The closest thing that Moliira could compare the odd sensation to was a particularly annoying itch.  It had taken her quite some time to figure out just what the source of the strange sensation was.  She had stepped into her circle of stones, arranged herself into a meditative position she had learned was called the lotus, and turned her focus inward to herself.  What she found was something that she had nearly forgotten, as it had become nearly buried in the mass of memories from finding her other half.  And it was there she found something lurking in her very being, something that had woven itself into her essence.  Something that was starting to mutate, and she remembered a conversation from another place, with someone who didn't truly exist anymore. 

It had happened before she had risen, and Moliira let her mind wander back down those memories.  Perhaps there she would find some answers.  Slipping down the paths in her own mind, Moliira searched, seeking knowledge that she could only find from within.  She certainly wasn't going to travel back to where the fragment had originated from.  Then she stumbled on something she had not thought about in quite a long time.  An odd stone fragment she had found many decades ago, something that had called out to Moliira in a way to reach out and touch it.  And so she had.  But the thing had disappeared, and the drow hadn't realized the significance of the stone piece until much later.

Using that memory, that feeling of being tugged towards something, Moliira pulled back.  The Huntress was seeking something within her very being.  She had to be subtle, the fragment was certain to be stubborn about being removed.  But it was the last fragment of a lost world, and Moliira knew she had to get rid of it from her body.  It was the source of that itch, and she was certain that it would only get worse.  Perhaps malevolent.  Cupping her hands, the drow summoned her will and her concentration, sending her energy into her self, and seeking all pieces of the fragment, pulling it into one place.  Her cupped hands.

There was no sense of time to her, but eventually Moliira opened her eyes.  Within her hands was a multi-colored mass no more than two inches long.  It seemed to ripple and writhe, constantly changing and seeking out something to attach to.  Now the question became just what to do with it…

“Seems so small. So inconsequential, doesn't it?” Mendean moved around the circle like a predator sizing up a rival. “And yet empires have been laid to waste for less.” Languidly, the deity leaned up against a wall, arms hanging down, palms spread flat. He wore a pair of threadbare, black woollen fingerless gloves. His nails were black. He threw Moliira an impish look from behind the dark mop of his hair. “Door was open. Couldn't resist taking a peek inside.”

Staring at the thing in Moliira's hand, the chaos lord's eyes widened and he seemed to catch his breath for a moment. The feral smile returned. “So, you finally got the thing out of you. Interesting. A thing that deities cannot abide, held in the hand of a deity. Ironic?”

Pushing himself away from the cold stone, Mendean moved in the dark, approaching the goddess in a slow arc, as though he were tracing the line of an inbound spiral. He did not come too close , as though the object held in Moliira's hand kept him at bay. As he walked around the seated goddess, he clapped in a slow and deliberate manner, as though sounding out some slow rhythm.

“Bravo! You have managed to rid yourself of a fragment of broken weapon. I do hope the other pieces are safely ensconced in that dying world it originally came from. Such a shame the pathways back to it have collapsed. Now their weapon will never be complete. And yet…”

He took one last step nearer, then paused, one foot in front of the other. Only one eye was visible as he peered at the object held in Moliira's hand. It twinkled in the poor light. “And yet the fact that it is a fragment of something lost forever, only serves to increase the value of what it is, huntress.”

Mendean lowered his voice, almost to a whisper. “So the question arises. You have there a thing of beauty and of great danger to our kind. Pray tell, what would you do with such a thing?”

His look was an expectant one.

Her head snapped up and around to the sound, regarding her fellow deity with narrowed eyes.  But once she saw who it was, Moliira relaxed.  Marginally.  It wasn't his presence, it was the thing held in her hands.  There was something behind the lump of material, almost a sentience.  And it was deeply unsettling to Moliira.  "Just be sure to close it on your way out, I tend to be wary of most unannounced visitors," she said, returning the grin.  There had always been an understanding between them, and the drow valued his input.  Though if Mendean was here, it was entirely possible that something else was at play here.

Glancing at his eyes, she wondered just how much he knew of the thing in her hands.  But there was no telling, Mendean tended to keep things close to the chest as much as possible.  Not that she could blame him.  "I think it tolerates me… like a parasite and a host," she said, making a face.  Just holding the fragment made her uncomfortable.  She had not thought of that world in some time, and Moliira knew of where a few of the fragments.  "Where some are, I know.  Whether or not they are… retrievable, I do not know," she said.  It was no secret to another version of Mendean she had began collecting those pieces, and they likely remained in whatever shell of her Shrine. 

There was an amused smile on her face when he asked what she would do with the thing.  It was something she had been pondering for a time, and her thoughts had been disrupted when Mendean had appeared.  "Truth be told, I've not the first clue.  I cannot keep it here, that much is obvious.  But at the same time, I cannot throw it away…  I fear it being used against any of us.  So you ask a question with no easy answer," she said, her eyes turning thoughtful.  Perhaps there was an answer in between those thoughts.  There had to be a way of making this thing useful, of reforging it into something that could not harm her or her fellow deities.  Or perhaps it would be better to keep as it was, as a precaution.  In truth, Moliira had no answer.

The shard held a certain fascination for the young deity. Something about it both attracted and repelled him in ways he did not truly understand. He liked the feeling. It was uncertainty, the potential for a million stories to unfold. A moment, held in the hands of a goddess. Pulling his gaze away from the object, he narrowed his eyes at Moliira. Did she see the same potential? Or was she primarily concerned with keeping it from the eyes of the world?

A sigh followed and Mendean unfolded, straightening his shirt around the waist. “Could be used as weapon I suppose, but not by one of us. I imagine you want to hide it away? Dump it at the bottom of the deepest sea, bury it beneath the roots of the tallest mountain, or plunge it into the sun's hottest furnaces. That's what we do with unpleasant things, is it not?” He chuckled.

“But there is always a hero who finds it. Always someone directed by the signposts of a greater destiny. Perhaps an errant god shows them the way, or a nymph is captured and forced to reveal her secrets. We all know this is inevitable. A thing like this…it wants to be found. To be used. It needs a purpose and if we cannot find a purpose for it, it will find one of its own. That is the nature of these things.”

Mendean seemed to fall, then his arms reached for the ground and he cartwheeled three times before coming to a stop on the other side of the huntress. There he squatted, hands resting upon his knees. The mischievous glint had returned to his eye. “Of course, you could set it a task of your own making. It came from you, so by the rules that govern these sorts of things, you get to apply the terms and conditions of such a bargain.” He scratched his chin. “Perhaps you could make a prophesy? That is what we do under these circumstances, is it not?”

Making his voice deeper and more hollow, Mendean stood up and strutted as he spoke, one hand on his heart, the other held out in theatrical style. “And lo! The huntress declared that only the last scion of the broken cloud will be able to wield the sacred scrubbing brush, into which the shard has been embedded, and only on laundry day!” He winked. “That sort of thing. Scholars love trying to figure out how much is symbolism or metaphor and how much is literal.”

His face became more serious. “A geas is well-within your capabilities and while it does not keep the shard from ever being used, it means that it can only be used under very specific circumstances. I think that it is the best we can hope for, under the current circumstances.”

The smile returned, but it was thinner. “Or you could give to me and I can use it to spawn an army of shard daemons who will unleash chaos and herald the twilight of the gods.” He sounded half-serious, and suddenly very tired. “Just a suggestion.”

She shook her head at his ideas of where it would be hidden, and almost started to explain her thoughts.  But she let the young god have his words and nodded in agreement.  "It will find a way to be used… and I would rather not have it buried in my back, or yours, or Angela's.  Not unless there was a bloody good reason for it," she said with a chuckle.  Whether or not she would ever find such a reason for either of her fellow deities was not something Moliira ever wanted to contemplate.  The thought of Mendean turning against any of his fellow deities was quite frightening to her in a way, though she did not voice it. 

There was a moment of surprise on her face at the cartwheels, it seemed such a strange thing for a god to do, but so normal had Mendean been born mortal.  But her eyes lightened at the suggestion of forming a geas of some manner around the shard.  That was certainly something she could do quite easily.  After all, her people loved secrets and creating puzzles.  "Hm… I believe you're correct.  And I already have a few ideas," she said, her lips curling into a smile.  Though it quickly faded when Mendean suggested she give him the shard.  Moliira wasn't entirely sure if he was joking or not.  "A suggestion I will keep in mind only for a dire time… One I hope will not come," she said, eying him for a few long moments.  It was difficult to read Mendean at times, and she felt that she could never entirely be sure of where she stood with him.