thick veil of pain. And though his eyes were dim and blank, swinked almost, the tiny smiling wrinkles in their corners bore witness to his truer, happier self.

He had lost someone, she was certain of it when she searched his face and once more considered the longing he was not even trying to hide "Someone he loved," she told herself.

Corris shook her head, fighting those irrelevant thoughts. She had to focus on her task and decide if the man was guilty of the crime he was charged with. Nothing more, she reminded herself.

She pushed back her hood so he could better see her empty eyes. That usually did the trick, unnerving even the most confident of them. Dead eyes, that could look right through you and beyond the shadow veil, the eyes that judged you with the wisdom of the Sorrowful Goddess.

He held her unearthly gaze unafraid, showing no sign of remorse, not even the slightest trace of hesitation. How odd, she thought, suddenly disquieted by the calm candor of his hazel eyes. This is a look I have not seen in a long time.

"Dag, brings us some food!"she said quietly to her little guide, still holding the prisoner's gaze.

"So the Völva can speak after all." The outlander flicked a crooked smile.

She almost smiled back. There was something undeniably intriguing about his directness. It was refreshing.

"We are not barbarians," she retorted, taking on her usual, solemn face "A man going to death is allowed to enjoy his last meal. What would you have, my lord?"

He squinted as if trying to discern her true emotions.

"A walking corpse has no cravings," he snapped, suddenly bitter.
"Don't be so dramatic." Now it was her turn to smile. "Your heart is still beating, and your bowels move. Come, sit and eat with me." She motioned toward the simple wooden table that stood in the center of the chamber. He hesitated but then followed her slowly.

"I don't usually dine with the criminals I am sent to look into," Corris confessed, faking familiarity.

The outlander did not appear to be flattered.

"How about the innocent ones?" he demanded angrily.

Corris raised her eyebrows unprepared for his question.

"There are no innocent ones. Ever." She tried to hide the pain from her voice. Völvas were supposed to have hearts of stone. She did her best to live up to this expectation "Even if they are have not committed whatever it is they are accused of, they still are guilty of something else. It is easy to find blame in a man, any man for a deed grim enough to deserve torture at the very least," she explained under her breath, then she paused and studied his tensed face for moment. "Do not try to tell me you are different. All men are, yet all sin the same," she added almost spitefully.

This time the outlander could not hold her gaze. He looked away and bit his lip. There was something there, a flicker of guilt, a trace of a well kept secret.

"Go now, Dag. Bring us the sweetest cakes you can find, a flagon of red wine and a jug of water," she ordered. The boy left swiftly without a word.

"Water?" The prisoner was incredulous "You will not raise the final toast with me?" His mouth quivered mockingly.

"I shall," Corris assured him coldly, "Water is for cleansing your wounds."

She drew her hand towards the center of the table, the demand implicit in her gesture. He winced almost imperceptibly and carefully placed his palm over hers, bracing himself for the pain to come. She reached for her small dagger and sunk it into his flesh, watching him closely all the while as she cut out the mark of her goddess on his outstretched wrist. He bore it bravely, never looking away from her.

Some said the blood was necessary for a Seeress to be able to cross the veil and look into the soul of another. In truth, it was the pain and the fear that let Corris decide if the man was guilty. Suffering made people less deceitful.

When Dag returned with water and cakes, she washed the wound and quickly sprinkled some powdered nightgleam fungi onto it. She would have to hurry now.In two hours, the bloody symbol would start to glow a bright red light, a visible proof supporting her verdict. If she dared to make it.

"Why all this...?" The foreigner motioned at the cakes, the fruit, and the wine that he was served.

Corris shrugged lightly "I like a lively conversation with my meal. "

"Rather inconvenient to be a mute then." The corners of his mouth twitched, and he grinned, making use of the smiling wrinkles that she had noticed from the start.

"We are what we are," she sighed. "I am no more a mute than you are a murderer though we may both appear so."

His look hardened.

"I have not killed them," he stated in a hoarse voice.

Corris cocked her head and leaned over the honey cakes closer to his stern face.

"Still, there's blood on your hands. You blame yourself," she observed.

"I am not a traitor," he insisted.

"Alas, the Prefect doubts it. While at the verge of war, being an outlander somewhat weakens your credibility." This time she intentionally provoked him, waiting for the truth of his deeds to surface.

"Ambassador Naqada was like a father to me," the prisoner growled, his eyes taking on a darker shade. "I loved him dearly,"

Corris regarded him pensively. So she was right about the fresh loss. He seemed genuine. Still she shook her head, helpless against his suffering.

"It matters not. You come from Ennar and while those noble Yilandran men were butchered, you were the only one to survive. They want your head. Even if I announced you not guilty, you would not stand a chance. You are lost."

The prisoner nodded once, solemn and grieving, and clenched his teeth. He knew she was right yet he stubbornly held on to the nonexistent shred of hope. In vain he searched her eyes for traces of mercy.

"If you can truly look into my heart, you will find that I'd trade his life for mine and do it gladly," he pleaded, closing her small palm in his hands. She stirred at the unexpected touch but let him hold her. A small favor to a man soon to die. "We were ambushed. I was gravely wounded. If there's a traitor, he runs free. Look, just look, you will know the truth."

Corris lowered her white gaze. Perhaps it was the way he squeezed her hand, perhaps it was the unusual intensity in his dark, Ennarian eyes. She could have just waved him off or pretended to do as he pleaded, as she always did. Instead, just this once, she decided to be honest.

"There is no single truth. If there were, it would be a truly formidable thing, a blinding power to behold. Won't you agree?" she smiled the saddest smile while he hanged on her every word.

"But, in my life as a Völva, I have learnt that humans are unable to handle what is," she continued, as her smile wavered and died. "They are pathetically crippled by their wants and fears. So instead one truth there are just various perceptions, like small shards of a mirror, each reflecting a portion of the real image but only a portion, nonetheless. I give them what they pay me for, one version of truth and a confirmation that they were right."

The foreigner swallowed hard and pressed his cracked lips tightly, shut weighing her harsh words for a moment.

"There is no other way then? No hope at all?" he asked feebly and finally let go of her hand, devastated.

Corris never answered. She filled two glasses of wine. Each had a pinch of carefully mixed herbs in it, a secret potion that made Völva's eyes look blind. It was time he drank his share and suffered as she did.

"I shall pray to the gods and dine with the Prefect tonight," she told him softly, almost apologetically "And when the moon rises, I will do as bidden, I will announce that you are guilty of your crimes."

***

"You have served me well, Dag, you have paid your father's debt. It is time we parted ways."

The boy's jaw dropped at her words. Somehow Corris felt uneasy watching his shocked reaction. Wasn't this what he had dreamed of ever since she took him as her guide? To be released from the Goddess claim? To go home and to be free from this cursed life of false visions, hatred of the common and contempt of the mighty?

"But... but... you will not sur... survive with..without me. How will you speak?" he demanded, anxious. He was only stuttering when he was upset. He must have truly cared for her. She felt a rare pang of pain across her stone heart. She was losing her focus. This was only her captive, her servant, no one of consequence, she reminded herself, she only took him in because his father was too sick to the task.

"I shall be fine." Corris tried to sound reassuring but Dag only scowled. He was so perceptive. In his time he would have made a great Seer, she realized, but she would never condemn him to such a fate

"You will claim him, won't you? You like him!" He raised one finger and poked at her accusingly.

"I like you." She smiled, trying to conceal her restlessness and awkwardly messed his light hair. She was going to miss him, that much she could admit. "That is why I want to you to be free. Take the Prefect's payment and head home right after I announce my verdict."

"I do not like the sound of this." Dag crossed his arms defiantly "What are you planning to do?"

Corris blinked several times only now considering the possible consequences of her decision.

"Give them the truth, like I always do, but pick only the right pieces of the mirror this time."

***

The Prefect licked his thin lips in the anguish of anticipation. Corris stood at the top of the feasting table, one hand resting on Dag's slim arm, another holding firmly the foreigner by the flaming wrist.

"With the Sorrowful Goddess's breath the Völva has looked into this man's heart." The boy announced, raising his chin proudly; "She stepped through the veil of mortal flesh and into the shadowland to judge his soul."

The gathered crowd hummed and whispered like a sea of grass ruffled by the breath of storm-bringing wind. There was hunger in their eyes, and they longed for blood.

Dag patiently waited for the whispers to quiet down before he continued; "She has found him guilty as charged."

The Prefect raised his cup and exchanged a satisfied smile with his wife, the tall proud lady in the moss-green dress, while his men started cheering wildly, excited like wolves at the sniff of prey. Dag glanced at Corris questioningly and cleared his throat when she gave him an inconspicuous nod.

"...But as he is an outlander the Prefect is not entitled to his blood. Instead, the Sorrowful Goddess, the Lady of Truth and Death decided to claim him as her own to be forever bound to the Seeress Corris as her earthly guide and slave."

The cheering abruptly stopped. Corris raised the prisoner's hand, showing them all a glowing mark of the goddess on his reddened wrist - an undeniable argument supporting her claim. The right piece of the mirror at last.