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Description
The Force, the Weave, the Way, the White Current. Whatever name you call it, the essence is the same. The power that surrounds us, guides is, flows through us. For each, they perceive it differently. A tranquil peace, a fierce hunger, a haunting echo through our souls. The Way itself holds no limitations except by the one wielding it.

For a Mistwalker, the Weave is of, so the term implies, Mists. There are no colors, no vibrancy to take away from the awe it inspires. Simplistic yet surrounded by hidden layers for one with the skill to step sideways through the Veil. Spirits and Souls drift along the Mists, following its currents. Souls are those of the dead that have rejoined the Weave. Spirits are those that are natural denizens of the Mists. Pure creatures, they only follow their instincts and hearts, there is no deception with them, no words, no lies, no risk of betrayal.

It is the Spirits that drift around the figure slowly wading through the river of Mists away from the Coven. Her feet gliding upon the uneven ground, her dress billowing behind her. The air quivers around her, laced with her pain as her tears run silver mercury down her cheeks. As they fall, they become ice that splinter as they hit the ground. Each thing is touched with symbolism. Each person, place, item, feeling, all shows its true shape here in the Mists. The Priestess leans her head back, a keening wail passing from her lips. The Lights that dance around her tremble, drifting closer then away from the walking figure.

She had believed this escape would bring her peace, erase her pain but it had followed her. Hunting her down and surrounding her till it was consuming. In response the woman thought to run from the Coven where the source of it all is. Daring a look over her shoulder, she sees a brilliant light shine where her body lies, and where her daughter's cry still is heard.

"I'm sorry my dear Kestal, You will be safe.. they will love you..." she turns away, taking solace in the knowledge that her daughter will live, that she will thrive among the Clan. She had felt her Daughter's soul, her power in the Mists. She will be a great healer and protector. Daring one last glance before the Mists cover the buildings from her Sight, she lets out a sob that cuts through her heart. Turning she runs through the darkening landscape of the Mists.

For days she wanders along, alone except for the Spirits that share her journey before drifting away, only to be replaced by others. As time passes the only to remain to her are Spirits of Grief. Drawn to landscapes that have known great pain, they now anchor to the Priestess who's sadness they feed off. Not knowing where she is, not caring, she keeps trying to escape her own agony.

[the background around her was an Image i found on the internet, i just added Alem and the Mist effects]

Description
The Force, the Weave, the Way, the White Current. Whatever name you call it, the essence is the same. The power that surrounds us, guides is, flows through us. For each, they perceive it differently. A tranquil peace, a fierce hunger, a haunting echo through our souls. The Way itself holds no limitations except by the one wielding it.

For a Mistwalker, the Weave is of, so the term implies, Mists. There are no colors, no vibrancy to take away from the awe it inspires. Simplistic yet surrounded by hidden layers for one with the skill to step sideways through the Veil. Spirits and Souls drift along the Mists, following its currents. Souls are those of the dead that have rejoined the Weave. Spirits are those that are natural denizens of the Mists. Pure creatures, they only follow their instincts and hearts, there is no deception with them, no words, no lies, no risk of betrayal.

It is the Spirits that drift around the figure slowly wading through the river of Mists away from the Coven. Her feet gliding upon the uneven ground, her dress billowing behind her. The air quivers around her, laced with her pain as her tears run silver mercury down her cheeks. As they fall, they become ice that splinter as they hit the ground. Each thing is touched with symbolism. Each person, place, item, feeling, all shows its true shape here in the Mists. The Priestess leans her head back, a keening wail passing from her lips. The Lights that dance around her tremble, drifting closer then away from the walking figure.

She had believed this escape would bring her peace, erase her pain but it had followed her. Hunting her down and surrounding her till it was consuming. In response the woman thought to run from the Coven where the source of it all is. Daring a look over her shoulder, she sees a brilliant light shine where her body lies, and where her daughter's cry still is heard.

"I'm sorry my dear Kestal, You will be safe.. they will love you..." she turns away, taking solace in the knowledge that her daughter will live, that she will thrive among the Clan. She had felt her Daughter's soul, her power in the Mists. She will be a great healer and protector. Daring one last glance before the Mists cover the buildings from her Sight, she lets out a sob that cuts through her heart. Turning she runs through the darkening landscape of the Mists.

For days she wanders along, alone except for the Spirits that share her journey before drifting away, only to be replaced by others. As time passes the only to remain to her are Spirits of Grief. Drawn to landscapes that have known great pain, they now anchor to the Priestess who's sadness they feed off. Not knowing where she is, not caring, she keeps trying to escape her own agony.

[the background around her was an Image i found on the internet, i just added Alem and the Mist effects]