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Merry Celesmas to Omei
Piper
Master Crumbs
Backstory- Omei and Piper have been butting heads since She ate her eyes and then kidnapped her husband for 'something'. Ever since, the two have been antagonistic with Omei haunting Piper in ways where no one can see Her and forcing Piper to act as if nothing's happened 'or else something will happen to the Doctor'. This is just a short blip of an RP log but I enjoyed it, anyways.
A frigid frost-garden.
Circling the base of the Spire of Government, this exposed garden is a long, expansive balcony, open to the elements and paved in grooved stone, ideal for traction even in the iciest of weather. Tall, barren trees ring the inner arch of the walkway, their leafless branches elegant in their bare, naked stretches, while an intrepid gardener has planted a series of hardy, resilient flowers on either side of the path, the blooms stubbornly blossoming in the frigid climes of the north. Delicate ivory snowdrops grow in clusters, with bright yellow aconite petals adding a vibrant splash of color to each flowerbed, the soft shades gentle and their scent subtle. Throughout the entire garden, icicles have been artfully encouraged to twist down from branches, benches and banisters alike, with hair-fine strands of spun silver laced around the trees to support garlands of minute, faceted crystals - even in the bleakest of winter light, these gems catch the illumination and glitter brightly, adding a prismatic sparkle to the frost-rimmed garden. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. Resting on the ground is a cube-shaped silver sigil. There are 2 frozen iron benchs here. A conscripted Spirean soldier coldly scans the area for threats. A pine-lined iron bin has been set here, ready to be be filled with trash.
You tell Omei, the Artist, "So.. how's Your morning treating You?"
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "This doesn't sound like hating Me."
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "What, do you want kawhe?"
You tell Omei, the Artist, "If You're buying, sure. Listen, just because I hate You don't mean I'll be cussing every two seconds. Maybe just every four."
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "Well. Hate Me quietly, unless you had something you really wanted to say."
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Fine, fine. I see how it is. You like the silence, then. Betting You're just used to it, then."
A tremendous surge of foreign anger swells in the back of your mind.
You drink from a heavy glass bottle full of "Smoking Spirean". You catch a whiff of meat and vodka, and the alcohol tingles on your tongue and down your throat. Subtle hints of bacon and smoky beef remain in its wake. [x10]
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "Alright. YES. You got Me. I am -lonely-. Happy?"
You tell Omei, the Artist, "No."
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "Ha! I guess that makes two of us."
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Yeah, guessing so.. but You brought that on Yourself. Here I was being all conversational-like."
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Alright, I'll leave You alone."
[DRUNK WALK TO THE POST OFFICE]
This clear glass bottle is simple and utilitarian, with a slender neck and a circular cross-section.
It has 23 months of usefulness left.
It is strangely weightless.
It bears the distinctive mark of Conduit Eleanor Junakutz-Lionheart.
A measure of black vodka sloshes about in it. (10/10 sips)
A heavy glass bottle is holding:
You put a heavy glass bottle into an elegant white letter.
You pause and take a moment to gather your thoughts before you begin to write.
As you finish writing the letter, it contracts to fit your text, ensuring that no more may be written on it in the future.
You quickly light a small candle and carefully hold it under the wax, positioning them so that drips of the hot wax pool into a seal on the letter. Finally, you press your mark into the cooling seal and survey your work.
You fumble about drunkenly.
You address the letter to Omei, the Artist, and a wiry man dressed in grey robes takes it from you, giving a shrill whistle that causes a snowy owl to descend from its perch and alight on his outstretched arm. He attaches the letter to the owl's leg, and with a soft hoot it soars away.
[STUMBLING BACK]
Your pose is now set as:
Piper is stretched out on the bench here, one leg crossed over the other.
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "This... you didn't have to do this. What is it, poison?"
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Aain' *hic* t sure. I just bouught an armMloadd oz bbottless and *hic* that was one of the only full ones. Betting it ain't piss *hic* , thoughh."
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "Well... than you. It is... very thoughtful."
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Anytime."
A narrow spear of silver light strikes the floor, bringing a clear glass bottle gently to earth.
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "A uh... Celesmas gift. For you."
This bottle is made from clear glass so you can see into the bottle. Wrapped around the bottle is a label from the Shining Trident with the word "absinthe".
It has 3 months of usefulness left.
It weighs 12 ounce(s).
It bears the distinctive mark of Brayth, the bartender.
A measure of absinthe sloshes about in it. (5/10 sips)
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Hah, halF a boottle. Get a bit friendly wwitH it first, did You? Hey, thanks. Ceelesmmash too YoU, too."
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "Well. You know. No self-control."
You fumble about drunkenly.
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Yeah, yeah. u know thhat feeling."
A frigid frost-garden.
Circling the base of the Spire of Government, this exposed garden is a long, expansive balcony, open to the elements and paved in grooved stone, ideal for traction even in the iciest of weather. Tall, barren trees ring the inner arch of the walkway, their leafless branches elegant in their bare, naked stretches, while an intrepid gardener has planted a series of hardy, resilient flowers on either side of the path, the blooms stubbornly blossoming in the frigid climes of the north. Delicate ivory snowdrops grow in clusters, with bright yellow aconite petals adding a vibrant splash of color to each flowerbed, the soft shades gentle and their scent subtle. Throughout the entire garden, icicles have been artfully encouraged to twist down from branches, benches and banisters alike, with hair-fine strands of spun silver laced around the trees to support garlands of minute, faceted crystals - even in the bleakest of winter light, these gems catch the illumination and glitter brightly, adding a prismatic sparkle to the frost-rimmed garden. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. Resting on the ground is a cube-shaped silver sigil. There are 2 frozen iron benchs here. A conscripted Spirean soldier coldly scans the area for threats. A pine-lined iron bin has been set here, ready to be be filled with trash.
You tell Omei, the Artist, "So.. how's Your morning treating You?"
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "This doesn't sound like hating Me."
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "What, do you want kawhe?"
You tell Omei, the Artist, "If You're buying, sure. Listen, just because I hate You don't mean I'll be cussing every two seconds. Maybe just every four."
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "Well. Hate Me quietly, unless you had something you really wanted to say."
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Fine, fine. I see how it is. You like the silence, then. Betting You're just used to it, then."
A tremendous surge of foreign anger swells in the back of your mind.
You drink from a heavy glass bottle full of "Smoking Spirean". You catch a whiff of meat and vodka, and the alcohol tingles on your tongue and down your throat. Subtle hints of bacon and smoky beef remain in its wake. [x10]
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "Alright. YES. You got Me. I am -lonely-. Happy?"
You tell Omei, the Artist, "No."
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "Ha! I guess that makes two of us."
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Yeah, guessing so.. but You brought that on Yourself. Here I was being all conversational-like."
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Alright, I'll leave You alone."
[DRUNK WALK TO THE POST OFFICE]
This clear glass bottle is simple and utilitarian, with a slender neck and a circular cross-section.
It has 23 months of usefulness left.
It is strangely weightless.
It bears the distinctive mark of Conduit Eleanor Junakutz-Lionheart.
A measure of black vodka sloshes about in it. (10/10 sips)
A heavy glass bottle is holding:
You put a heavy glass bottle into an elegant white letter.
You pause and take a moment to gather your thoughts before you begin to write.
As you finish writing the letter, it contracts to fit your text, ensuring that no more may be written on it in the future.
You quickly light a small candle and carefully hold it under the wax, positioning them so that drips of the hot wax pool into a seal on the letter. Finally, you press your mark into the cooling seal and survey your work.
You fumble about drunkenly.
You address the letter to Omei, the Artist, and a wiry man dressed in grey robes takes it from you, giving a shrill whistle that causes a snowy owl to descend from its perch and alight on his outstretched arm. He attaches the letter to the owl's leg, and with a soft hoot it soars away.
[STUMBLING BACK]
Your pose is now set as:
Piper is stretched out on the bench here, one leg crossed over the other.
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "This... you didn't have to do this. What is it, poison?"
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Aain' *hic* t sure. I just bouught an armMloadd oz bbottless and *hic* that was one of the only full ones. Betting it ain't piss *hic* , thoughh."
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "Well... than you. It is... very thoughtful."
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Anytime."
A narrow spear of silver light strikes the floor, bringing a clear glass bottle gently to earth.
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "A uh... Celesmas gift. For you."
This bottle is made from clear glass so you can see into the bottle. Wrapped around the bottle is a label from the Shining Trident with the word "absinthe".
It has 3 months of usefulness left.
It weighs 12 ounce(s).
It bears the distinctive mark of Brayth, the bartender.
A measure of absinthe sloshes about in it. (5/10 sips)
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Hah, halF a boottle. Get a bit friendly wwitH it first, did You? Hey, thanks. Ceelesmmash too YoU, too."
The Divine voice of Omei echoes in your head, "Well. You know. No self-control."
You fumble about drunkenly.
You tell Omei, the Artist, "Yeah, yeah. u know thhat feeling."
3
Comments
Omnom absinthe.