Days in the life of a butterfly-bird-flower

PieriPieri Member Posts: 10
edited January 11 in Roleplay Logs
Just a few logs of Pieri navigating her way around the Chromatic Court and making her way to floristry. And cosplay, to an extent.

Loam Baguar Pt. 1
Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "Your artwork is quite good, if I'm not mistaking the owner of this mark.”

You tell @Flinn , "Oh - " Faded colours briefly rise. "Thank you. Which one did you see?"

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "I have seen two, petrels and one that is called father, I believe."

You tell Flinn, "Petrels - Ohh. Ah, yes."

You tell Flinn, "It... became a little too engrossing, after a while. I needed a change."

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "I can understand that, I suppose. When I first learned the way I don't think I left the temple for three weeks."

You tell Flinn, "Well... it was more along the lines of wishing not to be held by what the landscape reflected. It was not the most pleasant thing."

You tell Flinn, "At least now it reflects something less... bleak.”

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "Mmm...That's the trouble with such things, I suppose. It doesn't do to dwell on them, but it is just so bad to forget. They were well done, both, I look forward to what else you may create."

You tell Flinn, "Thank you. Sometime I would ask to see some of what you've shaped, if you'd be willing to show me."

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "Mmm...all there is that I am proud of at the moment is a statue, by the stairs near the Lady's throne. There is a landscape, too, but I very much wish to make it something else. Perhaps you'll see that."

Atop the seven-petaled flower.

Fashioned entirely of bronze, this statue depicts a large creature captured mid-stride atop uneven terrain. A short, stout muzzle topped with a vaguely heart-shaped, feline nose hangs open in a pant, large, wickedly sharp teeth on languid display. Thin ribbons of silk are unobtrusively riveted into place at intervals along the statue's length to create the illusion of long, wispy, transparent tendrils emerging from where one might expect whiskers and drifting in the animal's wake, so light that they do not graze the ground. The muzzle leads into the somewhat narrow, heavy head of the animal, too-small feline eyes stare ahead, half-lidded. Above and slightly to either side of the eyes are roundish, bear-like ears that are nearly lost in a regal mane of grass-like fur. The beast's shape is an odd collision of bear and jaguar: the graceful lines of its body nearly foiled by an overly stocky nature, heavy musculature rippling along almost too-slender legs, wickedly sharp, retractable claws emerging from short, heavy feet, a long, whip-like tail emerging from sturdy hindquarters. The whole threatens to fail to be cohesive at every step, in every measure, but never quite does. To add to the oddity, the creature is covered in something like a loamy carapace, grassy fur erupting through it and allowing peeks at its true flesh here and there while the majority is home to a small ecosystem all its own. Luminous, carnivorous flowers, depicted with careful use of polish and purposeful tarnish scatter over its back, drawing insects to be devoured. Meanwhile, mushrooms have cropped up amidst hanging mosses, devouring whatever the flowers may drop, along with themselves when they inevitably wither. Tight, thorny brambles run the length of roughly the center line of the beast's sides, twisting arounds its tail to end in a severe point. For all of the activity on, and ferocity of, the creatures form it walks in a lazy, lumbering prowl; a placid, sleepy expression on its features.
Engraved on it are the words:

Loam baguar
It has 269 weeks of usefulness left.
It weighs about 187 pound(s).

You tell Flinn, "There are words here, as well. What do they mean?"

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "Oh, they're it's name. Or, well, the type of creature's name."

You tell Flinn, "The details draw one in." Her mind is quiet, only a few tendrils of colour rising while she observes. "You must be familiar with these baguars."

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, " a way. It is an imagined creature. I unforgot it, and now you have, too. A question that always has answers that interest me. What do you think of it? What do you think a day in its life is like?"

You tell Flinn, "It feels..." She has to stop to think, and faint splashes of colour float in and out of view. "It's... It feels like it couldn't be as... kingly as it looks, if it was without a hand that was ready to love it, as well as shape it."

You tell Flinn, "Things so... disparate, put together... I feel as though they would not last long, unless something, or someone, willed them all to remain together and be something greater."

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "Oh, how very interesting. You're the first to answer in such a way, everyone else only remarks that they believe it is a predator and the like. But you raise good points." A considering hum resounds for a moment or two, "Isn't it a little glorious, though? It did have that hand, and so it is, despite all reason that it should never have been, that indication that it should never last. It makes one wonder, if they dream enough and believe enough and wish aplenty, if they might discover one wandering the world in the flesh, someday. If imagination can give ideas shape, can belief give shapes life?"

You tell Flinn, "That... would be just a little bit frightening." She could have worded it differently to a follower of the Imago, but she chooses to be honest. "If... even if it took a hundred days' prayer, if what we wish to see yet cannot be could simply become..."

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "Mmm," they hum, a content sort of sound, a fae mischief in the colorbound whisperings of their mind, "It would be such a glorious, terrifying thing. Shattered skies and broken lands overrun with mischief-makers, faeries long banished from mortal ken, plants and animals of air and light and whispers and all of it, all of it new. Some of it would be a danger, some of it would be a tragedy the likes of which we have never known. And some of it would be soft, and kind and comfortable. But all of it would be a -wonder-, don't you think? Imagination run -rampant-."

You tell Flinn, "Hm." As much as your descriptions may set her mind to stirring, at its very back a patient, drumlike beat like the shadow to every little thing in the light: Unsafe. Alone. "Is the Chaos Plane like that?"

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "I'm told it is that and more, but I have never been, myself. Sekeres could paint you a picture of it with her words, I'm sure. Iesid, even, if you could catch him in the mood. Our Lady, certainly. It is terrible, but wonderful. The two are the same more often than one might think."

You tell Flinn, "Thank you. I will know who to speak with." She does not reach out to probe into the matter of the Plane further, not at this time. "As for what I imagine your beast might do - I think one thing it would do is nap. In a cavern, with plenty of stalactites and stalagmites, and hanging vines that live off only a little light... or perhaps whatever energy that keeps it alive."

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "Hmmm...what about its temperament, do you think it is a ferocious thing?"

You tell Flinn, "When it needs to be, it certainly would."

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "Ahah! I like that answer better than the others! They all think it spends its time finding little woodland creatures to chomp."

You tell Flinn, "Not all things with teeth and talons kill every waking moment." Brambles run painlessly across the surface of your minds, just the one the baguar wears. "It would do what it needs, to be happy, not just to live. I... couldn't say if it would be happy just to live, and nap, and move in its dancing way."

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, " thinking is that it is what it appears to be. A lumbering thing, content to share its space and carry its tagalongs. I think it would guide you to its favored things. It would take only the softest paths to walk, lead you through only the sweetest fields and point your way to only the tastiest fruits. I think those things are what make it happy, finding new things to share with what may follow it. And I think it would defend those things ferociously, too, yes."

You tell Flinn, "As long as those tagalongs will not betray its trust."

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "Another fine consideration. You are interesting company, little bird, even only in the mind."

You tell Flinn, "I..." The youth's cheeks come to mind, always bearing their ruddy patches. "Someday it won't be just in the mind, I am sure."

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "I am seldom hard to find, if the fancy ever strikes you. I look forward to it."

Loam Baguar Pt. 2
In which the flowers first make an appearance.

You tell Flinn, "Each time I look upon your beast I wonder." She offers no platitude greetings, you can tell. "The flowers, the plants. Where did these come from?"

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "Oooh, another good question. What do you think? How do you believe it may happen?"

You tell Flinn, "My guesses could hardly change what has happened before, I think, but I could try. Hmm..."

You tell Flinn, "I have not lived where bears and jaguars usually roam. You could either have taken these plants from where either live, or have thought of something that grows close to neither beast, to offer a contrast. Another different piece of the puzzle that you knit, and if it all feels... in place, it would show your skill."

Your pose is now set as:
Pieri paces around the beastly statue, deep in thought.

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "Oh! I think I might have misunderstood. I thought the question was how they came to be upon the beast. As for where they are from themselves, I think there may be some carnivorous plants where jaguars tend to roam, but truthfully, it was entirely a whim. Some of them may be just as imagined as the baguar itself."

You tell Flinn, "That too, to be honest. There are many kinds of flowers in Sapience, yet the ones you chose have teeth of their own."

Night falls, the darkness banishing the sun's last rays beneath the western horizon.
It is now dusk on Closday, the 23rd of Lanosian, year 492 of the Midnight Age.

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "I have a small fascination with them. Even roses have teeth after a fashion, but some go even farther, so very close to being an animal instead of a plant."

You tell Flinn, "Would these be the crown to protect the baguar? The one who watches, ever vigilant, so their host may roam content and happy?"

Vivid colours fill your mind as Flinn communicates to you, "They would surely help! No nagging mosquitoes and other pests for our noble friend, though it isn't likely on purpose."

But what flower would suit the baguar with its special crown?

You have emoted: With a few flap of her wings, Pieri carries herself into the air to look upon a large statue of a lumbering beast from a different place. Once she circles, slowly over its head, and then she hovers.

So very bright. I wouldn't want the offering to lose its lustre.

You have emoted: Having made a decision, Pieri lands, and straightens.

Surely my costume could be of use. Yes.

A glistening sheen of water sticks to the innumerable scales that seem to resemble that of a fish's or a suit of armor. Hued an entrancing, pale blue and sea green hue, the iridescent nature of each scale accentuates its shimmers when light plays upon them. Thin, membrane-like material, seemingly as delicate as a spider's silk, separates the sleeves of the costume from the main body of the scaly robe and gives off a distinct smell of saltwater. The amphibious Slyphe costume is complemented by a
wig made from slimy knots of seaweed.
It can only be worn in the following location: fullbody.
It has 13 weeks of usefulness left.
It weighs about 1 pound(s) and 2 ounce(s).
It bears the distinctive mark of Unknown.

Dumping the wig made from slimy knots of seaweed upon your head, you move to putting on this scaly robe of this amphibious Slyphe costume. It molds perfectly about your body, sticking close to the skin while an odd sensation of weightlessness surrounds you.

She is a normal Atavian, slim, apple-cheeked and of a mild countenance. Earthy brown hair falls in wisps high above two bushy brows before being pulled into a chest-length braid whose colour pleasantly contrasts with her lightly sunkissed skin. Her downturned hazel eyes are lined with thick lashes, long enough for each blink to seemingly send them sweeping the tops of those ruddy cheeks, adding to the inherently gentle air of the Atavian. Thickly feathered wings the same colour as her hair sprout from her shoulder blades; the time she spends grooming is apparent from their neatness. While being unfurled, they add another six inches to her 5'6 frame.

a thin, beaded silver hairtie : (dewdrops clustered at the braid's end)
an amphibious Slyphe costume : (sweeping robes aglimmer)
a silver star tattoo : (coiled around the forearm)
a pair of reinforced black leather boots : (laces double-knotted)
a slender, smoky scrap ribbon : (violet-indigo cutting into brown hair)

You pay 35 gold sovereigns and receive a vine of bleeding hearts.
You pay 35 gold sovereigns and receive a phosphorescent glow flower.

Stone bridge over a spring

You have emoted: In one hand, Pieri holds a wet-looking kelp wig, slightly bunched; in the other she holds a vine of bleeding hearts and a phosphorescent glow flower as she makes her way to Flinn.

They are an intelligent Yeleni of Atavian heritage. They stand at a height just under six feet. Vibrant hair in shades of red ranging from bright scarlets to near blackness in a chaotic scatter frames soft, womanly features in a display of careful disarray, flowing in ever so slightly frizzy curtains down to their waist. Beneath long bangs hide delicately arched eyebrows of scarlet, adding expression to the strange eyes that rest beneath them. Their eyes are a teardrop shape, the rounded end turned at a subtle angle toward a button nose. A void of black where whites might be expected contains scintillating pinpricks of shifting color, seperated from a faintly glowing green pupil by a roiling mass of golden vines that twist over one another in an endless, looping knot. Poutish pink lips lie below their nose, above an elegantly contoured jaw and chin. A slender neck expands to narrow shoulders and a modest bust, their torso tapering inwards about a trim midsection to flare outward again at the hips. Their arms, legs and hands all slender, dainty and soft. A loose lattice of vines erupts from their back, creating two pairs of wings, much like a dragonfly's. The spaces between the flowering vines are filled with a murky smoke, occasional flashes of myriad colors bursting from within like a captured, eldritch thunderstorm. Supple, deeply tanned skin is stretched taut over their body, muscles occasionally ramifying beneath to betray the illusion of weakness. A golden vine-like pattern meanders over their skin, shifting and writhing over their form as it periodically emits brilliant shafts of light. On occasion a verdant, ethereal tendril of vine lifts itself from the pattern, blooming in multicolored flowers of light before wilting and receding back into their skin.

a skysilver Year 480 ring : (worn on a finger)
a many-slotted vocal fob : (around one wrist)
a four-leaf clover : (tucked behind their left ear)
an oil-treated, vine-etched pack : (worn on the back)
a silver star tattoo : (coiled around the forearm)
a suit of ringmail : (covering the body)
a supple loincloth : (worn on the legs)

Flinn cants their head to one side, expressionless glow of their gaze on you as they raise a lantern laden staff of renewal in greeting.

The branch of this vine-like plant is a dark purple, hanging from which are a series of sanguine-hued petals. An almost tear-shaped petal of translucent white hangs from the middle of the heart-shaped, sanguine petals. The rich, red of the flowers bear the colour of blood, the purple branch bearing resemblance to blood-filled veins pumping the bleeding heart flowers full of their vibrant colour.
It can only be worn in the following location: ears.
It has 5 weeks of usefulness left.
It is strangely weightless.

This flower is ordinary-looking during the day, comprised of petals that are a pale mint green, a vibrant yellow center, and darker leaves. At night however, after a day of sun, the flower glows with natural phosphorescense, the flower's petals a softly glowing green.
It can only be worn in the following location: ears.
It has 5 weeks of usefulness left.
It is strangely weightless.

You have emoted: "Your baguar would have seen many visitors come and go." Pieri's words are unhurried and soft. "I wanted to leave it a gift, to let it know someone looks upon it, from time to time, with curiosity." Hanging, luscious buds with their velvety reds and startlingly clear pendulum, and a starry flower only luminous as the statue's at night. "But I wasn't sure which would suit it best."

Flinn's wings flicker with gold and silver lights as the emit a quiet string of giggles, "Sweet little bird!" they croon, their features splitting into a too-wide, sharp-toothed smile as they investigate the plants, "I haven't seen these before," they admit, their honey-sweet tone languidly curious, "Where do you find them? I do enjoy the glowy one, I am partial to things that glow..." they muse, tapping a long claw on their cheek, "But I wonder if it is..."

You have emoted: In reply, Pieri holds up the wig. With her hair as long and brown as it is, you can tell it would have taken work to tuck it all away under it. "I went to Bloodloch to find them. Out of uniform, to make things easier."

Flinn's attention flicks from wig to you several times before they giggle again, "A grand disguise!" they enthuse, "I am sure no one was the wiser," they assure.
"I think it would enjoy either. Pretty vines to decorate its brambles so they are not so fearsome, a luminous little beacon to tuck upon its tail so its companions will not lose it in any dark twists and turns," they conclude. "What do you think, little bird?"

You have emoted: Pieri blinks when the beast's tail is mentioned. "I will be very careful to place the hearts where the brambles won't pierce them," she says, hazel eyes already growing wide just imagining the ticklish work that would take. "But the tail..." A split-second passes before she looks to Flinn, faintly hopeful. "Please, if it proves difficult for the baguar to keep this flower where it's tied, could... would you be able to make it so that it stays? With..." She offers her right forearm where a silver star tattoo glimmers in indication.

Flinn nods easily. "I am sure we shall find a way," they assure. "Would you mind, terribly, if I came with you?"

You have emoted: "Oh, no," Pieri says. "I was going to ask you to accompany me, in fact." She falls in line with Flinn. Flinn's statue is their statue, after all.

Shaman Flinn says, "Off we go, then!"

Atop the seven-petaled flower.

You have emoted: Pieri sets the wig down on the ground not too far away from a large statue of a lumbering beast, and splits her flowery load.

You have emoted: Pieri's left hand takes on the vine of bleeding hearts, while a phosphorescent glow flower she hands to Flinn.

Flinn inspects a phosphorescent glow flower curiously, bringing it up very close to the glow of their eyes.

You have emoted: Dark wings aflutter, Pieri is airborne now, swiftly passing the sculpted terrain the beast stands upon to reach its proud head. She looks at it this way and that, the flowers and the brambles, pondering.

Another day ends, the darkness of midnight reigning unchallenged across the land.
It is now midnight on Tisday, the 24th of Lanosian, year 492 of the Midnight Age.
Today is one of the days of the Second Month of Mourning.

Flinn flutters their lazy way to the tail of the beast, tapping at their cheek as the survey the work before them, "It seems doable enough," they muse softly, gently, gently using a claw to cut a portion of vine from the many that pour forth from a lantern laden staff of renewal, the plant stubbornly regrowing only a moment later.

You have emoted: Pieri pauses in her hovering at Flinn's voice, and swoops lower down to watch the cutting fall into their hand. She does not ask, but merely watches with wide hazel eyes, waiting to see what the Yeleni would do with it.

Flinn hums quietly as they sink to their knees, a portion of their cutting cut away again and stripped rapidly into smaller pieces with deft talons. These pieces are set aside for the moment and the longer section is wound carefully amongst the twisting, biting brambles of a large statue of a lumbering beast, near its tail. One end pressed snugly into a natural crevice to help prevent its sudden termination looking out of place while the other is brought along the length of the tail to just near where the point is, left to hang as they return to the cast aside pieces, beginning to weave them into two sets of makeshift twine.

You have emoted: A soft clatter of boots bring Pieri to Flinn's side, keeping enough space for them to work. The younger Atavian plays with a vine of bleeding hearts while she watches, admiring the feel of each bloodred petal and sending the lengthy vine swaying lazily with each stroke.

Flinn glances up at you, not ceasing in their humming as their lips part to display sharp teeth a little smile, turning their attention back to their work they gently, but securely lash the tucked away end of the vine to the rest of the statue, evidently confident enough in their measuring to believe it needs no further assistance until the opposite end. Here they split the end of the vine, shredding it into fine slivers that remain attached to whole, using these slivers they gently weave a phosphorescent glow flower into the vine itself, the other makeshift twine used to secure it all in place. When all is said and done, phosphorescent glow flowers clings proudly to the statue’s tail, even leaving enough room that its point can still be used, if necessary.

You have emoted: Pieri watches the flower's stem be swallowed up by the longer vine's tendrils with some fascination. So it did not quite take mothly powers to graft a plant at all. Very carefully she reaches out with her free hand to give the blossom a slight push, as though to test how securely it is held.

Flinn extends a pointer finger into the midst of the lantern of a lantern laden staff of renewal, withdrawing it now freshly moistened with some glowing, sweet-smelling liquid that they paint the vine with. "There now, it should last a little while." they offer, looking to your examination with a small giggle. "Careful, now, little bird. To tell you quite the truth, this statue wasn't made with oneironautics, and I can only be so clever with my attachings."

You have emoted: "If She was willing, could She make these gifts a part of your baguar?" The word is still foreign to Pieri, oneironautics. She does not take off just yet, attention claimed even as a vine of bleeding hearts slants in her hand once her fingers leave its occupants.

Flinn cants their head, looking to a large statue of a lumbering beast, "A good question..." they muse, "I will ask Her for you, unless you would like to do so yourself."

You have emoted: Pieri declines her head. "It is your companion, this baguar," she demures. "And speaking of which, I really should leave it my offering." Two steps back, and she is in the air again. Her flight is swift, and no doubt the magic-laden air of Seer's Wood is adding a spring to her movements. The vine she has chosen is lengthier than the others on sale, but she still has to take a few moments to consider where would be the best spot to place her gift. At last she moves off from the flowering back of the beast, now gazing down at it a foot away from the top of its head. "A circlet for the baguar?" she calls down to Flinn.

Flinn shakes their head gently, "It is a companion for any who wish to share their time with it." they correct gently, though your suggestion causes them to smile their sharp-toothed smile. "That sounds a fine idea!" they enthuse, their insectoid wings chattering noisily as they too, take to the skies to watch you.

You have emoted: A vine of bleeding hearts does not hold particular thorns, despite its sanguine colorings. Carefully Pieri flutters close to the statue's head, holding the vine at both ends. You can tell how she admires the sculpting that has gone into the work when she finds an appropriate spot to slip both ends in between the grassy strands of mane. The flowers slant a little by necessity, the vine upturned to make its pretty red fruits-to-be look like the spokes of a true crown, though it lies back a little lazily against the beast's fur. The Atavian makes minute adjustments here and there, but does not quite appear satisfied.

Calling down once more, you say, "Oneir - Oneironautics would certainly suit this crown. Make it look right and have it be secure."

Flinn nods gently, "Perhaps! I will certainly ask." they agree, "But you make fine work of it, with your hands, little bird."

You have emoted: Pieri gingerly reaches out to make one more adjustment, then scrambles to undo it, finally deciding the first try was indeed the best. "A being made with such love deserves the best offering one could give," she says, once she has fluttered down before Flinn once more. Her tone is far from flattering; the little Atavian is so very earnest when she speaks, with a slightly shy smile to temper it. "Something pretty for a miracle just not woken up yet."

Atop the seven-petaled flower.
The morning sun struggles to pierce the veil of thick, black clouds, edging their dark shapes in silver. The Imago's throne serves for a stark contrast to the pyramid below, as the ground itself is lush and living - the flesh of some immense flower growing forth from the sandstone at its base. Its seven magnificent petals, wide as dragons' wingspans, each grow in a variety of vivid hues. Beneath night, the very veins and capillaries of the greenery glowing with the power of the Wood. Within the bowl the seven petals, verdant grass and colorful wildflowers are spread, sheltered from the worst of the wind and cold by the protection afforded from without. Podiums and plinths dot the circular space, fashioned in bronze to resemble the animals of the wood below. Pillows are scattered through the concentric frenzy of art, some alone and others in piles, providing a panoply of places to rest. At the center of it all, shining such that it draws the eye before long, sits a throne of many colors, seemingly the source of all the great bloom's chaotic energy. A chromatic column commands the area, chaotic candescence churning at its core. The Imago's many-hued throne stands here, replete with sundry colors, shapes, and symbols. A large statue of a lumbering beast rests here. A brass telescope is here, angled towards the sky. There are 13 prismatic moths here. There are 3 colorful cushions here. Contained within a black bag, a set of dig site tools have been abandoned here. A phosphorescent glow flower has been lashed to a statue of a lumbering beast's tail with living vine. A vine of bleeding hearts lay upended across the statue's head in a makeshift crown. Shaman Flinn is here. The Yeleni wields a lantern laden staff of renewal in their hands. Violescent candles burn beside the podiums, illuminating the strange statues in ethereal luminescence.
You see a single exit leading down.

Flinn's smile is less severe this time, the edges of their closed lips curling up gently at the edges, "I am sure it will count you as one of its most beloved, when it does," they offer softly. "You are a good, kind thing, little bird."

You have emoted: Pieri bows her head slightly. The lack of her kelpy wig improves the sight more than those who haven't noticed the wig's existence could know. "Thank you for your words," she says softly, the sentence catching at the end as though at a loss. "Ah. How - shall I call you?"

Flinn giggles softly, "Flinn will do, though the Painter I have been newly masked." The offer, "I will respond to most things that are not rude." they admit with a small roll of their shoulders. "Does it trouble you, what I call you?" they wonder.

Streaking the dark sky with dim, fiery rays of orange and magenta, the sun begins to rise in the east.
It is now dawn on Tisday, the 24th of Lanosian, year 492 of the Midnight Age.

You have emoted: Pieri shakes her head, blue-streaked braid lying patient and still on her shoulder. "No, not in particular. It is a name I've been given, and not too far off from what I am." Her hands go to rest at her back, vaguely reminiscent of soldiers, yet here the air about her is a bit too soft to be fully Templar. "I don't know what bird I would be, yet. Or if a bird is all that I am."

A capricious Liruma paksivale shimmers into existence before you.

Flinn cants their head, whistling a strange, breathy sort of sound to call for a capricious Liruma paksivale,
"How exciting!" they say, "There are so many kinds of birds to be. Petrels and paksivales and owls and orels." They giggle out, "Only do not forgot that it is vitally important that whatever bird you are is still a Pieri."

This creature is unique, resembling the form of a falcon with its large wings, feathery-like tail, and even down to the features of eyes and a beak. However, it is fairly ethereal - being made up primarily of bits of floating debris and traces of smoke throughout its airy form. Wispy tendrils extend outwards from its wings and other feathers as it moves, losing traces of airy materials that it had gathered into its form when flying around. The 'animal' tends to not ever simply stay in one place, playful rolls and flits carrying it about any place it resides. He is called 'Paksy.'
A capricious Liruma paksivale does not look particularly dangerous.
It can be worn in the following locations:
onpack perched
He is loyal to Shaman Flinn.

A capricious Liruma paksivale opens its beak, borrowing sounds from around it to make out a cry like a falcon.

You have emoted: Pieri starts a little at the mention of petrels, which Flinn has already seen. Where the Yeleni had summoned the bird with a whistle, the Atavian opens her mouth and emits a bird call, the sound quite different from her usual husky softness. "I couldn't be, otherwise," she acknowledges, and there is something a little more pensive, yet accepting in her smile when she says it.

A snow petrel shimmers into existence before you.

A small white, seagoing bird from the northern shores, this snow petrel is a diminutive creature. Its feathers, a pristine white, are offset by its coal black eyes that peer about with a keen curiosity and its black, hooked beak.
A snow petrel looks weak and feeble.
He weighs 5 ounce(s).
He is loyal to Squire Pieri Yara.

Flinn nods gently, "Just so." they agree, "It is good you know it already, I only learned it not so long ago." they offer, the strange glow of their expressionless gaze fixed on a capricious Liruma paksivale and a snow petrel, their lips only just managing to speak of a quiet fondness, "I was an Atavian boy, before I was what I am now." they inform you suddenly, "Small and soft. It wasn't unusual for me to be called similar things."

You have emoted: Pieri's eyes travel the face of them in response, taking in each feature with a carefully observing gaze that speaks of curiosity, without haste or shock. "All that a decision like that would entail... I have not known, to tell the truth," she says quietly. A little shyly, again: "Did it... hurt? Not simply physically, all about that change..."

Flinn taps a long claw at their cheek, considering with a quiet hum, "It hurt to become Tekal. Quite a lot." they admit, "Brambles split my skin and wound tight about me, puncturing and pinching and constricting, but I did not let it last very long." they explain, "I became Yeleni! I was still a boy, for a little while, and a few great triumphs and heartbreaks later I changed one more time, and now I am only Flinn, whatever a Flinn wishes to be at the time." they say with some amusement, "I always did look like a woman anyway, to tell the truth. My sister and I are identical twins. I've always preferred the feminine shape." with a glance down at their scantily clad self they conclude a touch vainly, "I think I've crafted myself a fine specimen of one."

You have emoted: "Changing a body... so much could go wrong, yet here you stand." Pieri's words come out hushed, even as a snow petrel bobs rather imperiously about her feet. "You've shaped yourself well." It is an observance, and an awed one more than anything else. "Who is your sister? Having a name on hand when I run into her ought to be good."

Flinn's mouth splits much, much farther than it seems it should, a crescent-moon shaped grin full of needle-like teeth displayed as they offer, "My thanks, little bird, your form is pleasing, too." their wings flicker with pinkish light as they answer, "Eirenne. A sentinel of Duiran. She does not return to us often, at the moment, but she is a wonder." they assure.

You have emoted: "Does she follow Her as well?" Pieri asks, still looking up at Flinn even as she kneels to scoop up a snow petrel.

Flinn considers that a moment, "Not that I recall..." they admit, "She has gone to find herself." they explain, "So even if she did, I do not know if she still would, when she is back with us properly."

You have emoted: This is an idea Pieri has evidently only considered in the back of her mind, but she nods at that. "I do hope that goes well. I don't think it's always an easy thing, to go looking for who you really are when everything always shifts about." She looks sidelong at the room itself. Where else would change dwell if not the throne of Omei? As she does, she notes where the sun lies, and looks back to Flinn, straightening. "Thank you for coming with me, Painter. I'm glad you did."

Flinn nods gently, "As am I, little bird." they assure, "Though I think it is time I find someplace soft to tuck myself away."

You have emoted: "Go safely," Pieri says, inclining her head deeply. "In a moment I'll be off myself."

Shaman Flinn says, "Dream mightily, little bird."

A flurry of wildflower petals fly up into the air as Flinn leaves to the down.
The Yeleni is followed by a capricious Liruma paksivale.

Your mouth turns up as your face breaks into a smile.

You tell Flinn, "And may your rest be peaceful, Painter."


  • PieriPieri Member Posts: 10
    edited January 11
    The Windwaker

    Kalena gives you a respectful salute.

    You have emoted: Expression faintly guarded, Pieri enters - a cup made of a halved coconut held in both hands like a child wandering out of bed. "Oh," she says. "I - pardon my intrusion."

    Iesid watches on as @Kalena begins to adopt additional angles of view to round out her assessment of the pieces and the effect of the two entwined. A brief nod of agreement bobs his head when he hears her initial reaction. He steps closer to a statue of a fading, forgotten fae windwaker so that he, too, can strum his fingers along it in an idle expression of his connection to such a piece's heart. "No words from the heart about deep meaning, this time?" the Seer begins to tease - soon, though, he notes your entry and offers you a wide, inviting grin. "I see an expression of freedom here," he carries on. "Someone ephemeral enough to escape the bonds society might thrust upon them."

    Kalena turns from a statue of a fading, forgotten fae windwaker to offer you a salute, crimson curls waving as the woman shakes her head. "No intrusion. Join us." the Idreth encourages.

    You have emoted: While Pieri is hardly blind enough to refuse an invitation, she still foregoes words by lifting her cup to sip at it, standing a few paces away from the busy Kalena. For the time she keeps her own counsel, content to watch until addressed.

    You sip from a cup made of a halved coconut of chilled, Iron Hill's Fleck's milk, and the creamy flavor of the milk is joined by an underlying sweetness. The chilled temperature creates a crispness to the drink.

    Kalena turns her glance back to @Iesid , giving the man an amused wrinkle of her nose. "Actually, yes." the woman groans towards him playfully. Lifting a small hand to gesture to the grey-white hair fae, her amusement fades. "Look at him." she urges, her own features contorting. "To me, he symbolizes that life goes on, with or without you. Look at the expression he has, reaching out for the child."

    Your pose is now set as:
    Coconut cup close to her lips, Pieri observes.

    Activity blossoms through every shifting flicker of this strange quicksilver statue, alien and translucent where the faeries zoom through to be magnified in subtle chromatic hues of speckled robin and soft rosy magentas in the otherwise cold walls that house both fortress and common alike. At first, there does not seem to be any solid shape to the writhing quicksilver; formless and just beyond the reach of taking shape between the wild's left so distantly beyond the threshold of civilization. Each curl and tendril of silver caresses around each wing, each flowering vine - sending it to flutter and twist petals that cycle about the dreamy lands where the grasses have grown high about the city paths away from the ancient trees of the forest. Only erratically does the rest of the statue form, unpredictable when it coalesces with darker hues of violet and blues, that rapidly diffuse and burst to outline the form of a fae windwaker, garbed in pastels of cumulus and nebulous from the waist down. In maze-like designs of wind and waker's passage through time and nature, his once-grand raiments are tattered and forlorn with silent memories. Floating in cyclones of snow, grey, and smoke-white air, one could almost forget that the windwaker has its own place in the rising of the storm. Tumults of stormy grey-white hair shudder with his movements as they follow the songbirds zipping about the forest or the leaves that vibrate against the sunlight. His sad face is sharp and angled like a jagged blade with hoary white-blue eyes like a morning's dew whipped up by a sunrise gale. In some moments of doldrum, once colorful rainbow twirled breezes tickle about the windwaker's fingers where they reach towards the face of a young blond girl playing at the edge of the path into trees and mist. Yet the little one has turned her back on him, unable to see her playmate of yesteryear. Where her hair has slipped through his rapidly opaque hands; the echo of carefree laughter and howling wind in her steps.
    The singer's oneiric signature pervades this statue.
    It is possible for you to oneirically ADJUST this statue.
    This statue has been perceived by She Most Chromatic, the Seer, the light-and-fire liberator, the lyrist, the narrator, the singer, and the violinist.

    [The pain is sudden and penetrating.] Another goodbye.

    "With or without, yes; and he is rooted in time and age, with the contrast of a child to show the gap of it," Iesid reasons out as he fills in further blanks around Kalena's statements. "But consider this," he presses on, his slender finger jutting out to indicate the forlorn tatters of the statue's station. The tip of his finger touches the slick surface of the statue's material, causing it to ripple faintly. "He is wild and his agedness imparts a sense of responsibility in his freedom."

    Iesid Mulariad, the Imago's Seer asks you, "What say you, eh?"

    You have emoted: Whatever Pieri has thought is already spreading across her face in the little bits of strain about her eyes and brows, and her words come rather quietly. "It hurts."

    Iesid Mulariad, the Imago's Seer asks you, "The statue does?"

    "Does this look like any sort of 'freedom' you would like to achieve?"
    Kalena questions with a sense of disbelief towards Iesid, turning to listen to you.

    You have emoted: Pieri nods once. "And it's no fault of the child's, that a child's attention would wander." An ache greater and far more sorrowful for how natural it all is.

    "Because freedom is pointless and impossible without suffering," Iesid imparts to Kalena, his lips pursed into a deep frown. The Seer's head shakes from side to side as he regards the two of you gathered here before the statue, his voice quivering as he goes on: "None of what you say is wrong - but this man has seen or experienced things in exchange for this moment of sorrow. To be free takes work and sacrifice. It takes risk. It takes the sorrow of sometimes experiencing pain at your own hand."

    [The walls of her lungs seem to close in ever tighter.] Left behind.

    Freedom, and yet - left behind.

    Kalena's downturn into a deep frown as her head swivels back to rest her glance on Iesid. "That is not freedom." the woman remarks. "While I agree that freedom is not free, freedom shouldn't result in being alone and sad, doing nothing more than watching the world pass you by while you stand stagnant and petrify."

    I would leave for you a blossom, windwaker, if it would not spoil the picture it makes.

    After a lesser...

    You have emoted: Of course Pieri would return. The cup is gone and her axes are bloodied, but she is back all the same. "Please, Seer, was there anything more - you had to offer - on the statue?" She is slightly out of breath.

    "The windwaker, you mean?" Iesid inquires of you, for clarity's sake. The Seer's head tilts in a vague expression of his curiosity.

    You have emoted: Pieri nods her head again. A drop of ichor falls from her axeblade, and her hazel eyes flit to it for a split-second.

    "Only that freedom always has a price. We pay for each and every free move we make in this world - and all of its limitations - in the consequences of those actions. They might bring benefits, blessings, boons, brief moments of respite or enjoyment... but in the end, we must also accept that these are only one of a coin's two faces," Iesid instructs to you. The Seer's tone is grave as he imparts this opinion to you, violet eyes sharp as a knife's honed edge in their narrowed state. "We must respect and embrace the responsibility of that. We must always remember that our actions - our artistry - must be beautiful and true to us... and sometimes others might not like that."

    You have emoted: "How much do you believe in restraint, Seer?" A soft voice, a low voice - low for Pieri's face, and soft enough to match it. "If what is true to one may bring pain to another in the fold to look upon, would the crafter still be encouraged to show all?"

    You tell @Straid , "Have you seen the windwaker?" Her voice is quiet and pensive, and she asks as one might ask something of the wind. "In recent times?"

    Straid tells you, "I was present when the cocoon formed a few weeks past, but have not had a close look since then. Has something happened?"

    You tell Straid, "No. It was merely my first time looking upon it properly."

    "I believe in being true to oneself - and sometimes, that means loosening the manacles you willingly bind yourself with," Iesid immediately offers up, his teeth bared in a wide grin. His eyes open a little, reducing the severity of the Seer's scrutinizing gaze and the grim aspect of his countenance. There is a deep inhalation; a moment taken for the man to collect himself before pressing on: "Sometimes, you must reveal some of the more vulnerable or sharp aspects of your art. You must lower your mask and show the world your true face, so that they might understand the essence of you in a single stroke. Everything you do must bespeak your principles... and sometimes, that means saying things or doing things that could hurt others."

    Straid tells you, "What do you make of it?"

    [A box, within a box, within another box, within another box. Smaller than the nail of her thumb.]

    You have emoted: "My principles." Not an echo for the others, not overtly. Could Pieri hurt another for what she is? Then she suddenly asks, on some turn of logic she does not make clear, "How... tight would you say the Order and congregation are, Seer?"

    You tell Straid, "It hurts." It is an echo, quiet but true, of what she has voiced before. "It hurt more than a simple statue has a right to - and as it would have all the right to."

    "Ours?" Iesid asks for clarity. Before you can provide it, however, he is pushing forward: "You already join in on what binds us together as family and Court of the Queen: the oneironaut's first tool. We are collaborative crowd. We find friendship, companionship, and rivalry in one another. We are tight knit, but ease to weave oneself into."

    You tell Straid, "All the parts of me I wished not to be like stone, grasping for warmth."

    Straid tells you, "Does the statue make a stone of you?"

    You have emoted: "Do you drift away, and meet as water would?" As stone would not? "All well and together at the end of each chapter, like migrating birds?" Pieri neither acknowledges nor disputes her belonging, though her head bows briefly at Iesid's words.

    "No. We have lost some of our number, but others join that number to bring their own brightness and sound," Iesid murmurs in explanation, his voice a soothing whisper now - it quivers for just long enough to betray some deeper thought beneath his answer. It is gone, though, like so much autumnal foliage in the coming rain and winds of winter. "But we do drift apart and come back together again. We do rally and reunite. We do mourn our lost but we never let that mourning take away our light."

    You tell Straid, "That I don't know. All I know is that it hurts." Waves upon shifting waves, and a faint ripple from deep beneath. "And that a flower I could lay at the fae's feet would not tear their eyes from her, nor move her eyes to them."

    Straid tells you, "I confess that it caused me some pain as well, though perhaps not for the same reasons." Deep purple tones of reflection dance along the mental link. "It spoke to me of time and how it may flow differently for different subjects."

    You have emoted: Pieri closes her eyes briefly. Whatever was coiling upon the air seems to shrink and disperse, clearing it and leaving behind a brief, pensive smile from the Atavian.

    You tell Straid, "If you had a choice, whose time would you choose to live?"

    "Enough thoughts for you?" Iesid asks of you. The Seer's expression returns to passivity. "Beau Greva's establishment is in the far south of this Wood. There, you'll find a statue of a pyromancer. You are welcome to alter that one, if you are itching to create more."

    Straid tells you, "That of the windwaker, I suppose, despite all the inherent pain. I will always choose painful knowledge over ignorant bliss."

    You have emoted: "I may well, in time." Pieri bows her head lightly, her own thoughts slinking back to her before they fully vanish. "It is good of you to point me to places."

    "Even in briefness, inner peace can bring an epiphany that manifests as creativity,"
    Iesid explains. Despite this frank admission, his thin lips curve upwards in a friendly slash - his joviality has returned. "More of our tight knit warmth and camaraderie. Pointing you in the right direction ensures that statues that no longer need eyes or attention are wiped away in everyone's quest to keep creating."

    You tell Straid, "You'll have control that way, wouldn't you. As much control as one could claim. At least you know." The waves of her mind are not too far away from you, yet there is a tug of her mind suggesting impending movement - and a hesitancy like a wall. "If we will all be ended, in time, happiness would..."

    You tell Straid, " would be very nice."
  • PieriPieri Member Posts: 10
    A day in which 65 credits were spent

    In slow-flowing waters

    By some strange and misunderstood force, this statue floats above the gully, gazing down upon its languid waters like a stern but benevolent father. The subject is a male Human with smeared, indistinct facial features of formless quicksilver. It's as if the artist could remember his face only through frosted glass, and captured this phenomenon with dogged clarity. He wears an admiral's colors, but from no identifiable navy, not one that any state would recognize in this century. Hanging loosely from his hand is a decorative baselard, its edge weeping blood that never diminishes, and whose droplets never reach the water. His bootlaces are undone and dangle weightlessly in the air, failing to obey wind or the laws of gravity.
    The chaos eater's oneiric signature pervades this statue.
    It is possible for you to oneirically ADJUST this statue.
    This statue has been perceived by She Most Chromatic, the Seer, and the narrator.
    You may perceive the statue with a TOUCH alone.

    You have emoted: Pieri steps back into the waters with a soundless exhale.

    No. Whatever I sketched wouldn't have lived up to what I'd made here before.

    At a corner staircase

    This landscape, though flat, consists in a film of quicksilver stretched flat and immobile across a frame of magewood. In spite of its liquid appearance, and the slow shift of color which courses through its confines, it maintains cohesion, as well as the suggestion of some image within.
    The image within the frame takes clearer form as you gaze on:
    Beginning from the left, it feels like a long, long journey to the other end of this landscape. Waves upon waves of dark grey in varying shades seize your attention. They do not flow from one single corner but from one entire side. They shift and change as quicksilver is wont to do, each strand widening and thinning almost like the rise and fall of a living being's chest or the slow dance of underwater plants. Come closer, and the strands that form each wave grow more visible. The waves that gleam faintly silver are not full silver under scrutiny; strands upon strands of dark black, of black under morning light and winter sun, and a few that shine a true grey or white brightening the entire cluster. Follow each to its roots at the left, and you see the full picture - locks of hair, long and streaming as a neverending wind caresses them. Behind that unnamed head shines a sunset haze, a single great orb hanging low in the sky to the right. Moon, or sun, it's hard to tell with the hazy sheen that veils it. Behind it the flowing wind takes on colour, streaking the skies with cloudy trails. Alien stars glimmer from those trails, their light a soft gold tinged with the vibrant green of new growth and life. While the picture is not upbeat or joyous, there is a wan sort of calmness in the neverending shifting of breezes and the ever-present orb, a promise that the skies will still hold at the end of each day.
    The bird's oneiric signature pervades this landscape, silver stars glimmering in the air.
    This landscape has been perceived by the Singer, the narrator, the singer, and the violinist.
    It is possible for you to oneirically ADJUST this landscape.

    This would outstrip any sketch I could create, too.

    She has seen Omei looking over a work with a courtier, but decides not to intrude.

    Where the river ends
    Directly south of the river, it seems like it is going to flow in and hit what lies on this side of the hole, though it instead crashes down into a giant pit, too deep and dark to see down into. The red grass is thick and lush, spotted with yellow mushrooms that have been crushed underfoot in places. Tall trees have grown thick and old over the ages, their branches hanging low with moss and vines. At night, the forest comes alight, many of the ferns around glowing in the darkness. A statue of an imperious pyromancer looms over her surroundings here, her flames lighting the way to Beau Greva's establishment. A waterfall plunges downward into a yawning, fathomless abyss directly northward.
    You see exits leading east, south, and west.

    You can see the following 1 objects:
    342582" a statue of an imperious pyromancer.

    Crafted from flows of quicksilver that seem to cling together despite rejecting their base utterly in a way that defies gravity, this statue of an imperious figure of fiery might floats above her bronzed base. Robes of ashen black cling to every subtle curve of her feminine frame and settle especially along the flare of her pronounced hips. The woman's attire is crafted from a voluminous material that conceals the form of whatever legs might be beneath it and the hem of the robes never float far enough to reveal anything beyond the ankles that connect her dainty feet to her lower legs. Her arms, long and willowy in shape, are bent in such a way as to imply frenzied spellcasting. Her hair spills forth like a waterfall down her back and flares out in similar defiance of physics as the rest of her stationary form. The hair whips and wriggles like a disturbed nest of black vipers. Fire churns around the pyromancer's arms in a full display of her might and it coils serpentine along her entire body to come to the bidden direction of her hands.
    The Thief's oneiric signature pervades this statue.
    It is possible for you to oneirically ADJUST this statue.
    This statue has been perceived by the chaos eater, the lyrist, the narrator, and the violinist.
    You may perceive the statue with a TOUCH alone.

    Your pose is now set as:
    Back turned to the waters, Pieri stands before the pyromancer, head bowed.

    You have emoted: Slowly, slowly, quicksilver melts away beneath Pieri's touch, leaving little but the impression of something willowy.

    When I see this, too, erased, will I also be free?

    You have emoted: Almost as though in a dream, Pieri guides her left hand further left, watching the tendrils of quicksilver swim after her touch. It is a luxury not afforded to those wishing to keep an image, and a privilege only a committed shaper may enjoy.

    You have emoted: It could have followed like a streamer on the wind, shimmering and shivering when Pieri's hand stills. It could have followed like the stream of air bubbles in the wake of a sea creature, bubbling in turn into nothingness once the ripples calm. The girl counts the quicksilver particles disperse dully onto the air, knowing and denying the insistent, longing ache of her heart.

    You have emoted: Without warning, she surges forward, right foot planted firmly in the ground as both her hands reach forward. They cup empty air before they cut into quicksilver, and in a moment the great bulk of the disintegrated pyromancer is contained within Pieri's palms and blossoming with abandon, great enough to overtake its living confines in two blinks.

    Your pose is now set as:
    Quicksilver blossoms like a fountain in Pieri's cupped hands, the Atavian simply enduring.

    It is now midnight on Tisday, the 23rd of Niuran, year 492 of the Midnight Age.
    Today is one of the days of the Month of Equivocation.

    You have emoted: What would it feel like, to be enveloped? In the substance of She Who rules instinct? Would it free her, or leave her wanting, or afraid, ever more than before? Streams of the stuff flow around Pieri, brushing against her clothes and wings and hair, a few droplets touching an apple cheek. It does little to calm her, at the very least, and even thought ceases the faster silver whirls. Her mind is full yet blank, no words coming while in this stasis.

    You have emoted: In another time, under different circumstances, a different sort of desperation would have risen - nevertheless, Pieri's silent cry unravels upon the quicksilver like the dance of ink and water. She shapes, and she shivers - if there is freedom in the act, it is lost beneath her confusion.

    A shimmer of lunar light pierces through the air, and a statue of an imperious pyromancer transforms.

    A shimmer of lunar light pierces through the air, and a statue of a blossoming visitor transforms.

    Where the river ends
    Directly south of the river, it seems like it is going to flow in and hit what lies on this side of the hole, though it instead crashes down into a giant pit, too deep and dark to see down into. The red grass is thick and lush, spotted with yellow mushrooms that have been crushed underfoot in places. Tall trees have grown thick and old over the ages, their branches hanging low with moss and vines. At night, the forest comes alight, many of the ferns around glowing in the darkness. Quicksilver wind lazily twining around peony and xuthus, a statue of a blossoming visitor has sprout up from the ground. A waterfall plunges downward into a yawning, fathomless abyss directly northward.
    You see exits leading east, south, and west.

    You can see the following 1 objects:
    342582" a statue of a blossoming visitor.

    Petal by petal, quicksilver unfolds itself in the image of a newly-blooming peony, separate from its sisters and even the protective cage of leaves like a sunflower growing high above a shrub. The delicate edges of the peony's layers tremble in a breeze that shifts in and out of visibility, and its curling, swirling dance brings with it predominant shades of blue and violet. The onlooker's gaze is the only thing that can coax the flower into blossoming, and while one might expect it to bloom anew with each glance, the peony evidently remembers each and every gaze that has come its way. A magnificent xuthus swallowtail brushes the topmost layers with its slender legs as it advances; from the lightest whisper of its wings to the wind's caress of its fur, movement from the butterfly sends a near-tangible ripple along the peony's petals like a quiet breath. The flower blushes a deep, veined rose vibrant enough to bring the luxurious softness of its petals to mind, while the questing xuthus wears colours rather light and watery in between the black frames of its wings. A shimmer not seen upon the peony coats its pale yellow, powder blue, and twin dots of amber, and you know without a shadow of a doubt that the peony has been touched - has been, and would be.
    The bird's oneiric signature pervades this statue.
    It is possible for you to oneirically ADJUST this statue.
    You may perceive the statue with a TOUCH alone.

    You have emoted: Almost tender even through whatever it was that had taken her, Pieri reaches out to brush one finger against one petal, not a wing.

    As you brush a statue of a blossoming visitor with your fingertips, the quicksilver observes you in turn, rippling against your flesh in a flare of lunar light.

    You make me feel too much.

    Next time, I might change your colour.

    Petals, wind, maybe even butterfly.

    I'll be saying goodbye; I'll make sure I can see all of you, before you have to go.

    They sold peonies in Enorian. [And once again the windwaker appears in her mind's eye.] Peonies...

    At a small pool of water

    Silver. Violet. Blue.


    Star orchid?

    Baby's breath...

    You have emoted: For the moment, Pieri's cares are forgotten in favour of a new idea, and she only takes a moment to take a few notes in her journal before dashing away.

    [The missive is penned in a rather excited hand, neat as it may be. The writer is indeed her age, it seems.]

    Miss Flinn,

    I've found a way to pay homage to all that the Court creates - floristry. I really should have thought of this before. Now that I can make things with flowers proper, perhaps someday the baguar will have something a little longer-lasting than one untreated vine and glow flower.

    I'm so glad for your baguar friend. Without it I may not have found my way to flower-arranging this quick.

    Best regards,
    - P. Yara

    I've got it down. Larkspur, star orchid, baby's breath... I'll have to pay Bloodloch another visit. Perhaps a different costume...?

    Should I just make one? But it would take time! And I have my flowers to make.

    Extras: Cosplay Delay. Nice to run into you too, @Rijetta :wink:

    Rijetta's aura of weapons rebounding disappears.
    Rijetta uses Tarot Lust on you.
    Rijetta quickly flings a tarot card at you, and you feel unreasonable lust for her.

    You tell Rijetta, "//shfhlkafh."

    A large, rectangular gateway opens up near you, and you feel irresistibly drawn inside.
    Stone bridge over a spring.

    A natural stone bridge crosses over the mountain spring running just beneath. The clear waters of the pool offer visibility straight down into its pebbly bottom, a variety of glittering stones reflecting through the waters in the presence of direct light. The rocky grey facade of the cavern rises up directly to the west, its bulky surface jutting out as an overhang in places to shade the pool. The bridge squeezes through a narrow gap in the western Hollow's face, leading through to what appears to be forest beyond. [things omitted] Arch Duchess Teotl Nehekhara, Kelo Viyve is here. The Idreth is riding on a midnight black stallion. The Idreth wields a tower shield in their right hand. Lieutenant Rijetta Alhazrad, Vafot wo Feyja is here, shrouded. She wields a jewel-encrusted buckler in her left hand and a chipped bone dagger in her right.Four stockings have been hung up here.
    You see exits leading north, east, south, and west.

    Rijetta ponders the situation.

    Arch Duchess @Teotl Nehekhara, Kelo Viyve says, "A rib would be better for carving a needle."

    You have emoted: The Atavian's hazel eyes are wide and slightly panicked, and Pieri stares from Rijetta to Teotl with naked shock and a little bit of apprehension.

    Rijetta ponders a chipped bone dagger's profile, deep in consideration.

    Gods, I just need one damn costume-!

    Arch Duchess Teotl Nehekhara, Kelo Viyve says to Rijetta, "Have to take whittling into consideration, and ribs are flexible for breathing and whatnot."

    Rijetta glares at you. "Stand there and be quiet until you learn to greet people properly."

    She is an agile Azudim of Human heritage with an ethereal, wispy frame, only standing at about five feet four inches at the top of her head. Silver-white hair falls to her shoulders, kept in a plaited, messy bun at the back of her skull, with some stray hairs allowed to form swept bangs at the front of her head. Her hair is parted by the nubs of what used to be two large, black antlers, one barely a nub and the other a jagged splinter, barely two inches high. The wounds where the antlers once sat are bloody and ragged, making it clear that the removal was not a natural or pleasant process. Her face is angular and pointed - so much so that it is nearly alien, with almond-shaped eyes and pointed elfen ears that peek through the hair on either side of her head, and high cheekbones giving her a haughty look. One of her eyes is a beautiful jade, while the other is scarred and mangled shut, the eyeball missing. The rest of her body is as angular and thin as her face, although it is now freed of almost all scars, save for one massive scar around her sternum, white and healed but evident as the location of an impalement. There is almost no fat on her entire body, leaving her almost skeletally thin, better to amplify the positively enormous jade butterfly wings sprouting from her back. Capable of folding on her back to appear like a cape or cloak, when spread their wingspan is nearly six feet, longer than Rijetta is tall, and a death's head skull appears on each jade wing, marking them as perfect replicas of a duskywing butterfly's wings.

    Wrapped around the shoulder and secured with a copper band is a paired shoulder cord showing off colors of red and gold. Interchanging hues of jade swirl within the confines of a verdant branding that splays across the ball of her shoulder; a maliciously curved halberd stamped over the fanning wings of a duskywing butterfly. Eldritch violet light surrounds her - a blessing of chaos and dreaming. Duskywing butterflies flit lazily around her as a sign of Chakrasul's blessing.

    a tattoo of a crossed halberd-and-hammer 'X' : (inked along the left forearm)
    black leather hobnailed jack boots : (snug on the feet)
    an encaged miniature duskywing butterfly : (close around the throat)
    a pair of chained duskywing butterflies : (plaited into her hair)
    a length of jade and onyx prayer beads : (around the left wrist)
    a sweeping, grandiose cloak of shadow and spidersilk : (hanging from the shoulders)
    the ethereal robes of Corruption's Voice : (flowing over the form)
    a bandage crackling with jade runes : (strapped around the left eye)
    a black ring of Esityi : (on the left ring finger)
    an infinite duskywing deck : (worn on the belt)

    They are a powerful Idreth vampire of Rajamalan heritage, satin coal-black fur with a prismatic sheen laid sleek over the entirety of their lean and elegant frame. Their face is round and leonine, nose broad, large eyes consumed entirely by glittering emerald, features unobstructed by a mane of any sort. Their ears and tail flick occasionally, curiosity pulling gently at the edges of attention. Sharp white teeth flash against a pink tongue when they open their mouth to speak, vampiric canines adorning their smile.
    A cloying layer of diamond dust utterly covers them. Earth and stone cling to their form under the blessing of the Earthen Lord.

    a navel piercing of mountain's teeth : (through the navel)
    an elegant, but masculine, emerald earring : (worn on the ears)
    a slender, stackable emerald ring : (snugly adorning the tail)
    a length of jade and onyx prayer beads : (around the neck)
    a slender, stackable jade ring : (worn on a finger)
    an elemental band : (flashing from the midi of a finger)
    a taerzseralla-inlaid cross-ear bar earring : (worn on the ears)
    ultra-high, stiletto-heeled silver leather boots : (worn on the feet)
    an encaged miniature duskywing butterfly : (displayed on one arm)

    Lieutenant Rijetta Alhazrad, Vafot wo Feyja says to Teotl, "Tibia, then? The most painful bone."

    Rijetta preens, clearly impressed with her accomplishments.

    Lieutenant Rijetta Alhazrad, Vafot wo Feyja says, "Ask me how I know."

    Am I going to be vivisected?

    Rijetta ponders the situation.

    Arch Duchess Teotl Nehekhara, Kelo Viyve wryly says to Rijetta, "Because it's right next to a bunch of major arteries and would be hardest to break?"

    Lieutenant Rijetta Alhazrad, Vafot wo Feyja says, "... no, no, I meant femur."

    Lieutenant Rijetta Alhazrad, Vafot wo Feyja says, "The -femur- is the most painful bone to be broken."

    Rijetta nods her head sagely.

    Teotl nods their head emphatically.

    You have emoted: Self-preservation over any Enorian pride her time in the city may have instilled - if any -, Pieri inhales a long breath, then lets it out bit by bit. Slowly her shoulders push back, and she clasps her hands behind her back.

    Teotl inclines their head politely to you.

    You have emoted: Pieri returns the greeting, though slightly stiffly.

    Arch Duchess Teotl Nehekhara, Kelo Viyve asks you, "You alright?"

    Lieutenant Rijetta Alhazrad, Vafot wo Feyja says to you, "Bow, worm."

    Lieutenant Rijetta Alhazrad, Vafot wo Feyja says, "Curtsey. SOMETHING."

    You have emoted: Pursing her lips, Pieri turns to Rijetta and executes a slightly longer dip of the head. A moment passes to consider before she offers Rijetta her usual gesture of a hand to the heart.

    The ghost of a smile passes fleetingly across the lips of Teotl.

    Arch Duchess Teotl Nehekhara, Kelo Viyve asks you, "What's that gesture from?"

    You have emoted: Pieri's silence is not merely a product of waiting to hear Rijetta's verdict - she is swallowing, once, and twice, without a voice, and the glance to Teotl is fleeting before it returns to Rijetta.

    Rijetta harrumphs, shaking her head. "They don't teach manners in Enorian," she growls. "City of the Gods, but no respect for a High Priestess? Explain yourself."

    You tell Teotl, "Nowhere." Her mind is less impeded, as long as she is willing to let it be so, at least. "Me."

    Teotl's thoughts fill your head, "What does it mean to you?"

    You have emoted: Feeling a distinct pressure beginning to build somewhere around her nose and eyes, Pieri looks to the diminutive Rijetta.

    Speak! NOW!

    It is now dawn on Tisday, the 23rd of Niuran, year 492 of the Midnight Age.

    Birds fly from their roosts as a throaty voice rises from the caverns of the Heartwood. Others soon join in the lasting sonorous harmony, the forest Shaman's call to morning meditation.

    Mostly to themselves, Arch Duchess Teotl Nehekhara, Kelo Viyve says, "A Squire... you've some sort of guide or mentor that is responsible for your education then..."

    You have emoted: "Your - name, please?" Pieri's jaw takes on a clench, one that only marginally relaxes once she manages words. Shoulders still Templar-straight, she is a bird caught in between a lot of things - anxiety, strain, and some frustration, perhaps at her own difficulty in speaking.

    Rijetta narrows her eye, her upper lip curling in disgust. "They teach you nothing in Enorian," she declares. "Rijetta Alhazrad, Vafot wo Feyja, Jiwe wo Esityi. Surely you've learned a little Kalsu?"

    You tell Teotl, "I - " Rijetta's presence is, after all, rather heavy. "...can sort it out."

    Alhazrad also Kalsu?

    Teotl's thoughts fill your head, "Okay."

    You have emoted: Pieri's breathing is a little easier to hear at Rijetta's question, but she lowers her gaze to the ground in an almost mulish fashion.

    Too long, too long since...

    Rudely, Lieutenant Rijetta Alhazrad, Vafot wo Feyja asks, "They don't even teach you the names of your greatest enemies?"

    Gerro arrives from the west.

    @Gerro raises his hand in greeting and says

    Teotl inclines their head politely to Gerro.

    Gerro leaves to the west.

    You have emoted: "Esityi... is all... Enorian needs to know - as enemy." Enorian. Pieri tries another swallow after the reply, her left hand going to curl around the other sleeve over her forearm.

    Rijetta twirls a chipped bone dagger between her fingers idly, cocking her head to the side. "Never heard of the Carnifex, then? Some Squire," she spits.

    A palpitating tremor resonates from the leylines as a lesser focal point is tapped for its energy.

    Gerro arrives from the west.

    Teotl flicks one of their ears reflexively.

    You have emoted: "You - don't need me to know... Jiwe." The word is not spat out, merely spoken as a title, and while Pieri does not seem to wish to back down, her reply could also be taken as a statement of fact. "Carnifex is Carnifex."

    Teotl excitedly shakes a golden fertility idol up and down, eager to see what comes out of it.
    A golden flow of coins suddenly erupts from the idol and rains down around Teotl. As the shower subsides, the idol glows with a faint luster.

    "Wow!" Gerro exclaims in surprise.

    Teotl lets forth a warm laugh.

    Teotl puts some gold sovereigns in a plain grey pack.

    Rijetta sneers, getting close to you, until her face is right in front of the other.
    "Next time I catch you out and about, I'm going to give you a firsthand lesson as to why you should know my name. It seems the Templar need reminding."

    Gerro snickers under his breath.

    You have emoted: The advantage of height is on Pieri's side, though really not by much. Her response to the possible threat is the same stubborn silence, though for whatever reason, it is not accompanied by a jutting of the chin.

    I really just wanted to get a costume...

    Rijetta clasps her hands behind her back. "Dismissed, Squire. I'll make sure your Chaplain knows what a useless little unicorns you are."

    Teotl mouths the word 'Chaplain' with some level of confusion, but keeps it to themselves.

    Gerro says to Rijetta, "That's not a very neighbourly way to talk to someone."

    You have emoted: "If she believes it... Lieutenant." So did she know who Rijetta was, all along? Pieri gives a brief look to Teotl, as though acknowledging something. To be safe, she spreads her earthy wings and simply propels herself into the air before Rijetta.

    A large, rectangular gateway opens up near you, and you feel irresistibly drawn inside.
    Stone bridge over a spring.

    Lieutenant Rijetta Alhazrad, Vafot wo Feyja says, "Learn to reject, idiot."

    Rijetta cackles hellishly.

    Lieutenant Rijetta Alhazrad, Vafot wo Feyja says, "Voltda."

    You have emoted: Blushing with something like rage, Pieri steps away once more.
  • PieriPieri Member Posts: 10
    edited January 14
    To name a seabird
    Solo RP is unexpectedly fun from time to time, worth practicing. @Taiyang , your generous gift has finally found a name.

    You tell Straid, "Straid." A ripple of hesitance, then a jest: "While I know you're made of sturdy stuff... consider it a part of me to ask. Are you feeling well?"

    Straid tells you, "Pieri." The impression of soft laughter and amber tones of amusement reach your mind. "I am well enough, if a bit sore and pensive. Are you well?"

    You have emoted: Pieri tucks away a nightmarish Omei costume, pulls on her boots, and dusts herself off. The pile of cushions around her are, predictably, empty, and with a little shake of her head - like a dog brushing off water from its fur - she goes to place each displaced pile in a configuration neater than is current.

    You tell Straid, "I've just woken." Little bits of movement from her, now, and a distinct impression of something soft and fluffy between her fingers. "I would hardly ache as much as you might." Echoes of slightly fluttering warmth, less effusive or heated than from the past few days. "I'm cleaning up, before I leave."

    Straid tells you, "Have you slept this whole time, there in the chamber where I performed the dance?"

    Your pose is now set as:
    Pieri busies herself picking up the pillows.

    You tell Straid, "Well." Perhaps the rosiest defensiveness one would have felt. "I couldn't know why I slept so long, could I?"

    You have emoted: Pieri looks down at the pale yellow pillow in her hands, feeling a smile she would have vehemently called silly spread across her face.

    Get it together - nothing's changed, and we've a chamber to tidy up.

    You have emoted: Almost absently Pieri goes to stack cushions, the large ones she has used atop other sizable slabs, before she decides the tower is piling too high and takes off the top.

    I've just the little prince to distract me.

    A snow petrel shimmers into existence before you.

    The loud sound of thunder rolls through the skies, shaking the air around you.

    You have emoted: A flash of white flits into the chambers, slightly damp from flying, and lands with a rustle a few paces from Pieri. "Come here, Your Highness. Isn't it a right lovely nest?" The Atavian considers the double pillows in her arms and tosses one, rather experimentally, to an empty spot somewhere closer to the wall.

    You have emoted: Pieri walks around to the opposite clearing on quiet boots, nudging away fluffed cushions with its toe once as an accompanying faint wince appears on her face. A snow petrel considers this, but has apparently found one large pillow to his liking. Beady black eyes observe the working Atavian and then who knows what else in the room, not particularly lingering on a single thing - not even a statue of a fae duelist.

    This is hardly sanitary...

    You have emoted: Pieri drops the pillow with a faint 'whoompf' and drops down with a flutter of wings.

    You carelessly undo the laces of your boots, pulling them off your feet and dropping them heavily to the floor.

    You have emoted: Evidently a night spent in a room of fluffy pillows helps Pieri perceive more of it as a nest, despite what has happened. Casting a furtive glance at the exit and windows, she launches herself upon a pile that still sprawls without much use of her wings. A few overfluffed, slippery silk-covered cushions are sent flying upon impact.

    You have emoted: "Your Highness!" Pieri calls out to a snow petrel. "Your bed's right here!" A few gestures to her tummy earns a couple of avian tilts from the petrel's head, but little else for the time being. Rolling her eyes, the Atavian settles, pulling one of the overplump silken pillows to hug instead. She pushes her head a little bit back - the world is upside down, and the dawn threatens to spill into indigo.

    Your pose is now set as:
    Pieri lies atop a sprawling pile of cushions, staring upside-down out the window.

    You have emoted: "Your Highness, I'm hungry." Truth, always, but this is just as much an attempt to fill the temple's silence with something, anything. "How come you never bring me back little fish, or a worm, Your Highness?" Pieri swivels her head around to stare mock-accusingly at a snow petrel. "Your faithful caretaker who could shade you from rain and snow and freezing cold?"

    You have emoted: "I actually have food on me." The little act is folded away as recognition comes. "Come on, if you want some, I can share. There's nobody here to see, and it's plenty cold outside. The air'll clear." Pieri promptly sits back up and retrieves the wrapped remains of a dish of spiced chicken, kumara, and vegetables - not really remains, to begin with.

    Your pose is now set as:
    Pieri sits atop a cushion, legs stretched out while she feeds.

    The sweet smell of maple sugar wafts from this dish, complimenting the savory scents of the chicken.

    A maple glaze makes the kumara and parts of the chicken sweet, while the roasted veggies and cranberry create a more balanced taste.

    You have emoted: Apparently the smell of meat, hidden beneath glaze as it is, has drawn the interest of a snow petrel. Gingerly Pieri unwraps a bit of chicken, unconcerned with possible unspoken principles of the food chain, and bites into it without hesitation.

    You take a bite of the chicken, the savory flavors cooked carefully into the core of the meat. Maple glaze covers each piece of kumara you eat, easily mixing with the veggies as you devour the dish.

    You have emoted: Indeed, neither Pieri nor a snow petrel seem overly sensitive to possible avian cannibalism; while she feeds the smallest of her cranberries happily to the bird, she allows him to sample the spiced bird as the bird might wish. "It's good, isn't it?" Pieri licks at the corners of her mouth to catch stray sauce, one side and then the other. "I picked that out." There is a name that has gone unsaid. "And I need to try others. Find more stuff that's just right. Maybe a little less sweet."

    You have emoted: Sweet. Pieri's pack lies not too far away, and she drags it over with careful fingers to bring out a small antiquated kawhe cup of kawhe with steamed milk and caramel from its depths. This time she wears no smile when she takes a long sip.

    You sip from a small antiquated kawhe cup of kawhe with steamed milk and caramel. Milk froth lathers your upper lip like a moustache as the creamy, sweetened kawhe and steamed milk blends together in your mouth. The hot drink offers a warm, cosy feeling that spreads throughout your entire body.

    [A warmth greater than she, alone, could ever produce as she is. All of a sudden she sees herself as though from another's eyes: sitting alone in a temple, feasting on a spiced corpse with an animal, talking to it as though she had no-one else of substance to speak with.]

    You have emoted: "Your Highness - come." The call is as defiant as it is blithe, and this time Pieri's act does not fall flat, for a snow petrel has had it in his mind to obey. Her shoulder is his chosen perch. "I still need a proper name for you." She pops a berry into her mouth. Succulent crimson she is chewing, a soured yet fresher sweetness bursting in her mouth in the wake of the kawhe. "Coddle you too much and you'll be wanting to sit on my head all the time."


    You say, "But you're not a lark."

    You have emoted: A snow petrel watches Pieri with a few clicks of his beak. He then promptly plunges it into Pieri's hair with the assured preciseness of a child who never doubts the novelty of his toy chest. Evidently he has not delved too deep or tugged on any roots, for the Atavian simply continues. "Flowers. Whyever not? They matter to me. You matter to me, too," she says, and from the pointed tone of her words, it is clear the bird's play - or an attempt to groom - has not passed by her attention. "And why should you not be named after something you're not? You are you. And it would make a fun little contrast."

    White flowers. White. [Despite what she has said, she lets her imagination tend toward the familiar.] No, not Rosario. Rosario's too much of a gentleman to go hunting in a lady's hair.

    I can't really picture a shy little white violet with you, I'm afraid.

    You have emoted: "Cesalla." Pieri has already thought on it before she lets this particular candidate pass her lips. As soon as it does, another cranberry follows in the opposite direction. "Ce - zallah." Imperious, and feisty enough to draw laughs with a tone sufficiently theatric and end-weighted. "Cesario?"

    You have emoted: Pieri turns her head to stare a snow petrel directly in the face, then twists her head around to look at him in one beady eye. Her gaze has to follow him around, as the bird is now hovering, rather disgruntled, in midair due to loss of his soft brown toy chest. "Don't worry, I'll call you a prince from time to time. Now, Cesario, how do you like it?"

    You have emoted: Quite simply, a snow petrel flutters up and takes up his post upon Pieri's head. The little noise he offers after, as well as his blinking down at the Atavian and giving his wings a flap would at the very least suggest something has drawn his interest.

    You have emoted: Pieri lifts a hand, slender index finger coming to give the bird's chest a few careful strokes.
    "Infant ruler to the last..."

    Maybe you won’t be quite so different from your name, after all.

    You have emoted: Mid-morning comes to bring fresher air into the chamber, as well as a different pair of eyes for the heavens to look upon this odd little scene. There Pieri still sits, cushion placed to the side, little remaining of the sticky meal in its coarse brown wax-paper. Haughty as ever, a snow petrel leans down upon its perch to nibble a little at the Atavian's wispier strands of hair.

    You have emoted: How much can a bird truly understand? Whatever else, the giving of a name stills Pieri's strange restlessness and lets her earthy wings fall a little closer to the ground. What's real certainly would calm. And there would be plenty of days, she knows, to make something -real- out of the soft-eyed Atavian and the proud petrel. The rustle of the wrappings does not alarm the bird, and he remains seated like a particularly dedicated ornament (or a pile of books bestowed by some spartan manners mistress), even while Pieri slides upon her bottom to reach her abandoned boots, even while she carefully returns to her feet, bends for her belongings, and moves - with a slow and much-unexpected regality - out of the chamber.

    Post edited by Pieri on
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