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| Above, Below, Around; Open~ | |
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| Topic Started: Jul 22 2017, 04:44 PM (1,015 Views) | |
| Ylsa | Jul 22 2017, 04:44 PM Post #1 |
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For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...
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Well After The Final Battle All around was darkness, and the waters were icy and heavy. Not even the powerful supernal Sun could reach this far down, and still, she sank. But Mysteria was here. She could no longer see her arms or her legs, nor her hair, but her eyes were wide open. Every now and then she would see the trailing red and blue lights of bioluminescence, some from creatures she could not fathom and others from deep-merfolk, none of whose shapes she could discern in such unfathomable blackness -- but besides this, there was no sound, there was no physical feeling but the chill. It was complete sensory obliteration. It was peace. Finally her back connected with the bottom, her arms and legs floating down to join it, and she was flat against the sand, clay, and muck gathered from the detritus of a million dead creatures. Sara stayed there, unmoving, taking refuge in the complete darkness. Eventually, she passed from the imaginary to the astral, and shapes became a bit clearer, joined by the white wisps of ghosts both animal and human. The living lights of the deep-dwellers shone more brightly, and there was a strange background hum like music from another room... Suddenly, the lights and shapes vanished and there was blackness again. She cast her blind gaze around lazily, feeling the advent of something much more prominent than what she had been watching up to this point. The hum grew in volume, forming more coherently into a tuneless song as the moments passed, and soon she felt it rather than saw it: a great leviathan shape passing slowly over her, its body long and darker even than the waters that surrounded it. She reached up to try and touch it, but it was just out of arm's reach; she waited, and soon it passed over her again, this time closer. Her hands made contact with its slick skin, and her subtle body floated along with it like an attachment. They sped through the frigid deeps, and eventually the water became a little lighter -- just a little, then a little more, and the roaring of a tempest reached them. The still waters became turbulent, but they continued undaunted, and broke the surface. She was on the back of a great sea-dragon, a wingless, legless, serpentine thing whose body stretched for miles and miles, arching in and out of the raging waves and reaching for the dark clouds above. Immediately she could hear that the hum she had heard was from the creature: it sang to her, its great black head turned to her, and though it did not sing in words she somehow registered the sound as such. "Together we can Be..." Lightning crackled above them, but did not drown out the song -- the open ocean still raged miles below them, and though they were in the sky, Sara did not feel afraid. The sea-dragon's eye was a glowing kaleidoscope, blue, then white, then green and gold, then the stars and the sun and ember-red, then back again. It was deeper than the sea they had come from. "we will show the world Goodness exists..." She flattened herself against it, losing her soul to its eyes and her body to its thick, cool skin. The colors and the darkness within it grew to encompass her, and the sounds all faded, all but the song. "and it is more powerful than them..." The world ceased to exist. The dragon vanished. The song stayed, but all around were stars, and she lay in the hand of a great celestial maiden, her skin the dark matter of the cosmos, her eyes the sun and stars, her hair a magnificent nebula, even more enthralling than the eye of the dragon. "it is in the darkest shadows and the most ordinary places..." The Maiden leaned over her, cupping her body lovingly in both hands, but Her eyes were intense, and Sara could not look away. She did not want to look away. "We are still here." Her eyes snapped open. For a few moments Sara sat in her half-lotus position, hands resting lightly in her lap, staring ahead at the painted clouds of sunset. She was back on Ylsa's roof, back in Madrid, surrounded by the gentle rustling of patchouli plants and the grounding smells of dinner wafting up through the chimney. Her body felt light, and heavy at the same time, and she felt dazed, as though she had left part of herself in the astral. In the hands of the celestial maiden. Eventually she blew a sigh out between her lips in a half-raspberry, peering over at the tree that stuck out of Ylsa's roof. Kirk was still there, basking in the last patch of sunlight left, though it likely wouldn't last for more than a few more minutes. Slowly, not wanting to shock herself back to reality, the young pilgrim stood and stretched her legs, waiting until Kirk had scurried back down into the oven-warmed house to make her own descent off the roof and back inside. The door opened to a perfume of cooking smells and a small flurry of activity. With a smile, Sara stepped inside. "What's going on?" "Welcome back," Ylsa called out from her chair below the landing. "We've decided to go have dinner at the old fountain, maybe share with whoever happens by. Would you be able to grab the picnic blanket, please?" "Oh, sure..!" "Thank you, dear. Actually it was Nakara's idea." Sara looked up from the cupboard on the other side of the kitchen, eyebrows raised in Nakara's direction. "Really? I didn't figure you for the type to do that kind of thing." The Morrimiam whirled around, brandishing a bread knife and wearing an apron that she had already somehow managed to wrinkle. "What?! 'Cause you don't think I can be nice?!" "Dude, careful..!" "Bah," Nakara turned back around and continued slicing the older breads, getting crumbs everywhere but otherwise doing a decent job of it. After the final battle, the woman had chosen to stay in Soto a while longer to help with the rebuilding effort, and decided she might as well stay with Ylsa: it was closer to the center of the new action, and when she wasn't helping clean up the city she could help out around the house. It took some of the weight off of Sara, who had come to help Ylsa get back on her feet (literally and figuratively), and would allow her a bit of free time to explore the spiritual crap she had been wanting so badly to get into. Nakara didn't get it, but it made the kid happy and it stopped her from whining all the time. She raised her eyes from her knifework to watch Shell from across the room. The dead girl had her own work in Orl'kabbar, she knew (though of course she kept it secret), but apparently her sister had been killed in the battle and she simply couldn't find the strength, emotionally or physically, to return quite yet. She too had been helping around the house, mostly doing outside work -- to try and fix the gardens and pathway and whatnot, she had said, but Nakara knew it was so she could have her privacy. Even the eyes of the dead couldn't hide tears. Right now, Shell looked as absent-minded as she had been since the service, losing herself to her house and yard work. Nakara looked back down and sliced up the last of the bread; if work kept some of the sting away while she got used to the idea of a world without a sister, then it was just as well. She knew how heartbroken she would have been if she had lost Taras, and likely would have reacted similarly -- or worse. Sara hung just over her shoulder, watching her wrap up the bread slices in a large square cloth mischeviously. "I think maybe you picked up some things from Lord Bellamy." "Urk..!" Nakara twitched and threw the young woman a death-glare over her shoulder, but Sara only snickered. "Ah, you definitely did. You've been swearing less too, I've noticed. You're almost.... domestic." "Don't you say that fuckin' word again," Nakara brandished the knife again and Sara leapt back, laughing. "Kids, do I have to put you in corners?" Ylsa's voice rang up to them. "No." They answered in unison, and returned to their own jobs. The mystic chuckled a little and wheeled herself over to Shell. "How's it going over here..?" It took the girl a minute to look up, and though she appeared to be holding it together she was definitely distracted. "Oh -- um... it's going all right..." The mystic's hand found her arm, rubbing it reassuringly. "...I wish she was coming with us... I mean, I know she is..." She reached up and touched the centre of her chest, where the Pearl had been absorbed a couple of weeks earlier. "...but..." "There's no substitute for something to reach out and touch," Ylsa said softly. "Would you prefer to stay here..?" "N-no," Shell found a shaky smile and continued packing things into baskets. "She would be sad if I stayed here by myself... if she was here she would go, and she would take me along if she had to carry me. She'd...she'd want me to start being with my friends." She nodded, affirming this to herself. "Actually being with them. Thank you for understanding, though." "Of course, honey. If you need to talk, any one of us would love to listen." "Hey mum," Sara's voice reached Ylsa, and she looked up. "Oh, shit, sorry for interrupting..!" "It's all right. What is it?" "There's an awful lot of stuff here and Nakara still wants to bring wine -- want me to start putting some stuff on Juniper?" "Aya, I forgot about the wine..! If it's all right then please, that would be wonderful! Thank you, sweetheart." "Ok! I'll go get everything set up." The mystic turned back to Shell and they exchanged a few more quiet words while Nakara rustled around in the cellar for the wine in question, and then the next twenty minutes or so were spent in an orderly scramble of lashing things to Sara's mule, placing baskets into baskets and packs into packs, peppered with the lively sound of the pilgrim and the mercenary joshing back and forth and laughing at each other. At one point Sara decided to bring her guitar, which gave Ylsa the idea to bring a couple more of the many smaller instruments that lay around her house, each of them carrying one. Finally everything was set to go, and the four set off on the crooked, broken path into Madrid. Kirk and the cats opted to stay behind, but Bones and Dae-suk tagged along, chasing each other and winding in and out of Juniper's legs while the mule plodded along patiently, unbothered by the world around her. Nakara held her reins in one hand while Shell walked next to her; in front of them a few paces, Sara wheeled Ylsa, still bound to her chair but now only by a particularly troublesome leg injury. The rest of her wounds were well on the way to healing, and she was trying to get her body used to normal living again, but she had been fragile in the first place and recovery would take time. "How was the meditation, by the way?" Ylsa asked. Sara paused a moment, then blew another breath out. "It was a freaking doozy, man." "Ohh?" Her curiosity piqued, the mystic craned her head around to look at her. "Is it share-able?" "I... well, I think so! I mean, the message was pretty uh... non-secretive?" "Message?" "Well, I did the deep-alpha thing you told me about, and it started out really normal, but after a while it was like I just..... slid into something else, it was like a...." "Trance? Vision?" The pilgrim cringed a little. "I... wouldn't call it that..." "Don't be modest, dear. Call it what it was." "Mmm... okay, it was this crazy vision-ride, I was at the bottom of the ocean, and then..." While the other two talked some spiritual mumbo-jumbo in front of them, Nakara looked around the area a bit before settling her gaze on Shell, walking alongside her quietly. The Daroan kept looking over in the direction of the setting sun, even though it was now well below the treeline and the sky was starting to darken, and Nakara knew why. Dammit, everything feels so much more without booze... She thought absently, her mind straying to the wine bottles and their muffled clanking behind them. Sara had already volunteered to punch her in the nose every time she drank more than she was supposed to, and Ylsa promised a mountain of guilt-trips and motherly lectures in addition, so she wasn't worried about going too far. For the first time, though, she felt as though she didn't really want to drink, only because she kind of wanted to keep the feeling. Even if it was a little sad. She had thought for years that she had lost her twin, but she'd had hope, and now he was back, having invited himself to come meet them in the square later. He had fought alongside her in the final battle, acting as her healer and cover, and she had been terrified of the idea that something would happen to him and she would lose him again. But Shell's sister had not come home -- not the way she was supposed to. Those dark eyes were inscrutable, but Nakara understood the pain behind them. In a completely bold and uncharacteristic display of compassion, she reached out and took the Daroan's cold hand in her own. Shell looked up, surprised, before returning her gaze shyly to the broken cobblestones at her feet. Her fingers tightened around Nakara's. "Sorry," The giant woman offered, though she didn't sound too sorry. "I was overwhelmed by this weird feeling of.... what's the opposite of being an asshole?" "....being nice...?" Shell was confused. "Yeah, that one." There was a pause, then, and her tone became a bit more serious. "I know I'm not the same, but if you need a hug, or a talk, or whatever... I know how much it hurts to be separated from the only family that matters to you. My experience doesn't help you, and I got lucky, obviously, but..." She sighed. "Ah, I'm no fuckin' good at the whole consolation thing. Just know that if you need anything, I want to try." "Thank you," The smaller woman replied, finding another small smile. "Your wanting to try is... more than I'm used to. It's... well, nice... to know so many good people. I don't know what I would be doing right now if you all weren't around..." Nakara looked up at Ylsa in her chair, then at Sara in front of them, remembering how she herself had been before she had met them, before she had met Modeste or Sabellius or Baqi. "Yeah.... I dunno what I'd be doing either." By the time the four reached the fountain, the stars were coming out, and they set up in semi-darkness before Sara and Shell procured the lanterns from the packs. They set them up around the edge of the fountain, now mostly dry, setting up a cord between the second tier and the building closest to them and hanging a few from there, and a couple more from the branches of the few remaining invasive trees. The square thus dimly, yet warmly illuminated, the rest of the picnic was laid out, wine bottles were uncorked, and food was laid out. A pipe went back and forth between Sara and Ylsa while Nakara poured earthenware cups of wine for all of them, a cigarette hanging from her mouth as it always did. Shell sat at the edge of the fountain, having removed her shoes and socks and rolled up the legs of her pants, her feet swishing in what little water remained, watching some of the restless spirits drift in and out of buildings and brush. Soon Ylsa's hand appeared, offering the pipe to her. She reached out to take it, but with some trepidation. The mystic smiled reassuringly. "I would never give you anything if I didn't know it would be safe for you. Don't feel obligated to try it, though. It is very dank." Remembering that she was with trustworthy people, Shell accepted it and took a small puff before breaking down into a wild coughing fit and handing it back. "Oops," Ylsa laughed, "Nakara?" "Eh? Oh, no thanks, I've got my own." "But that kind of smoke isn't nearly as fun," Sara sang through a chord on her guitar. "Uhhh have you met a cigarette?" "Yes, and she tried to strangle me oooonce...." The sound of laughter and music thusly floated and echoed between the remains of Madrid, a remnant of the world that had existed there before it -- a remnant that refused to die, that dared to continue existing despite so many efforts to crush it. A remnant that dared to rebirth itself. |
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| Baqi | Jul 23 2017, 01:33 PM Post #2 |
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After Nemetona, his heart stopped over. Froze. Went numb. It felt like a rock in his throat -- couldn't move it -- couldn't breathe -- and every time he came up against the reality, just brain just shut off. Sabe's gone. Somethin' died in him during the war. Maybe it was wading through so much piss n' shit — elbows deep in sword wounds — watching people die, day in, day out since he fled to Reine — wondering how in the fuck he got tied up with humans, anyway, but Maedaigh was no better, and he couldn't be a traitor — almost losin' Ylsa — and then bein' recruited further into the mess, sought out for his powers, and then, then — Nemetona was white noise. But he'd never forget the scream. He'd never forget the sight of Sabe's body, strung up like a pig at a butcher's. First guy who ever took him in. First guy who showed him the light of day, protected him, first and maybe only person in his life he'd ever think of as a dad -- Gone. It didn't compute. Didn't get through his skull. Sometimes in his memory, it looked like someone had strung up a bad prop -- somethin' for a mummer's show -- because, because, the thing in the cage wasn't Sabe. Couldn’t be. The curtains had closed. His mind had gone black, honestly, black -- he remembered the taste of vomit -- white fire streakin' up a tree -- red moon -- and his only thought through all that shit, the only one-- I gotta bury him. I gotta bury him. I gotta bury him…. He'd lost it, maybe. Ran through the battlefield looking, stumbling over bodies, turning over every drow he found, but none of them were Sabe. His hands turned slick with blood, shaking, but none of the red and orange eyes that stared up were his --- none of 'em had tails -- none of 'em were missing an ear, none of 'em were his Sabe-- Had been pulled away to help cart off the sick 'n injured, ripped screaming from under the dying Pale Tree, watching helpless as the remaining soldiers put up pyres 'n prepared to burn the bodies so they wouldn't rise again. White noise. White noise, then he was in a caravan, and a tent, and back to Reine, bundled up in blankets and shaking like a leaf, and Ylsa had scooped him up and brought him back to Madrid, and all the while he could only blubber and shake and mutter the words. I couldn't find him. *** The djinn threw a bloody rag into a bucket. It slapped the bottom in a sickening squelch, but at least this time it wasn't covered in the blood of the dead. Behind him, in one of the beds of the Ameliorate Ordos, a baby cried. The djinn sat hunched in the hallway, pulling out a rolled herb Ylsa gave him. Nailah, it'd gotten him through some rough shit. He always kept a couple in his pocket nowadays along with some of Ky’s, smoked like a chimney between breaks. The djinn put it between his lips and cupped his hands over it. Eventually a flame sparked to life and he took a deep, soothing drag, blowing it up at the ceiling. "Hey. You're not supposed to smoke in here." “Think I give a shit?" The djinn snapped, turning his head towards the voice. A thin-lipped woman glared at him, tall 'n blonde as the rest of 'em, all those Sotoans -- blurred one into the other, honestly -- he felt like he'd seen that exact same look from men 'n ladies with the exact same face, and if the first one hadn't done it, then... "Just go outside," she huffed, clutching her clipboard and stalking off. Baqi snorted at her, throwing his hand up and smacking it against his thigh. He shoved his hair out of his face and stood, smoke dangling by his side. Felt natural. Familiar. Somethin' he woulda done. The djinn walked out of the hospital, watchin' his feet as he tracked over the cobbles. The building had survived well enough; the fae didn't have a damn reason to destroy it, stuffed it fulla their own dead 'n sick, and it had only been abandoned when the plague cut the city down. They'd had to clear out some leaves -- put in new cots -- easy enough, and he supposed they got lucky. Except for one thing. The fae had abandoned their dead. And thankfully that flower shit hadn't gotten to ‘em, otherwise it coulda been worse — but it didn't make the sight any less hard, seein' them dried up to husks — curled up stiff in cots — some of 'em still screaming, their flesh eroded by flies an' maggots. They gathered ‘em up, burned ‘em all. Swept out the room, changed the sheets, but their deaths still lingered — didn’t sit with him right. Wasn’t natural. One guy had autopsied one in a group of understudies an’ there wasn’t a drop of blood left. Cooked. Smelled like ozone. The smell haunted him. Baqi shoved his hand in his coat and took another drag, some of the tension floating off his shoulders. He blew out the smoke through his nose, dark eyes fixed somewhere vague in the distance. He was done for the day. Night? Shit. The djinn rubbed the grit out of his eyes, shaking his head. Well, he’d walked into the Ameliorate Ordos soon as the sun came out, and now… guess starin’ at coochies all day made it go by fast. He kicked a stone along the path, realizing just how damn hungry he was. Likely the herb wasn’t helping, neither. Reality buzzed a bit; the warm, humid air melted into him, and he kinda forgot what he was just thinkin’ bout. Oh yeah, Ylsa’s. He’d been crashing there, helpin’ her out — tended her wounds when the idiots at the hospital couldn’t — kept busy, busy as he could. Muscle memory took him to the square. Was the easiest way to get to Ylsa’s, leastways, just had to hook left ’n then follow the mountain down… but as he walked, he saw — lanterns? Looked like some of the stars had walked down from the sky and hovered ‘bove the square. Otherwise the streets were eerie-dark, the cobbles white with moonlight — by the sounds of laughter ’n talking ’n lights, somebody was havin’ a party. Curious, the djinn crept closer — some of his familiar nerves n’ caution comin’ back — but he forgot it all soon as he heard some familiar voices. "-- kind of smoke isn't nearly as fun,” "Uhhh have you met a cigarette?" "Yes, and she tried to strangle me oooonce....” “Hey!” Baqi appeared at the edge of the fire. Smoke trailed from the tip of the roll as he threw his hands out, pretendin’ to be upset. “What, you guys threw a party ’n didn’t tell me?” The fire lit all their familiar faces — Ylsa’s, glowin’ like the moon, had a pipe already, of course — Ky, lookin’ like she’d just got done wrestlin’ a bear — the blonde one he’d only met recently, but bummed smokes of off — and the new girl from Daro that gave him the creeps, coughing like a chimney. Somehow he felt like Ylsa was responsible. He couldn’t keep it up. A grin split across his face as he flopped down next to Nakara, unfazed by the hulking woman. “Geez.” The djinn wrestled off his Ameliorate Ordos coat and threw it on his lap, ruffling his hair. He groaned dramatically and stretched out his legs, realized he hadn’t sat in… what, forever and a half? “How ya been, lady?" Another cloud of smoke wafted from his lips. He tapped out the ash and watched it swirl onto the ground, coughing a bit. As if his face were doin’ its own thing, a goofy grin started to spread ‘cross his features, and the djinn blinked, eyes roaming the fire till they settled on a picnic basket. No. A mountain of them. “Geez, I’m starving. Is that food?” His eyes widened, and he perked up like an excited dog. Edited by Baqi, Jul 23 2017, 01:38 PM.
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| Ylsa | Jul 23 2017, 02:36 PM Post #3 |
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For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...
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"Baqi!" Nakara and Ylsa greeted him in unison while Sara grinned and waved, and Shell tried to give him a smile and a little wave of her own. "The fuck you talkin' about, man?" Nakara scooched over to give him some room to sit, "I sent you a pigeon with a memo, didn't ya get it?" "Was it Jeremy Big?" Sara drew her fingers across the strings, improvising. "Yeah. Probably should've sent a different one, now that I think of it, Jeremy Big always looks like he's fucked up on somethin'. Stupid bird... "Ah, I'm good! Becoming 'domestic' though, dunno how I feel about that. Here," She reached over and took up one of the baskets and gave the whole thing to Baqi, grining. "Knock yourself out: garden was outta control when Ylsa got back." "Pumpkin pie for miles," Shell added softly, trying not to disclude herself or be rude, as Ylsa wheeled herself around the blanket to where Baqi sat. The mystic leaned over him, planted a kiss on top of his messy hair, tinted with the smells of the hospital, and snuck a hand into the basket. "This one has lemon tarts in it," She whispered to him conspiratorially, withdrawing one for herself, "Shhh." "Mum you ate half the filling while you were making it, you're still not sick of it?" "Mm-mm," She could only shake her head, having stuffed the entire thing into her mouth at once. Finally, she made some room to say: "YOLO, y'know? Suddenly Sara raised her arm and waved wide to someone else approaching. "Hey! You made it!" "Hello, hello," Taras made his way languidly to the blanket, carrying a basket of his own and smiling lazily, as frustratingly good-looking as ever. He plunked down between Sara and the fountain, opening up the basket and withdrawing yet another bottle of wine and several stacked cakes. "Sorry I'm late, the guys wanted to have a drink after the day's work was done. Here, the ones on the bottom are fresh." "Uh muhgob iff vhat murh mlemon...?" "Yo, broski," Nakara greeted him before turning back to Baqi, handing him a cup of wine. "So how're you keeping, my dude..?" Sensitive language wasn't exactly her forte, but it seemed like everyone she knew had lost someone to Meadaigh. She didn't want to bring up a sore subject, but she also wanted to make sure her friends were all right. Well. As all right as they could be, all things considered. |
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| Ulyn Silverstone | Jul 23 2017, 07:29 PM Post #4 |
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Wandering through the ruins of Madrid, Ulyn thought back to what brought him here. True, he wasn't entirely sure himself, but part of it was the libraries. In the ruin of the war, someone had to gather up the ruins of those libraries destroyed and scattered. Maybe he could find a few rare volumes to add to his collection. Not to mention he could possibly find something on Tsujigiri. Sure, he was mainly in it to help Shiro, poor woman, but it had also intrigued him. Cursed sword, stuck eternally to its owner while gifting them with thousands of years of knowledge? What else could that enchantment be used for? So many possibilities. Either way, that still left him where he stood now, leaving the ruins of a library in Madrid with a cartful of books. Teleportation, echantments, magic theory, medical experiments, cookbooks, you name it it was probably in this cart. Ulyn was very methodical when selecting books. He "What was that noise?" It sounded like conversation, and something about lemon tarts. Now that sounded delicious. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the old fountain, and Ulyn carefully picked his way through the rubble-strewn street the library was situated on to find his way to the source. A few minutes later, Ulyn stumbled into the square around the fountain, his cart of books trailing behind him, a wheel squeaking as he stood, dusting himself off and seeing several people lit by lantern light, sharing a pipe and dozens of baked treats. Stammering out a greeting, "Uh, hey there everyone. Didn't mean to interrupt.... but I heard the conversation and mentions of food from a few blocks away..." Rubbing his arm, he continued, "City is really quiet after everything that happened. Its good to see some more people out and about. Well, besides the looters that is." Looking around, Ulyn saw it was quite the diverse gathering, and he stood sheepishly back as he waited for a reply. |
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| Phaedrus | Jul 24 2017, 12:15 PM Post #5 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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The tomatoes simply would not grow. Phaedrus frowned at the wilted things in his hands, tugging a brown stem up experimentally with his finger. Nothing. He'd spent the better half of his morning attacking his yard -- scything down grass that reached up to his chin -- clearing out the curled, dead remains of shrubbery -- hacking into the soil and mixing it with heaps of compost -- excavating his poor little tea-table from the brambles -- and finally, tending the little vegetable patch he'd planted -- 2 years ago? Shite, was it truly 2? The passage of time startled him. Phaedrus sighed and sank into the ground, kicking out a leg and wiping his forehead. Dirt... dirt was everywhere. Under his nails -- how, when he'd worn gloves for half of it? -- hiding in the creases of his skin and neck, somehow on his face, dusting his pants, and gods help his boots. For a moment he simply sighed, unmoving, muscles aching from the effort of gardening. The birds chirruped overhead, flit from branch to branch on the oak tree in his yard. It'd always been large -- a comforting, strong sentry -- but the Dryad's magics had turned it into a behemoth; its massive arms had swollen and grown, draping over the stone wall and into his neighbor's yard. Another limb had nearly punched a hole through his balcony and into his room, rendering it uninhabitable. It'd taken nearly a week's work of chipping at the massive branch and removing it piece by piece; now it was an impressive stack of firewood and lumber in the corner of his yard. It hadn't gotten the memo that it was summer. Its leaves were perennially autumn, now -- a carpet of red lined his backyard, and the sun struck its heavy boughs and leaves, lighting them in brilliant hues of orange. He rather liked it, actually, stark and surreal as it was against the green and greying browns of the surroundings; a few other trees amongst Madrid had been paralyzed in various seasons -- some still bloomed absurdly with the force of spring, others were barren with the memory of winter, likely never to blossom ever again... Its shade was welcome. He felt like a sweaty heap, and -- in a lovely world -- he hoped he'd never have to move again. "Ugh." His eyes wandered to the patch of vines and sagging, grey fruits. "Well, I tried. You sorry bastards." Well, the tomatoes were a lost cause, he supposed -- looked so sad and withered and frail, no matter the amount of water and crooning. The squashes, though... His kitchen table was currently piled with them. The more brush he hacked at, the more he found -- a veritable civilization of squashes -- and though some were black with rot, a greater number were vigorous and alarmingly large. And they seem to have sprouted sisters... He got two basketfuls of them, and then another half. They made a rainbow of yellows and greens, whites and orange; quite pretty, else for the dawning realization that he'd be eating squash for the rest of his life. The images haunted him. Squash pie, roasted squash, squash casseroles, well at least he got some eggplants out of it -- at least he could make some babaganoush -- ye, gods, squash mash, squash tarts, squash salad, squash curry, squash spaghetti -- Something flapped in his periphery. Startling, Phaedrus snapped his eyes wide open just enough to see a pigeon divebomb from the sky, crash landing on his lap. "Aie--" Phaedrus squealed, batting at the bird. It flapped impotently by his delicates, and that's when he noticed a message tied to its leg. Staring, the necromancer clamped a hand over its body and held it still, brow arched. What the devil? The pigeon cooed, head bobbing as he removed the tiny letter, unrolling it with a rustle. Hey Sugar Tits, Albino Mom has cordially invited you to a dinner-party-picnic-extraordinare. Whatever, it's gonna be sick, so come. Soon as the stars are out, head to the fountain, main square. Bring your buds, bring your booze, bring your face. Later. It wasn't signed. It didn't need to be. He knew precisely who wrote it -- swore it even smelled of cigarettes, and he could see a little dusting of ash in the corner. A smirk hooked the edge of his lip, wrinkle crinkling his brow. A... party? The pigeon gave a few agitated, blustering coos. Then -- its purpose fulfilled -- burst out of his lap in a wild flap of wings, making him jolt. It narrowly missed reeling into his tree, then flew off into the distance in the least majestic way he'd ever seen. If a bird could be drunk.... Staring at the weaving speck receding into the distance, the necromancer flicked a feather off his pants, unrolling the letter again. How surreal. To imagine a... party in this place. The birds chirruped, filling the silence. He felt all too aware of his broken, delapidated home -- the empty carcasses of the houses around him -- the unnatural silence that often descended in his neighborhood, where once it had been bright and lively; the threadbare markets inhabited by shuffling, thin ghosts. And despite all of that, to have a party--! It was such a... very Ylsa thing to do. He couldn't help a smile. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to get up, wincing like an arthritic man. "I hope they bloody like squash," the necromancer said aloud, to no one in particular. *** My dears, Whenever you come home, I've received an invitation to dinner, and of course all of you are invited. You'll find me by the Main Square fountain, as soon as the stars come out. If you don't come you're missing out on chocolate cake. I thought that would be important to know. -P He left the message on the table, by the heaping avalanche of squash. He hadn't made a dent in it, despite his best efforts; he'd made enough curry to feed a small army -- figured it was necessary, given the veritable commune that'd sprung up at Ylsa's. Besides that, he'd cooked some jeweled rice -- a favorite in Eldahar, one he found appropriate to celebrate with; it was bright with saffron and slivered almonds, pistachios and candied orange, still steaming as he put the lid on it. He fancied cooking for Ylsa because she didn't have a southerner's tongue, moaning about this spice and that... it hurt him to cook for a southern palate, and positively killed him to cook for a Morrimian's. There was nothing more heartless than boiled meat and potatoes. And finally -- He had to admit. There were supposed to be... three, but he'd ended up eating so much of the batter that there was only enough for two. At every spoonful the necromancer kept looking surreptitiously over his shoulder, but for once, no one interrupted his baking. Ha. Their loss. Since Orl'Kabbar, he'd hoarded a dragon's pile of chocolate. It'd become his best friend since he put down the bottle, an unflappable companion, and he thought by now he'd be sick of it, but Angkar proved otherwise. He'd taken back a sack with him, had planned to ration it out through the struggle of reclaiming a city... but on further reflection, it seemed like a selfish thing to do. As he stood in his larder wondering what -- of the meager, dwindling ingredients -- to make a cake from, his mind kept wandering back to his hidden stash. As he took out the flour and butter, his mind became more insistent, and -- Fine, fine, very well, he conceded to it, pulling out the bag from the nether and eking out enough for three cakes. It seemed right -- something devilish to usher in the end of the war, to be shared with dear friends... he very well couldn't pop open a cask of Arbor red and make a toast, so this would have to do, he supposed. After a few hours, he was the proud mother of two rich, glistening chocolate cakes, topped with ganache and shavings. He put the lot into ceramic dishes, then carefully arranged it in a small, wheeling cart. Mercifully, the walk was not long from Willowfair to the main square (an obnoxious chime that many of the residents were quick to point out), and he followed the light and sounds of laughter right to the fountain. "Good evening," the necromancer greeted, a shade out of breath from lugging the lot over. His eyes scanned the crowd, resting on everyone in turn. Most were familiar faces, peppered with a few acquaintances and strangers. Ylsa, of course, her cheeks bulging with -- were those lemon tarts? Splendid -- and Sara, the sweet little thing he'd first met on the road with Glede, the memory of the festival almost surreal -- Nakara, naturally, how could one miss her -- and besides her, that djinn that he'd... learned to get on with -- a beautiful man with flowing dark tresses and purple eyes -- an unfamiliar fellow with white hair that jarred with his young face, carting a wheelbarrow full of... what now, exactly? and -- Shell? The necromancer propped the little cart upright, smoothing the front of his fresh tunic and affording her a little foppish finger wave and smile. He'd heard from Ylsa that she was in town, from the days he went to go and visit and help clean up -- and had heard in passing the terrible thing that had happened-- Phaedrus wedged a hand on his hip, staring down at Nakara with a severely arched brow. He tossed one hand. "I got your invitation, Miss Bescchyentil. I do believe your pigeon is broken. Or did you train it to dive right into people's jewels?" A twisted smirk made its way up his face, and then his lips parted in a high-pitched cackle. Actually, that seemed like precisely the sort of thing she would do. A foolish question. "I brought--" he grunted, taking out the various vessels and putting them where everyone might access them easily, "--some curried squash and rice, and--" these he placed down carefully, as though handling a precious heirloom. "chocolate cake," the necromancer finished, addressing everyone. Phaedrus straightened and dusted off his hands, pleased with his handiwork. "Please, help yourselves." He crossed his arms, sidling a glance and close-lipped smile at the nervous, white-haired fellow lingering at the edge of the fire. "None of us bite, come on," he clucked. "Well, except for this one." He gestured towards Nakara, turning his eyes on Ulyn. "And you are...?" |
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| Razarod | Jul 24 2017, 01:43 PM Post #6 |
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Angkar's Fallen Lord
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His wings carried him far. Far from the Do'Suul Mountains, thankfully; the phoenix held no desire to see the place again after dying multiple deaths in the caverns. Khanrad had caught bits of conversation from people he flew over, enough to know to come to Soto. A lot of unique individuals gathered in one place. Some of them particularly powerful. These are the people who might be able to help him. Soto, he recalled, from his days spent in Castle Evermore, was typically friendly with the Evermores, and Angkar has a new Queen, one of the Evermore bloodline. She'd dethroned Hemlock, a fact Khanrad took immense amounts of pleasure in, his only disappointment being he never received the privilege of pecking the dryad's eyes out himself. He hoped this meant a greater proportion of friendly people in Soto, ones who would be willing to help Razarod. That is, if any of these people held such knowledge. If any believed him. Many believed Angkar's Red King to be interred on the castle grounds. His glide carried him over Madrid and he took in the sight of the city, much of it now in ruins. What happened here? How long had he been on the Do'suul Mountains? Among the ruins, he saw people. Certainly a unique group of individuals; undead, magic users, and other sorts of creatures ate and drank on the ground in the city's ruins. Was this the place for a party? What were they celebrating? The phoenix swooped down from the sky, perching himself on one of the ruined buildings, the light catching his feathers and they shimmered, the oranges and reds and yellows moving through them like flames; stopped and cast his piercing gaze around for clues as to what happened, eyes a brilliant yellow-white surrounding a deep black pupil, like looking into a solar eclipse. But he was at a loss; he saw nothing that would explain the condition of the capital. He had always thought this city quite beautiful, but now... "Could anyone here answer two questions for me: What happened to Madrid, and what year is it? Oh, and a third question," he added, his eyes catching the chocolate cakes, the lemon tarts, the rice, the wine, and all the other goodies people had set up. "Do you mind? Because I'm thinking it's not 7 AR, and that's the last time I ate anything other than lizards and bats." Khanrad paused hoping everyone didn't react with either panic or violence to a bird broadcasting thoughts into their heads. Not that any of his other forms were likely to help more; incapable of subtlety as he was. |
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| Shell | Jul 24 2017, 03:30 PM Post #7 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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A voice piped up from the outskirts of the gathering, and Ylsa swallowed a mouthful of tart as she looked up to glimpse a thin, shy-looking young man lugging along a cart full of..... books? Her heart warmed to see such reverence for books from one so young. She smiled, and gestured for him to come closer. "Please come join us! There's plenty for everyone, just pick a basket and dig in." "Good evening." "Phaedrus..!" Shell was the first to greet him with a wave and a smile, followed closely by Ylsa and Nakara, then Taras, and Sara, who stood to approach him and give him a hug before helping him bring the cart to the blanket. The blonde was all smiles at this point, high and full of real familial warmth. Mom and dad would never do anything like this, She couldn't help but think as she sat back down, watching her friends interact, chin propped in her hand. I have the best friends in the world. Nakara hacked out a lungful of smokey laughter. "So Jeremy Big found one of his marks, huh? I'm a bit ashamed to say that I actually didn't train him to do that, but now I'm thinking..." "Don't," Taras chimed in, crossing his legs. "Really." "That's a terrible attitude for a guinea pig." The others leaned in slightly when he procured the foodstuffs he had prepared for the gathering, and Shell seemed especially interested when he got to the cake. The invitation to Ulyn was renewed, with Nakara chomping her teeth teasingly in the kid's direction. Sara scooched over to make room on the blanket and patted the spot next to her. "Come on in, pull up a rock! We've got more f---" She stopped mid-sentence, though the others would have undoubtedly picked up where she left off, casting her gaze to the ruined roof of a nearby building, having caught a flash or fiery orange. At first she'd though it was another of the kind of orb she had seen from the inn's patio last year, the orb that had effectively started her journey on the path of mysteries. It was not an orb, but something even more incredible. "Pheo...? Is that...." No; it wasn't Phoenitia, did not feel like the woman she had met in Morrim. Its voice reached them, then, and they looked up in unison, Nakara's eyebrows arching in surprise, Ylsa clasping her hands in delight. Only Sara and Ylsa, of the original five, had the presence of mind to answer. "A crazy dryad sacked the country with an army of nature-beings and skeletrees." "11 AR," Ylsa added. "And yes, please do!" Sara held up one of the many baskets with a friendly smile. "That stuff sounds nar, and we need help demolishing all of this." |
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| Phaedrus | Jul 24 2017, 04:50 PM Post #8 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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The Djinn A pigeon with a memo? Baqi stared wide-eyed at Nakara, blinking. “You bluffin’?” Guess not. The mental image of her keepin’ birds ’n sprinklin’ corn on ‘em was too surreal. Since when did Nakara have..? “Shit, lady. Musta missed ‘im.” He could only shrug. Hospital was always busy, 'n who knew. With the state of how Madrid was nowadays, he wondered if Jeremy Bigs had ended up in someone's... "Domestic?" Blinking, a grin sprouted 'cross his face, widening when the woman pressed a basket into his hands. "You? Naaaah, bullshit, lady. That's impossible. What, did someone wrestle ya into an apron?" He eagerly moved the checkered cloth aside, finding a pre-sliced piece of pumpkin pie and shoving it into his mouth. Then, through a mouthful, wide-eyed, "--are they dead..?" Wheels creaked. He looked up to see a halo of white hair and kind hazel eyes, smiling as Ylsa came over and pressed a kiss on 'im. "Hey," the djinn grinned, patting the mystic's hand. She looked way, way better. 'Cept for the leg thing, but... "Good to see you out, Ylsa. Oh yeah, and thanks for the... stuff." She knew exactly what he was talkin' about. The djinn tapped out a bit more ash, a lopsided grin on his face. "Got me through... lemon?" The djinn' eyes widened as she leaned in, pressing the contraband into his hand. "Won't tell anybody lady, promise," he whispered back, lookin' around dramatically. Then he returned to Ylsa with a cheeky grin, taking a bite. Whoa. The taste evolved on his tongue -- first, a tart hit -- then sugary goodness -- the melt of butter... and that's how he knew the herb was working. "These'r great," the djinn grinned at her, muffled through a mouthful of tart. The rest of it disappeared, and somehow he found himself with another one, just in case-- How you keepin, my dude? He blinked an' looked up, taken outta his fantasy world for a second. The look in Nakara's eyes gave it a second meaning, made it more than just small talk. The djinn shrugged through a mouthful of pie. "S'okay." His guts flipped, sank. He didn't really want to talk about it -- tried to keep his mind off of it most days, sure didn't want to bring it up at a party. Pausing, the djinn choked a little on the rest of the pie, gratefully accepting the wine and washing the huge chunk down with it. "Ha. Spent all day lookin' at coochies. Not the nice kind, either, don't get excited." He worked at some filling in his teeth, staring wide-eyed at Nakara. Work. Talkin' about work was easy. He leaned in conspiratorially, whispering. "Listen, of all the shit I've seen, deliverin' babies is gotta be the worst." A shiver racked his spine. Maybe he shouldn't talk about that while everyone was digging into pies, but... well, he figured Nakara wouldn't give a shit. "Went good though. Was nice. The miracle of life 'n all that." He shrugged. "Better than the guy we got this morning. Came in freakin' out cuz he got part of a bed post stuck up his ass. Took three of our best healers to get it out. It was pretty amazin', actually." One of the healers had told 'im that the fastest way to lose faith in humanity was to be a nurse, 'n well... he wasn't wrong. He fell quiet as a red-headed man sprouted outta nowhere and came over, blabbing in that posh drawl of his. Shit, he's here? To his distaste, the guy came over, talkin' to Nakara. The djinn stared at him, going quiet an' trying to shrink down as much as possible. He took another drag of the smoke to occupy himself, fiddling with a tart in his other hand. He still didn't like that guy... gave him the creeps, bad vibes... sounded so fake, fake as hell, how did anyone---? He tried to keep the mood from his face. For whatever reason, Ylsa liked Phaedrus, and he liked Ylsa, so he guessed he'd better like him too. Or at least not growl at him 'n tear his hems right off... The djinn took a big swig of wine, trying to reel his thoughts back. Whoa, whoa. He hadn't been spending as much time as a dog lately, on accounta the fact people might try to catch him and make him into lunch... but there were always urges that were there, gut feelins he couldn't explain -- Yeah. He gives me the same vibe as a cat. Smells like one too, I bet. Yadda, yadda. Baqi looked away, leavin' Nakara to talk with the red headed lesbo. Sunnava... hope he didn't spend the whole night just chatting he-- Somethin' like a fireball shot through the sky. The djinn started, big eyes following it to the shape of a big, flaming bird -- The hell? Was he seein' shit--? It spoke, and he looked around wildly to make sure it wasn't just him hearin' shit, but everyone around looked equally surprised. "Whoa," Baqi croaked, not really gettin' out more besides that. His brow crumpled in confusion as he turned to Taras, jerking a thumb at the Phoenix. "You seein' this...?" *** La Princesa He saw a glimpse of blonde hair, and then -- suddenly her arms were thrown about his middle, and she'd gathered him in a hug, same as the first time they'd met. "Ah!" Surprised --but not protesting-- the necromancer gave her a little pat. "Sara! How are you?" He could guess. She reeked of that herb Ylsa was so fond of, and a knowing grin split his face. Eventually the girl detached, looking at him with dreamy eyes, and helped him bring the food over. Nakara brayed out a laugh at his misfortune, and Phaedrus snorted, tongue clucking. "Come now, raise him better than that. At least teach him to buy someone dinner before barreling into their privies." A smirk hooked his mouth, eyes glittering with private mirth. He couldn't help but steal glances at the man presently protecting his jewels, noting the pale skin, the eyes, the dark hair-- "You didn't tell me you had a sister," the necromancer murmured to Nakara, out of Taras' earshot. Then, with a devilish grin, he wiggled his brows at her, the message clear. Nice. Patting the woman's shoulder, the necromancer straightened. "Good to see you. Eat some curry, please. My garden gave me enough squash to feed the country." He minced off at Sara's invitation, flopping down on the open space and lounging upon it as if it were a chaise rather than a blanket. "Hello," he smiled at Shell, and none-too-subtly at Taras, trying to ignore the bottles of wine by his feet. Wasn't hard, with a face like that to look at... "How dreadful. I haven't introduced myself. I'm Phaedrus. And you are--?" He cut off, unable to finish that thought. A flash like a meteor lit the sky, and he perked up in excitement, looking towards the source of orange and red flames. Bast? Ah, he knew a mention of chocolate cake would--- The necromancer blinked. No, not Bast. To his surprise, the thing spoke into their minds, and he jumped instinctively at the psionic power, sitting upright. A crazy dryad sacked the country with an army of nature-beings and skeletrees. Well, that about summed it up. "Picked the wrong year to come here, I'm afraid," the necromancer cleared his throat and added, reaching for a tart. Speaking to an animal had become something rather unremarkable to him, given that Bast liked to walk around as a cat or morph her heads into various creatures. Like he needed to seem more mental, having a full on conversation with a cat. Also, it was rather jarring to turn around and see her eating ants off the counter with the head of a pangolin, but then, he'd seen worse... "Two years ago, it would have been a fine sight. Please... er, eat." He seconded Sara's blessing, gesturing. Everything looked excellent, and he was starving. The necromancer plucked a blueberry tart from one of the many baskets, eagerly taking a bite. |
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| Razarod | Jul 24 2017, 07:06 PM Post #9 |
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Angkar's Fallen Lord
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Khanrad could do nothing but stare. The girl with all the hair, seriously, that's a lot of hair, even more than Razarod used to have, said 11 AR. "Four years," he said. "In that cave for four years. He's been... gone... for four years." Four years he had spent: crawling through the rubble in the body of an ant, pulling it away stone by stone in the body of an ape, until he found every remnant of Razarod in the cave , every bone that once belonged to Razarod Evermore cleared from the rubble. The phoenix lowered his burning gaze to the ground, and heaved as if he was sighing, though no sound came out. "I know Madrid used to be lovely, from when I came here before. With... him. When the city was whole, and the refugees had only just arrived in Soto. I remember intricate bridges all around the town, waterfalls and streams bubbling peacefully, trees arranged with care, and pristine houses... This is disastrous and I'm terribly sorry this befell the people of Madrid. Last I went out in the world, Morrim was desolate, but it seems our comrades remedied the blight after all. Maybe it's Ashoka's turn to endure some hardship next; Orion's had it too easy for too long." Khanrad flaps over to the basket and gingerly knocks out a slice of chocolate cake onto the blanket and begins pecking away at it. "OH! Sweet nectar of the gods! Sweet nectar of the gods in my face, I missed chocolate cake so much." The bird nibbles away at the delicacy with unbridled enthusiasm. "This cake so moist it melts in my mouth," exclaimed the creature who was filled with enough magical fire to make anything melt in his mouth. "This is an odd place for a picnic. What are we celebrating? Getting rid of a crazy dryad?" The phoenix stopped pecking at that remark and tilted its head inquisitively. "Speaking of crazy dryads who ruin everything good in the world... Did Hemlock do this? Sounds like something he would try... Oh I hope the bastard suffered... And yes, djinn, you're really seeing this. I'm a glorious sight, a beautiful phoenix." He goes back to pecking the cake and licking at the icing with an efficiency that would render ravenous piranhas green with jealousy. "Sorry I ramble so much. Thanks for tolerating my questions. I'm Khanrad." |
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| Ulyn Silverstone | Jul 24 2017, 07:14 PM Post #10 |
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As he finished speaking, another form approached, one the others seemed to know well. Well, the more the merrier he suppsoed. Especially in times like this. After some discussion of the food he brought, and talk of a pigeon diving into his nethers, three of the party-goers adressed Ulyn. From a white haired woman who seemed to have brought most of the food, "Please come join us!" From the latest comer, a man with bright red hair and well-dressed, "None of us bite, come on, well, except for this one." And finally, from the one who he seemed to have directed his comment at, ""Come on in, pull up a rock!" Slightly overwhelmed, but heart warmed from the kind welcome by all these strangers, Ulyn let go of his cart and took a seat, just as what appeared to be... no, it couldn't be. How often do you see a damned pheonix? Especially in the ruins of a sacked city. Not only that, but it then spoke. To them. Asking what year it was and what happened to Madrid. Where was this bird living for the past year? Under a rock? Hearing Ylsa and Sara answer, Ulyn piped in. "Yea, crazy dryad, fae, weeds... Been a crazy year or two. I didn't bring anything or I'd offer it, I'm a guest here as well." Answering the question of the other latecomer, the red-haired one, Ulyn continued. "Oh, in all of this I forgot my manners. My name's Ulyn sir, and its a pleasure to meet you, all of you. I can't thank you enough. This city needs a bit of warmth brought back to it. I did hear mention of lemon tarts... which basket would they be in?" Stepping into the group, Ulyn took a seat next to Phaedrus at the dinner party, and started looking through some of the baskets. Listening to some of the exchanges, Ulyn sat patiently as it seemed everyone but the flaming bird seemed to know each other. Or, at least mostly. Looking through the faces, Ulyn couldn't place a single one. Just made his anxiety spike a little higher and he did his best to seem calm as he dug for some food. |
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| Phaedrus | Jul 24 2017, 10:28 PM Post #11 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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Oh, in all of this I forgot my manners. My name's Ulyn sir, and its a pleasure to meet you, all of you . "Pleasure, Ulyn. I'm Phaedrus," the necromancer introduced himself, eyes dancing with amusement at the stranger's formality. He patted the space beside him, laughing. "Oh, no, don't thank me. I didn't organize any of this, I simply showed up. Thank her." He tipped his chin at Ylsa, scooting a bit to give Ulyn some room. "Here ya go, guy," the djinn piped in, hearing the newcomer's quest for tarts. He pushed the basket over, a little wistful to see them go, but at this rate he'd scarf the whole thing... "Help yourself. They're real good." The djinn took another drag of smoke, puffing it up at the night sky. Through the fuzz of his mind, an idea came to him, warm 'n bright. He proffered the smoke between his fingers, thick brows raised at the stranger. A stoned grin crept across his tan face. "Want some? Plentya that to go 'round, too." Yeah, all this food wouldn't last long... Phaedrus waited patiently for Ulyn to grab a tart before sneaking his hand in, taking a bite and closing his eyes. Sweet Nailah, yes. He had no idea what on earth Ylsa put in her tarts, but they were easily the best he'd had-- The necromancer let out a content little sigh. Perhaps it was all that herb-smoke, but... He felt oddly at peace in the moment, strange enough company as they all were. Perhaps the strangest of all kept talking, his sonorous voice jarring him out of his tart nirvana. As he spoke the necromancer licked out some of the filling, frowning. The image of Old Madrid the bird conjured hurt his heart; he saw it all-to-well, felt like he had been displaced in another time, another country... It was like listening to a speaker from another world. Idly, he wondered who 'he' was, and who caused the Phoenix so much distress. The necromancer's mouth popped open as he hunted for something to say, wondering how to condense everything... "Oh, Orion's been deposed," he informed the bird with pleasure, snakelike malice curling in his chest and smile. His eyes glittered eerily in the firelight. A familiar hatred burned his chest, all-too-personal. "The people rose up against him. If some rumors are to be believed, he was ripped apart limb from limb." Ah, how dearly he wanted to believe that! "But mostly -- no one knows where he has gone, or whether he is alive or dead... and the new Moghul --" he stopped. With the war in Soto, his attentions had been absorbed -- and very little news of the world came to Orl'Kabbar. And if it did, it was buried under so much existing misery.... "Mmm... in truth, I have not heard much about the new Moghul." He brushed some crumbs off his chest, frowning. Could they possibly be worse than Orion de Lacey? The heart liked to think not, but cut off the head of a hydra and two more sprang up... "Ashoka has suffered enough." Hardness edged his voice. Indeed, why should the people bleed because of a tyrant? A wistful pang hit him; for all the ills he had suffered there, Ashoka was still his homeland, but in its state he doubted he would ever return. His thoughts threatened to sour, weighing on his chest, and the necromancer shoved the rest of the tart in his mouth. Thankfully, a distraction came soon enough. The bird all but threw himself into the cake, inhaling it like a starving dog. Phaedrus' eyes widened, brows shooting up nearly to his hair. Ye-e-es. Good thing he'd baked two. It sounded like he'd found nirvana. He was happy for the change of subject, mind steering towards more pleasant thoughts. The necromancer felt rather flattered, fanning a pale hand against his chest at the bird's glowing praise. "Oh! I'm glad you like it," Phaedrus tittered. Well, he was tickled. Had he a drop of blood in him, he would've flushed; felt a happy pride suffusing his chest, that something he'd made could bring so much joy. "Yeah, you could say that," Baqi answered, pulling his knees up to his chest. Alright, so he wasn't tripping, if everyone can see the thing and talk to him... The djinn found himself staring in awe, almost wanted to get up and touch the Phoenix's feathers. Were they real? He wasn't sure if they'd all come apart in flames and wisps, mouth hanging open a bit. "New start, y'know, maybe? Shit rising from the ashes n shit." He grinned lopsidedly, nodding. "Though... I bet y'know all 'bout that, huh?" The djinn blinked as the Phoenix went on. Hemlock? Who was that? Didn't ring a bell. He was embarrassed he didn't know, felt stupid. The djinn took a sip of wine and reached for another pastry, shaking his head. "Nah, guy," Baqi piped up, through a mouthful of lemon tart. "Not, uh, Hemlock. Was some crazy tree bitch called Maedaigh. Came outta nowhere... all the sudden the forest just turned, and..." the djinn trailed off, suddenly self-conscious of speaking up, and dropped his stare to his lap, looking into his wine. "I'm sure you'll be delighted to hear," Phaedrus added in a drawl, scratching his pike of a nose. "Hemlock is dead, too. Eulalia Astharoshe sits on the throne, now," the necromancer continued, clearing his throat and picking up another tart. Had all of that truly happened in such a short time? What chaos the world was in. Tucked away in his cozy corner of Madrid, it was easy enough to forget-- to hear the miseries of the world from an armchair, frown and go on with ones day. "In happy news..." He gestured with a hand, glad to impart something nice. "Eulalia is a fair and just queen; under her, Angkar has flourished. She outlawed slavery, and has worked tirelessly to undo Hemlock's reign." He'd talked to many Angkarian locals in his time there, and they were full of nothing but praise for the young ruler -- he'd caught a brief glimpse of her in the parade that swept Mondragon, and could see why they venerated her. Taking a bite of the tart, Phaedrus explained, gesturing with his other hand. "--I just returned from holiday there. Beautiful country. Ah, and Queen Astharoshe has founded a new city as well." Evidently done being a herald, the necromancer kicked out his legs, bracing his weight on his palm and nibbling the tart. "Pleasure, Khanrad," he brandished the pastry, indicating himself. "I'm Phaedrus." "I'm Baqi," the djinn added, starting a bit when the Phoenix called him out. "Uh..." he rubbed his eye, scratching the back of his head, and winced. Did it matter? The redheaded demon knew, Ylsa knew, Nakara knew, I mean they all had to know, they'd seen him at Nemetona-- Swallowing uncomfortably, the djinn smoothed the front of his tunic. "Y-yeah guy," he managed nervously, giving a laugh. "You're uh... you're pretty--pretty." Edited by Phaedrus, Jul 24 2017, 10:32 PM.
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| Ylsa | Jul 24 2017, 11:14 PM Post #12 |
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For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...
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Talk of the Madrid of bygone days caused a respectful hush to pass over the crowd, temporarily. Thoughts went either to memories of the city, or those who were lost -- but the conversation kept rolling, and so did the food, the lemon tart basket passing from Baqi's hands to Ulyn's as Sara, Ylsa, Nakara and Taras each introduced themselves to the young man. Shell seemed lost in thought after listening to Khanrad. Sara peered over at the basket as Ulyn opened it. Oh man, they're going fast! She noted, feeling a bit of disappointment -- she was happy everyone was enjoying them, but she didn't want everyone to run out of the hottest menu on the item. ................ Item on the menu. So much smoke... dear God, bless thee these lemon pastries, make them like... invincible -- ENDLESS. Make them endless... She forgot about the prayer a moment after she'd made it, but from that point on, they never seemed to run out of lemon pastries. "Yes -- exactly as Baqi said. We're celebrating the survival of our world," Ylsa chimed in with a warm smile, her hands in her lap. "We may have fallen, but we have chosen to get back up. We choose to continue our lives in defiance of the cruelty of others -- those like Maedaigh, Orion de Lacy, Hemlock laFleur, and all those others whose names we may never hear. I like to think we'll continue to do so, long after the night is over." "Corny," Nakara commented, raising a glass, "But fuckin' amen." The talk proceeded to the good news that had come from Angkar, and Shell, who had snapped to with Nakara's abrasive language, spoke up with a smile. "Yes -- Angkar is doing wonderfully, I just got back from there recently too. I was so happy to learn about the Queen having abolished slavery. She really is a miraculous person, isn't she?" More introductions went around, and Sara, who had been lost in the immediate area about five feet around her, glanced over at Baqi when the word "djinn" was mentioned. By some grace of the gods she managed to avoid gasping aloud in astonishment -- as soon as the smoke had started to settle in, she had gotten a very distinct series of impressions: there was a mist around the nervous young man, clinging to him like ectoplasm to a ghost, and it had felt.... cool, and a little like a wind tunnel. It made no sense, intellectually. But emotionally, spiritually, it made all kinds of sense. Sara smiled and sat cross-legged, leaning back on her hands, one of which she slipped just over the djinn's, giving it a squeeze of moral support before tossing him a smile and a shrug. What can you do? For his part, Taras had been rather quiet, when he was done making eyes at Phaedrus (Mercy, those eyes were enchanting). He had met the girls before of course, but as someone naturally reserved, he found that he didn't quite have a social slot in the group like a few of the others did; as he looked over, it seemed Ulyn was in very much the same boat. He sidled over on the edge of the fountain to be within conversational distance of the young man and reached down into the basket he held. "Thank you for saving the books," He mentioned sincerely, withdrawing a bundle of cheese and bread. He liked sweets, but as one of the few totally sober ones he was in the mood for something savory. "I imagine they would have stayed in the rubble for several more months before anyone even thought to look for them. Are you a scholar?" Edited by Ylsa, Jul 24 2017, 11:15 PM.
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| Mairead | Jul 25 2017, 08:35 AM Post #13 |
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I reject your reality and substitute my own.
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His mistress had fallen into a state of sobriety of late. Mai’s small form was perched over the side of her Flying Ship, ponderous. So lost in thought she was, that a pigeon had been ignored which had been hopping about the ledge trying to grab the enchanter’s attention for the past five minutes, and failed, having not elicited a stronger response than an annoyed hand-wave. The enchanter did not even look at the bird. The reading construct hobbled, with its aqua-blue legs clattering on the wooden planks with each step, over to her side. “The bird bears a letter, Mom,” said Daenis in his mechanical voice. “A letter? Who from?” The bird raised a talon, tamely, as Mai’s hand untied the slip of paper from it. It flew off immediately, wings bursting into an annoyed flutter, as if it bore indignance toward the addressee for having it wait. “I have been cordially invited to a garden party in Madrid, by Shell.” Wearily, the woman explained. “Shell is a Daroan swordswoman I have met on the Plains of Aeril. Do not be deceived by her shy demeanour; she is a deadly fighter.” Daenis noted it was the most words his enigmatic mistress had uttered in a single sitting. Her voice had become rusted from a disused vocal cord. While he could not feel emotions the same way as humans do, he had put together a string of events and connected them to the word “sorrow”. The word had appeared many times in his readings of the scrolls of Elshadel, followed later by the libraries of Kinaldi. It was used particularly with fictional proses, a kind of writing that had been more ambiguous, less clear, than the scientific writings of scholars. As Daenis had pieced together, Glede had left the human woman feeling sombre with his fall from grace; she had missed the sweet presence of Phaedrus; and the endearing presence of her friend Eth, who was nowhere to be seen. He waited to be commanded with instructions to head to the party, but Mairead had slipped back into moody silence. The ship had no direction, as of now, and floated where the wind took it. Computing his mistress’ perceived most likely wish, he headed off to the steering wheel, one held by Jari in the Final Battle, and steered the ship toward Madrid. The lanterns marked the landscape from wherewith they would land. Daenis fixed an aerial anchor and awaited his mistress. They would have to jump off, and the Winged Harnesses would take them to their destination a long way below. Daenis manipulated his feet taking him to Mairead’s side. His luminous yellow eyes looked at his mistress expectantly. Mairead pondered for a moment, and jumped. Daenis hobbled behind Mai toward the fountain. A bag was slung across his shoulder. Upon reaching the group, his head yawed, spinning on its neck to take in all the information. Some of the goers, he recognized from Mairead’s records, and some, he did not. A blonde was with Baqi the Djinn. A pale poltergeist in kimono did wheelies on her chair. A black-haired woman with her head in a cloud of smoke, speaking raucously, near Shell. A man approaching another, a pale youth, at the fountain. Phaedrus talking with a phoenix. “Greetings. I am called Daenis. I am a construct created by Mairead de Latte.” He had prepared stuff just for the occasion. Pulling out the decorations, he hobbled to the lantern decorations, hanging shamrocks. The construct then hobbled to the mat, laying down such items as a teapot of chamomile and cups. He had prepared a bagpipe, though kept it in the bag. When he looked up, Mairead had waved at Phaedrus, then sidled next to Shell. A warm smile was on the enchanter’s face. She held her arms out, as if to embrace the undead girl. The construct stood idly for a moment, before heading to Phaedrus and the phoenix. “Greetings,” he said in salutation. “Have you heard or read the story of a necromancer boy who danced with undead children? I have heard he was a friend of Orion.” |
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| Razarod | Jul 25 2017, 08:45 AM Post #14 |
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Angkar's Fallen Lord
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Khanrad listened with overall delight to the recounts of what happened in the years he spent toiling in the Do'suul Mountains. Orion deposed? Morrim's blight healed? Eulalia abolished slavery again? Of course, Razarod did that as well, it wasn't HIS fault his successor had been a crazy dryad who sought to undo all his accomplishments. Elenlond fared quite well in his absence. "Thank you all for catching me up. This all actually comes back to why I came HERE." Why he came here, though, everyone would be forced to wait to find out, as the phoenix grabbed a lemon tart and began pecking at the sweet citrus dessert. "Oh wow these are incredible, whoever made this is a magical chef. The wine is tempting, but I was never allowed. He always said that sounded like an excellent way to burn the place down." Was that how it worked? Now might be a fun time to try... "Anyway, I have such a personal vendetta against Orion and Hemlock... because I spent most of my life in the company of Razarod Evermore. Up until four years ago, when we sought to end the blight in Morrim. I see it ended, but not before a cave in the Do'suul Mountains caved in and buried us both." The phoenix was unsure how much they would believe him. Razarod had been wearing a magical disguise on that journey, and Khanrad himself spent the entire time disguised as a hound. Most people thought Hemlock and Orion ordered the king assassinated at his castle in 5 AR. "I know my story sounds strange; that's two years after the official history says he died. But rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated... until they weren't. I managed to salvage all his bones from the wreckage and am seeking someone, or something, with the power to revive my friend. I heard talk of a gathering of... unique and talented individuals... in Madrid and headed here." |
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| Shell | Jul 26 2017, 12:00 AM Post #15 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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As with so many other countless moments in the last two weeks or so, Shell's thoughts had turned to her sister. This time it had been Khanrad who had brought it on: there was a tremulous hint of sorrow in the magnificent creature's tone as he mentioned "him". It was such a simple thing -- it was one word, but for another so fresh from loss, she felt it like a plug had been freshly opened in her heart, draining the little substance that had gathered there since the device broke. Desperately, she wanted to feel sadness for whatever thing this phoenix had suffered through, knew that she should, but all she could think of was Khana. She touched her chest, within which the Pearl slept: there was a moment of nothing, then warmth like a blooming rose filled her for a few precious seconds. The dream of feeling her presence was overrun by reality, and when Shell remembered that there was no Khana here, the warmth faded and left her feeling empty. A painful lump rose in her throat and her eyes burned, and she had to turn away from her friends, looking down into the three or four inches of water that yet remained in the fountain. It was just her. For centuries, in and out of consciousness, from disaster to disaster, she had been apart from Volmae, but even so she had known that somewhere out there was the Torch Dragon, perhaps watching sorrowfully over her from the Heavens, or wandering, lost, just as she was. It had never been a cause for doubt, and it had given her hope in some of her darkest hours -- once she found out that Khana was indeed walking the earth, it comforted her, and she was patient to meet with her again: as she lay beneath the night sky she knew that somewhere her sister was looking up at the same stars. She was in the Spirit World now, if her plans had gone through. Giving Shell her Pearl had not only provided some small measure of comfort to her but also allowed her soul to wander that realm as it pleased, conscious. She was in the Spirit World, but Shell was bound to the terrestrial realm for all eternity, her soul never allowed to stray too far from her body -- it was like the moon and sun that could never ever meet, but merely pass within tantalizing theoretical reach once an age. Shell choked, and sniffed, and a tear spattered her trouser leg; she reached up as subtly as she could and wiped the others away. They didn't need to see this, not again. The conversation went on behind her and for a couple of minutes she was deaf to it, watching the stars come out in the reflection of the fountain and her toes wiggling beneath them. After a bit, she tried to tune back in to the world around her to ground herself and became aware of a weird new clanging sound. Curious, but not enough to turn around and expose herself to the group, she continued to listen and watch the stars in the water when a new reflection came into view right beside her. She looked up. "Mairead..." She said softly, managing a small smile. She hadn't seen the young woman in..... well, since the early spring, she was quite sure. All at once her heart broke anew, yet again, when she remembered the field of flowers, the tomb -- the faint echo of sweet dragonsong and a flash of crimson -- that had been the first time she had seen Khana again in countless centuries. She hadn't known it at the start, she had been far too frightened of who it could have been to stick around and investigate. Even the thought of speaking to people in the street had frightened her, until at last she had spoken to one. She hadn't had plans to become close with anyone. Not so soon after her stasis, when she could barely even ask for the date and directions. She had been far too worried that someone would try and take charge of her, but then someone took charge in an entirely different way than she'd anticipated. These memories trailed through her head in the few very scant moments it took for Mairead to smile and raise her arms. She remembered: in those hollow hours and days following her awakening, the painful emotional gaps had been filled by this young woman who had fostered and fed her, sheltered her, embraced her, and put flowers in her hair. She had effectively saved her from yet another potentially disastrous beginning and offered her sincere words of kindness, reminding Shell of her humanity without possibly even realizing how much such a thing could mean. She hadn't thought about it in such depth then, but the well of her heart was empty, and she now fully understood the miraculousness of those early days in this new season of her long, unhappy life: it had been her Spring, and though her garden was empty, Mairead had filled it with flowers. At last, Shell caved, and the smile crumbled into tears. Almost desperately, she reached out and drew her friend into a hug, and for a moment the sister-shaped gap in her world was full. "I'm so glad to see you." She managed to choke, and wept silently into Mairead's shoulder. |
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| Phaedrus | Jul 26 2017, 03:26 AM Post #16 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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Ylsa's voice rose, soft and unintrusive, above the chatter of laughter and food and drink. Her words summed it perfectly -- from her it came sincere, not a gloating battle-cry but a soft, enduring faith in everyone present, and the whole of Madrid. We may have fallen, but we have chosen to get back up. We choose to continue our lives in defiance of the cruelty of others. It resonated personally with him. Beyond Maedaigh -- beyond recent events. His whole life he had been beaten like a dog, kicked from Master to tyrant to Master. So many times he thought he would never get up again. So many times he simply did not want to, hoped he'd bleed out on the floor and it would all end. And despite it all, he had lived. Gotten here, to a place and life that had never seemed imaginable. "Well-said," he agreed warmly. " īn nīz bogzarad. This too shall pass." The Ashokan saying had given him great comfort of late. It was so simple, almost scoffingly so -- but one he kept coming back to, repeating for the most mundane of situations or the worst challenges. Every time he wanted to drink, and the urge seemed like the most consuming thing in the world, like everything stopped existing... every day in Orl'Kabbar... every day on the march to Nemetona... He had nothing to toast with, he realized. The emptiness in his hand suddenly became palpable; he saw Nakara taking a swig from her wine glass and the djinn raising his in turn, found his eyes meandering -- again -- to the bottles by Taras... and the bottles set up in the middle of the gathering, right by the food... Stop. Stop, stop, stop, he chided his mind, shuffling uncomfortably. I should have brought tea... Or perhaps some sharbat in a flask. He found it helped him on the days he twitched for it, kept reaching for something -- just not being empty-handed helped, soothed the tic in his mind. Now he felt odd, naked, as if he'd forgotten something as vital as trousers. Instead he tried to focus on the pastries, chewing a bit slowly. Tried to feel the cool stone, the soft threads of the blanket, the balmy night air and chirrup of insects. If it becomes unbearable you can simply leave, he reminded himself, his mind like a finger wagging mother. Taras was a good distraction. The looks he gave didn't escape him, and the necromancer answered with a devilish smirk. Not that he would do anything. Well, perhaps if Bast agreed. Still, pretty to look at... Good thing you don't have wine. Else he would have been slobbering all over the man by now, and ended with his face in his lap. Ah, and he likely would have made an arse of himself already, falling all over the place and slurring awful, lewd things into Shell's ear. The necromancer plucked at the blanket, absently pulling at some loose threads. Old embarrassments threatened to attack him, a pike of shame hurtling through his guts. Fuck off, he thought to the wine. In an effort to distract himself, he turned to chat with Shell-- meant to ask her how the rest of her vacation had gone, tell her that he'd tried her Schezuan recipe and would be happy to have her for dinner one night, if she cared to -- a smile ready on his face -- Tears ran down Shell's cheek. The necromancer froze with a tart in one hand, his smile quickly fading from his face. She was trying to be subtle, but he could hear her faint sniffing and hitching breaths, attuned to misery like a dowsing-rod. His skin crawled with discomfort. Oh... He felt perfectly useless. Unsure what to do, the necromancer gently put his hand on her shoulder -- a quiet I'm here if she so wished. But he did not want to be intrusive. When he wept he felt great shame; he did not want to be touched, felt better to lock himself away and cry in privacy. Because if anyone knew... His mind wandered a moment, the pastry suddenly odd and intrusive in his mouth. He hadn't lost a single person in this war. Oh, to be sure, his acquaintances were lost or dead -- their fates utterly uncertain -- but long before the war he'd cut them off, the ties between them withered, and though he felt a dull ache when he thought of them in passing, he had not cried for them. He'd come close to losing Ylsa -- and the thought of that was a devastating blow -- but here she lived, eating and drinking with him. If he had lost Bast, he would have gone insane with grief, likely; if he'd lost Scathach, the guilt of stringing the girl along would have eaten him alive; but they were here, with him, and he felt the brush they could have had with Death acutely, wanted to hug them both tight. There were so few things and people he cared about in this world; the bond tethering him to earth was a spider's thread. For a moment he was lost in his thoughts, distracted by the girl's grieving, and he returned to the conversation with some confusion. Served Razarod? Died in a cave? What-- Well, he supposed it wasn't all too unusual, once one dug beneath the initial surprise. The world was cruel, random -- imagine! To survive a coup and flee ones country, only to die in a cave! It wasn't funny -- it oughtn't be funny -- but the awful banality and pointlessness of a death twisted some black humor in him. Phaedrus nibbled on another tart, frowning. It was all rather much. To be speaking to a servant of Razarod. Well, at least one who claimed to be. Here, of all the godsforsaken places... and now he was telling him that history was wrong. "Have you--? Perhaps Queen Eulalia should hear of... this." He paused. He supposed it wouldn't make any difference; Razarod was still dead. But perhaps he could serve her yet, find use in her court. I managed to salvage all his bones from the wreckage and am seeking someone, or something, with the power to revive my friend. The hope in the Phoenix's voice was palpable -- it shone bright, a dancing, tentative flame on a candle. And he was about to snuff it out. He stared at the bird, wondering how to say it. Perhaps there was no way. "I don't..." Squeezing Shell's shoulder, Phaedrus dropped his hand to his lap, scratching his leg. Hunting for the words, he tossed his hand and it flopped back limply on his thigh. "I am sorry, Khanrad. I'm not sure there is any wizard alive able to revive him. At least -- not as he was. Not as you knew him. It would be..." An abomination. Oh, he could think of many ways that he might be 'revived'; his bones could be reanimated, or his soul could be transplanted into a fresh body... perhaps a pact could be made with a Daemon, some twisted god, but not without a grievous summoning price... oh, he supposed that the man's bones could be interred in a false-flesh construct of sorts, given the mockery of Life... And then he would be just like me. It was cruel. Cruel, cruel, to tamper with the Dead. He would never inflict an existence such as his on another. Better to leave them be. Better... "...it would be cruel," Phaedrus decided, bluntly, his voice cold and sterile. There were stories of Elder Djinn in the deserts -- powerful, great creatures said to be able to give life to bone, restore flesh with a single touch. But they were just stories -- even the djinn themselves questioned their existence, and the only 'evidence' came from flowery, embellished tomes of dubious origin. Sometimes the book of Enki made veiled references to them, along with other Scriptures. This he did not say. It would be crueler still to ignite a spark of hope, send the creature streaking across the land in search of... figments. He heard great, creaking footsteps -- the whirr and clatter of machinery -- and for a moment his mind fled to insane avenues. Glede? The necromancer twisted his upper body, but no, no, it was not Glede, not even close -- to his surprise a great clockwork construct clomped towards them, flanked by -- "Mairead..." the necromancer greeted, suddenly unsure. Greetings. I am called Daenis. I am a construct created by Mairead de Latte. It could speak? His mind hit a wall, buzzed, filled with a sudden white noise as the construct clonked about, setting up tea-things and shamrock decorations. Not--- it could not be-- But as the construct came closer, he did not feel the hum of a human soul. Nor any soul at all, to his senses. No tinge of necromantic magics. Beside him, Shell had descended into sobs, burying her head into the enchanter's shoulder. No time to ask questions. An artificer, he reminded himself, reeling his mind back from its panic. She is an artificer, not a necromancer... she is perhaps the best enchanter of Soare, of course her creations would be... advanced. Capable of speech. Lifelike. For a moment he felt like a parochial fool: jumping at a spark of fire magic, scared by the most basic of thaumatergy. Are you a sorcerer, or a superstitious peasant? The necromancer forced himself to smile at the construct, grateful for the tea. It was like a divine apparition. His mind felt hyper aware of the wine now; between thinking on the deaths of his friends and lover and considerations of necromancy, he felt rattled loose. "Daenis, hello," Phaedrus managed, trying not to lunge for a cup. He steadied his hands as he poured some chamomile, bringing the saucer and cup close to his chest. "Well-met." Its greeting was no less jarring. Have you heard or read the story of a necromancer boy who danced with undead children? I have heard he was a friend of Orion. The necromancer scratched the back of his neck, trying not to betray his mood overmuch. Somehow he kept his face composed, but his nails dug into his flesh, raking half-moons under his hair. Between the mention of Orion and Shell sobbing besides him, he felt trapped, tense with discomfort. The image Daenis conjured was gruesome enough. But the mention of Orion... Are you going to react this way every time someone talks about him? Every bloody time? It felt like a knife twist in the ribs. He hid behind the rim of his teacup, saying nothing as he took a sip. Hoped someone else would fill in the conversation, because his heart was burning, the anger flaring deep in his chest. Edited by Phaedrus, Jul 26 2017, 03:39 AM.
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| Ulyn Silverstone | Jul 26 2017, 08:06 AM Post #17 |
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For a few minutes, Ulyn simply stood there gawking. A pheonix, a djinn, an artificer with a golem capable of intelligent speech..... He was in heaven. After his moment of gawking, Ulyn simply marched up to Daenis, and started inspecting the handiwork of the artificer. He was quite entranced by the magics weaved into the construct. Some of the most advanced magic he had ever come across was laid on Daenis, and it absolutely piqued Ulyn's interest. "Maybe I should learn how to do this..... Definitely study it.. I think there were about 5 books on enchanting in that cart." After Daenis, Ulyn simply went back to watching the gathering, glad that this group was bringing warmth back to the city. As he watched, The other newcomer, the only other one who brought a cart with, approached and started a conversation. "Thank you for saving the books.... Are you a scholar?" "Oh heaven's no. Not by profession at least. I mean... I'd love to. But, for now, I study as much as I can, and I make fireworks..." Shuffling a little awkwardly as he hadn't expected anyone to actually address the books, he continued, "I'm Ulyn by the way, Ulyn Silverstone. And yea, I figured there wouldn't be many people concerned with the books, so I decided I might as well do what I could." A little more at home now that he seemed to be a fellow intellectual, Ulyn was put a bit more at ease, but was still excited to be in the present company. He reached down and grabbed a few tarts out of a basket and asked a question of his own. "And what is your name, sir?" |
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| Mairead | Jul 26 2017, 09:11 AM Post #18 |
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I reject your reality and substitute my own.
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Mairead had let Shell cling onto her like a koala, noted the construct, without growing bored or pushing her away. A tiny spark of Life had seemingly returned to those dead blue eyes. Still holding the dead girl, the woman looked at the red-haired man, beaming. "Ha, Phaedrus. Have you met my little sister?" said the enchanter, a hint of pride in her voice. The set of wine-red wings perched on Mai's shoulders fluttered excitedly at its close proximity to the dead girl at first, then ... subdued, reached forward to gently wipe Shell's tears. Phaedrus had gone silent at the mention of the Moghul, looking all but livid. Daenis blinked. He had clearly upset the normally upbeat man. What had Mai taught him about making small talks? Sure, she had grilled him for long weeks on moral behavior, but non of these lessons mentioned feelings, nor civility. She had kept her emotional distance from the construct, since the day he was created. Her lessons to him were delivered coldly, impersonally. Simply put, she did not believe in sentience, particularly of created constructs. He was made to behave in all the parameters, neatly, set forth by his creator. Fearing he would turn against humanity despite her grilling, the enchanter had crippled his abilities, weakening his strength, so that his overriding protocol would destroy him first, before allowing him to harm a single hair on a human head. She had forced him to abide by her stringent line of moral code. Had she held her hand from binding another construct -- Glede -- in the same way as she did him? Perhaps she could not bring herself to do so because, unlike him, Glede had a soul. Possessed true sentience. Free will. Stop! He was going all Pinocchio like one of those fictional books he had read. Now, Daenis had gone and upset a guest. The crystal implanted within him glowed furiously. He was made to observe behaviors and learn, and just like a normal human would comfort one who was upset, Daenis found himself offering more tea to Phaedrus and the Phoenix. "I could not, well, I would not ... " Mairead said, stammering. "... bind this Razorad's soul into an automaton, even if it meant he could live but not breathe or eat, presuming, of course, we could find his soul. I built Daenis a long time ago, in another realm, with magics native to that realm, and following the books left there, in a dimension I could not now go back to, yet. Perhaps Alexandros or Mordecai could help, if they would. I am, truly, sorry for your loss." |
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| Shell | Jul 26 2017, 12:52 PM Post #19 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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Taras The arrival of a young woman with a fascinating-looking automaton distracted Taras momentarily, raising his pale eyes to behold this new set of interesting visitors. Daenis hung up new decorations, appropriate ones that went well with the rest of the setting, and smiled, looking then to the lady who had accompanied it. She was busy with hugging Shell, who seemed to be having another emotional moment. In that instant, he was immediately thankful for his own sister's presence. Ulyn returned, and they picked up a conversation. Taras was a warm listener, finding this young fellow both endearing and heartening -- he was glad that this one too, had survived. "Hm... I would think that dutiful studying would make one a scholar," He ventured, "Though of course, without a patron or guild I don't suppose it would be the same. No shame in thinking of yourself as such in the interim." Almost without thinking, his foot went out, catching Nakara's hand as it strayed near to the bottle at his feet. After a moment, it wiggled out from beneath him and did not return. He reached over and offered a hand for Ulyn to shake. "It's a great pleasure to meet you, Ulyn. You have a strong name. I'm Taras, brother to... that one." He jerked his thumb towards Nakara who was standing up and going to Phaedrus. "Did you live in Madrid before all of this happened...?" Nakara The gathering went on and Nakara for once, found herself sitting by and simply watching it all, sipping idly at her cup while others waxed philosophy or discussed their own next steps. A wild-looking construct hobbled in and added some new decorations to the place and his accompaniment made her way to Shell, who hugged her tightly, shivering a little. Nakara shifted a little awkwardly, and diverted her attention to Daenis. “Have you heard or read the story of a necromancer boy who danced with undead children? I have heard he was a friend of Orion.” What..... that's like.... four jokes in one, no fair. She also caught bits from Khanrad the phoenix, speaking about King Razarod, snapping Nakara rudely back to reality. It hadn't been that long ago, she was so sure, that the king had vanished, replaced by that prick Hemlock. It hadn't been that long ago that she had been roped by Vannevar into drinking with Orion de Lacey on a roof in Ashoka, or since her brothers went to fight Andromalius. Back then she had been so young, bitter, so full of anger and angst that she had selfishly refused to take part. Yuri had come back with half a face -- Roman had come back without his soul -- and neither her father nor Taras had shown up. It hadn't been that long ago.... had it..? Razarod, Hemlock... Orion, Andromalius.... Maedaigh.... ....Brennia. "Tch..!" She tried to dislodge her associations, raising her cup to her lips and realizing it was empty. A rush of angry sweat did the wave over her skin, though it faded relatively quickly, and she reached out to snag the bottle by her brother's feet. One of those feet moved over and pinned her wrist to the ground. "Eh? Hey, come on, I'm only on my first." "No no, you just finished your first," Sara corrected her. Taras was intent on conversing with the wheedly kid, and Nakara pulled her hand out from under his boot, regarding the blonde with an eyebrow raised. "So? Same diff. What gives?" "You need to wait at least two hours before you have another one." "What?!" She tried not to let too much of her true indignation show. "And you can only have two." "Urk..!" She leaned in close to the blonde, seething and hissing, "No one ever said a goddamn thing about only two or spacing them out." Sara blinked. "That's because you'd never agree to it." They stared at each other for a while, and the blonde could see the cogs turning. The woman wanted to come up with a comeback, some kind of excuse or plan to slip by the radar, or at least some way to burn out her embarrassment with anger, but Sara also knew how much she wanted to try and stay clean. She offered her a sympathetic shrug. "I'm sorry man, I just really want you to feel good about sticking to your guns. I know it can't be easy..." The two halves of Nakara did battle for a moment, and she eventually set the cup down entirely. "Bah... whatever, you've got me in a box here. I'd thank you now, but now I'm irate." "No worries, at your leisure. Thanks for not taking it out on me." "The night is young, sweetcheeks." Nakara stood and stretched and lit up another cigarette, if only to have something to do with her hands, and paced around a few feet away from the group. Now, conversation seemed like a chore, an irritant; already, she found herself rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand, now remembering all those old kings and assholes, remembering her mother, and only growing more agitated with the idea that the world had been falling apart for decades and she was up in arms about not being able to drink, about being too weak to resist a liquid in a bottle. Fuck. What a joke. On the third or fourth turnaround she glanced up and her attention was drawn to Phaedrus, who had gone from engaging and charming to sullen at some point during the last few minutes. She hadn't spent a ton of time with the man, to be truthful, but she had spent enough with him to feel an odd sort of kinship. They lived in completely different worlds, but Phaedrus was one of the few who she could happily meet in the middle, a place where the chaotic wholeness of her own world faded out and took the back burner for a little while, replaced by colorful engaging conversation and unspoken understanding. Their first meeting had been less than auspicious, but it had ended in some small measure of comfort, knowing that there was just one more person who knew what lived inside her but who just didn't care. A friend. Nakara strode to where he sat, tapping his shoulder to get his attention: he was holding it together well, but something had bothered him. Perhaps several things, she couldn't be sure. But, she was bothered too. "Yo, wanna go walkies? I need to get gone for a few minutes, you look like you do too." |
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| Razarod | Jul 26 2017, 07:47 PM Post #20 |
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Angkar's Fallen Lord
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"I expected these kinds of objections. And under most circumstances, I would agree with you. I wouldn't think there existed a way. I wasn't going to look for one myself, I was only searching for his body to give him a proper burial. But when I found his bones... They're crimson, and they glow. While I'll admit, despite my limited experience with human bones, I don't imagine that is typical behavior. I HAVE seen my own before." The bird said this in the same casual manner one might use to describe that it's raining outside. Being practically immortal can make one rather odd. "Some of them. Don't ask how, the tale is pretty gruesome. But MINE are the same, which confirms suspicions I'd had before, though I never told him." How does one broach such a subject? Oh hey I think you might be functionally immortal on some level and also technically not human anymore? What if you're wrong? That's embarrassing. Oh no, I messed up and you're dying. My bad. "Razarod Evermore was originally named Galarod, this much is common knowledge, but they don't talk about why he changed his name. When he was younger, a close friend of his, a man who was half phoenix, called Raziel, was felled in battle. He knew he would be captured, and they would either curse him so he could not form a new body from the ashes, or they would simply murder his new body before he grew strong or not give him space to grow. So, instead, he pushed his own soul into Galarod, where the two of them became one person. He changed his name because he said it felt right, like that should be his name now. At which point his body began increasing in strength constantly and he learned fire magic overnight. Now, between that, and the fact Razarod and I were capable of fusing ourselves into one being at times..." Talk about a strange experience. But the effect had been incredible; if they had figured it out sooner he may never have been driven from the castle at all. "I think he might now, on a technicality, be one quarter phoenix. Which means there might be a latent ability to revive himself, and he needs a push. Of course this is an unusual situation, one nobody's encountered before that I know of. But it seems wrong not to try. I could die for him a million times over, and sometimes I did, although he never asked it of me, even knowing I always come back. I mean to exhaust my options before I give up on him." Khanrad retrieved another tart, blueberry this time, and began nibbling. |
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| Baqi | Jul 26 2017, 08:29 PM Post #21 |
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He felt a hand on his own. Jumping from instinct, the djinn turned to see Sara, her face warm and glowing, smiling with all the sympathy in the world. His own lips jumped in something that could be called a smile, but his nerves still felt rattled inside of him, skin crawling with familiar fear. It's not like Eldahar, like Ashoka... people are different here, they're different... He drained the rest of his wine, reaching for the bottle, and slopped himself a glass, eyes burning through the red liquid. He just wanted to disappear. Drew up his legs, abandoning the smoke for a few moments to sip at the liquid. He wasn't much of a drinker, not really... But it was there, and he was sad, and it took the nerves off just a bit, plunging his mind into a soupy fudge. He stared at it a while, conversation dulling in the back of his mind, becoming a distant wave that pulled in 'n out, fragments here 'n there... Clomp, clomp. The strange noise cut through the burble, and the djinn looked up, nearly losing his drink at the sight of Daenis. "Holy shit--" the djinn jumped, eyes going wide at the clockwork... man? Creature? Was there anything rattling around in there? His mind was slow, walking around in its own, drifting to vague thoughts of the desert, and... and... yeah, he'd seen something like that before, yeah, it was --- He struggled to remember the guy's name. But he'd never forget him -- all bristling black metal, voice like a whetstone, helping him heal some poor guy that got stabbed in a bar. Soon enough his thoughts took off. Eldahar... healing... shithole... slums... meeting Sabe, Sabe-- His throat tightened. For a moment the construct was a distant dream. Maybe everything was -- maybe this whole picnic was just a figment, and he was sleeping. That made more sense. Why the fuck would there be a metal man and a Phoenix here? These things just didn't happen. Suddenly he questioned his reality. His skin crawled with the fear it might not be here -- everything felt like it was rippling a bit, spinning or something, and he put down the drink, swallowing dry. Aw fuck, aw fuck... don't get paranoid... aw fuck... He breathed for a couple moments, pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his forehead. After a couple minutes his breathing evened out, and he reminded himself he'd been smoking. Nailah's teats, Ylsa had some strong shit. And he was back in the game. Somethin' happened -- he blanked -- but all of the sudden the pale girl was sobbing into Mairead's shoulder, and the construct was pourin' tea like a fever dream, and the red headed demon and Ky were getting up and heading out -- somewhere? -- and everything became a watery soup, hard to hold in his head. He had to stare at people one by one, fixing them in his mind before they slipped away like fish outta his hands. And when he was concentrating on concentrating, sometimes he missed... stuff... The Phoenix kept speaking. Baqi felt fixated by him -- maybe drawn to the golden glow above everything -- stared at the halo around Khanrad, trying to follow the long string of words. Somethin... somethin... Gala --? Raziel? Two souls? He was losin' him. But the djinn stared intently still, brows crumpled in a frown, fingers picking at the wine glass. His heart felt too full, goin' up to his throat as Khanrad went on. He got enough of it to understand. Leastways the important bits. I could die for him a million times over, and sometimes I did, although he never asked it of me, even knowing I always come back. I mean to exhaust my options before I give up on him. Fuck, he couldn't help it. A lump clogged his throat. The djinn swayed, unable to speak for a moment -- the words all croaked up in him. Instead he palmed his cheek, took a deep breath and slid his hand down his lower face, rough stubble prickling him. Sabe. He'd do the same for Sabe. Every time the guy got hurt, he healed him -- cleared out the empty bottles -- handed him his lho when his head got cloudy -- last time he'd seen him was in that hospital, and fuck, he couldn't do anything. He couldn't save him. Couldn't get through to him, couldn't... Was it because he didn't try hard enough? If he had done something different, would he be here, now, sharing a smoke and wine? Fuck, I never wrote to him enough. I never did. I didn't... His grief floated above him like a balloon, carried away by the smoke and drink, but he felt it -- was still there, just couldn't reach it -- somehow he was just fucked up, couldn't even shed a tear, numb to the bones. His eyes and throat burned, guts turning. But he got it. He got it, would have done the same any day in Khanrad's place, knew what it was like to lose someone like... "I'll try," the djinn croaked. "I dunno what I can do. But I'll try." His voice, meek before, struggled to come to. "I'm a healer..." It was ridiculous. Shit, he could barely close up a bad wound. But resurrecting a guy? Putting flesh on his bones? He knew it wouldn't work. But his heart hurt, his head hurt, went out with compassion for the stranger. |
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| Mairead | Jul 27 2017, 08:39 AM Post #22 |
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I reject your reality and substitute my own.
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A blonde young woman conversed with the black-haired one, who then left with Phaedrus. Mai whispered comforting words to the Dead girl, though they were inaudible from the distance. Dampers swung internally. Gears screeched and levers collided, mutating the weird internal topology of his mechanisms into creating a stiff walking movement, though the gears churned mostly in the construct’s head. It is a party of grieving? He had not seen any hint of the gathering being a funeral of any sort. Nobody was dead, except perhaps the poltergeist in a wheeled chair and a dead girl by the fountain now hugging his mistress. There had, however, been a war, he had learned. The very air ship they had flown here in, Finder, had seen battle. He had learned the Coin that had enchanted a powerful Ward to keep it safe had been copied from the powers of the now sullen necromancer. Bereavement. Well… this translates to more tea for the bereaved. The construct creaked his way to Baqi. The Djinn’s eyes had gone as big as a doll’s at the sight of himself. Daenis’ glowing yellow eyes were bewildered as he stooped, offering chamomile in a tea cup to the poor fellow. “You seemed to be in distress,” noted the construct in his ringing, slightly sonorous, voice. “I cannot eat, myself, being what I am, but you can. Please, do help yourself to the wonderful brew. It has soothing qualities. I am myself a Reading Construct, made to serve in the library. I must confess, that comforting others has never been my strong suit, but I hope this serves.” The yellow eyes narrowed into slits, as if in a smile, though his rudimentary jaw area could not form curves of any sort. Two boys were at the fountain; the silver-haired one had inspected Daenis curiously for a while. He seemed a scholar, or wizard, of sorts. The construct gazed curiously at his cartload of books, then hobbled over. His eyes had narrowed into glowing yellow slits again. Uncertain how to insert himself into the conversation, or if it would be polite, and having already introduced himself to the party at large, the construct was unsure how to behave. So, he fell into a tranquil silence. Perhaps rocking the boat with a careless word (again) was not the best idea. |
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| Ulyn Silverstone | Jul 27 2017, 04:06 PM Post #23 |
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This was a welcome listener, and seemed quite glad that Ulyn was so interested in study. Ulyn figured he must be an alright person, and was quite at ease now in the company of another intellectual. "Hm... I would think that dutiful studying would make one a scholar," He ventured, "Though of course, without a patron or guild I don't suppose it would be the same. No shame in thinking of yourself as such in the interim." He did have a point with that, Ulyn supposed that did make him a scholar, de facto if not de jure. Ulyn was lost in thought for a bit, and came back just as the man continued speaking, introducing himself as Taras, and asking if Ulyn had lived in Madrid. "No, can't say I did. I'm Morrimian to be truthful. Born and raised in Kinaldi. I wasn't here during the war, but I came in after to help secure the knowledge that could, and often is, lost in times of war." At that, Ulyn nodded toward the cart of books, and saw Daenis, the construct brought in not long ago, hobble over and gaze at the books. Having heard him mention being made to serve in libraries, Ulyn spoke to him... it? Oh well. "Daenis, was it? You mentioned being a Reading Construct correct?" |
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| Arete Fabella | Jul 27 2017, 09:02 PM Post #24 |
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"As centuries crumble the whispers of ancients/ Last longer in stories, last longer in stories than stone." -- Ada Palmer, "Longer in Stories than Stone"
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The city felt empty. Arete had visited occasionally, as a child, and the streets had always been packed tightly with people. Now -- well, now the streets were empty, and there were entire blocks that looked uninhabited. Here was the store where Arete's younger sister had knocked a massive ornamental display to the floor. Now, the roof had caved in and weeds were starting to grow between the collapsed boards. Arete passed by a group of people standing in the middle of the road. As Arete approached, they drew back and lowered their already-hushed voices. Arete noticed a couple of them pointing towards them, and drew their cloak closer around their body. Better not to provoke them. There were several of them, and only one of Arete. A little further on, Arete noticed a tailor's shop with a crooked sign made from a broken board reading "SHELTER HERE." They eased open the door and looked inside.Three families had set up a makeshift camp on the floor, and Arete could see a staircase winding up towards another level. They looked around for some sort of leader, finally spotting a tall human with piercing blue eyes standing behind what was left of the counter. "Who are you?" he asked, glancing sideways at Arete. Arete swallowed. "My name is Arete. I'm looking for my family--" The shopkeeper cut them off. "We don't have any of your sort in here," he said. "You non-humans are all the same. I can't trust any of you after the war." Arete instinctively felt their ears. They had expected people back home to be more accepting. Apparently they had been wrong. They turned to go, tears blinking in their eyes. They only wanted to find their family, not to hurt anyone. As Arete exited the shop, they broke into a sprint. It was just so frustrating. Why couldn't the shopkeeper have at least listened to them before making up their mind? Why couldn't -- Crash. Arete fell, face-first, into the pavement. They looked up to see a crowd gathered around some sort of fountain. Closer to them, there was a cart of books. A cart which, it seemed, Arete had just knocked over. "I'm sorry!" they said, picking up a book and placing it back on the cart. It had a deep blue cover with a spiral pattern. "I'm so sorry!" They paused. "What's going on here?" |
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| Shell | Jul 27 2017, 10:27 PM Post #25 |
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From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds
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Ylsa She sat in her chair, hands folded in her lap, listening to them all. There were newcomers to the gathering, a charming construct among them, and the tale of the phoenix was unraveled. Ylsa peered at the glow of the lanterns and the new shimmering shamrocks thoughtfully, ruminating on the bird's words. A man was dead, a man of great former influence and power, one who had left a legacy in his wake, and one who many had loved, this creature perhaps the most. Death happened -- it was the natural order of things, or was when Jool had just started out. Then there had been the advent of sorcery, with it necromancy, and of course there had always been murder; these things could sometimes take a life sooner than was intended. Raising the dead was not an uncommon practice these days, and so there was little reason left to oppose the idea, save for the moral ones. She did not know Razarod Evermore, though she had watched his life from afar with the rest of the world, and so she did not know whether or not he would wish to return to life. Loved ones always wanted their friends and family returned to them, but this did not mean it was correct to seek out a solution. But, her hair floating about her and drawing on the emotions in the air, she could feel that there was a special bond between the two, one not unlike that which Shell shared with young Qayin -- she had only beheld them together for a short time, and during a time of tragedy no less, but there had been some sort of strange cosmic connection present, a veritable umbilical cord of the heart and spirit. It was not always moral to raise the dead, but Jool knew that it was even less so to deny that sort bond a chance to continue. Grief hung heavy in the air, hanging over the heads of some like clouds. Khanrad's loss had been transmogrified into determination, Shell wept on the shoulder of one of the newcomers, and Baqi fidgeted, quiet and solemn, beside Sara. Ylsa frowned: there had been heavy consumption tonight, and though she certainly didn't oppose it, she understood that sometimes grief, and especially trauma, could be exacerbated by substances. Her hair stretched, floating over to one particular basket that hadn't yet been opened, picking it up in the hand the strands formed and bringing it nearer to Sara. The pilgrim took it, confused -- the hair-hand opened it and withdrew an orange, placing it in her hand and touching her cheek lightly before withdrawing to its normal length and stasis. Time to sober up a little, The tendrils had said. "Ooohh," The young woman breathed, and set about peeling the fruit. "I'll try. I dunno what I can do. But I'll try..." Ylsa smiled, a little sadly. The tragedy of the entire series of events had torn some apart, and brought others closer. But when she looked around, it didn't feel as though all the heartache was worth the new opportunities. Of course, she knew that ultimately it was, but.... at the same time... Many had lost, but it was the pain of her loved ones that she was currently tuned into. Baqi had essentially lost a father, Shell a sister. If she could have put a stopper to their tears, would she...? Her heart bloomed painfully in her chest when she thought of her dear, sweet children, so bereft, so lost. She swallowed a lump in her throat. The answer was always yes. "I don't know how to raise the dead..." She spoke up, her mind straying to the ritual Eos had given her, "But I know how to appeal to the gods to ask them for help. Perhaps they will see fit to turn the tides in your favor." "I don't really know magic at all, or anyone who might be able or willing to help," Sara added, splitting the orange in half and giving one of the halves to Baqi, "But I can pray, at least. I've gotten pretty good at it." The newly infinite lemon tarts wiggled in their newly bottomless basket. Shell For a couple of minutes the world didn't exist. For a couple of minutes, she simply cried in Mairead's arms, and when she quieted a little she drank in the woman's words of comfort. The words did not heal the wounds, but they provided a cushion for some of the pain, and Shell composed herself soon enough and withdrew, scrubbing her face with the back of her hands like a child. "I'm sorry..." She croaked, "I... g-guess I needed to do that. "I... I heard how you helped with that last battle... she told me a little about it. I imagine a lot more would have been lost if you hadn't been there to help." She paused. "Oh, I haven't even asked about you yet. Are you doing all right..?" There was a crash and she jumped, looking around and spotting someone who'd had a bit of an accident over the young silver-haired fellow's book cart. Sara, who had been sitting near to the disaster, instantly jumped up to help. Sara "Yikes!" The blonde quipped, laughing sympathetically and turning around to face them on her knees, "That looks like it must've hurt. You okay? "Ah--" She looked around briefly before turning her attention back to Arete, smiling, "We're having a little gathering to commemorate the resurrection of Madrid. You can join us if you like, there's plenty of food and stuff." They didn't seem to be badly injured, and she couldn't tell if they were male or female -- or perhaps both, or neither, but it didn't really matter. She did notice the points of their ears, but that also didn't really matter -- not to her, and likely not to anyone else who found themselves gathered here. She helped them pick up the fallen books after popping an orange slice into her mouth. "Goodness, that looked painful," Ylsa had wheeled herself over in that time and set a hand on Arete's shoulder. "Are you hurt? Come, have a seat and catch your breath, Sara will get the books." |
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