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Mariena's questions for Slyphe get answered. . Sort of.
Mariena
By a lake.
[spoiler]
[/spoiler]
Mariena has been pondering whether the Hand of the Praadi (herself) can be in an Order, even though she's kind of like the head Shaman of the Spirits, whom her guild is supposed to be worshiping. So she badgers Slyphe for answers.
Along shell-filled, sandy stretches.
Soft, white sand coats wide swaths of land and then further, into a crystalline ocean. Waves roll gently up the sand, depositing a myriad of crystals, shells, and rounded gems whose colors span the rainbow. The suck and pull of the water creates a constant din that fades into the background, as does the salty brush of air that wafts down the beach. You see a single exit leading east.
Mariena sits on her sandy beach, the gems and shells around her winking in the moonlight. "Lord Slyphe?" She asks aloud, not truly expecting an answer. "How would You rectify the existence of the Guardians with the existence with the Divine?"
Watching the crash and hiss of water swirling, eating, and reshaping the sand of her haven, Mariena continues idly, "I mean, we are the Voice of the Guardians. WE are the VOICE of Dendara.. Yet often there is nothing to voice. They are sentient Animal Spirits who do their own shit. Lord Slyphe of the tentacles, does that mean that the Praadi have room to follow more than one Divine being?" Picking up a conch shell whose spikes form in even spikes, she sighs. "Or should I accept that it's combined? Divine, Dendara. It is all interwoven."
Mariena's fingers trail over the ridged inner crevices that the folds of shell hide. The pads of her digits repeat this shell stroke as she watches the afternoon light create deeper shadows in the sapphire sea than what is normally present.
A particularly large wave rushes forward, crashing upon the sand with a deafening roar that accompanies the darkening of the surrounding skies. Billowing storm clouds roll in from seemingly nowhere - churning, rumbling, and shaking with the impending threat of a torrential downpour.
Instinctively throwing her left hand up, Mariena creates a dense dome of air a couple feet above her head, and 'eep' sounding breathlessly as she scurries back -much to late to save her dress - from the rising tide.
A crackling streak of lightning bursts forward from the tumultuous clouds, its target the very dome of air you had just created. An almost sulfur-like scent fills the surrounding environ as the very air itself seems to burn under its scorching touch. The static tension of the resulting flash is almost palpable.
Mariena stands almost indignantly as her hair poufs with the humidity created. She claps her hands once and the air dissipates. "Havens are not supposed to HAVE storms!" She hollers, eyes taking on the storm-gray as she glares up at the lightning-streaked sky. "Are my questions ones You can't answer or won't?"
Another bolt of lightning crashes dangerously close to your feet, the close proximity more than enough of a catalyst for the blinding flash to blur your vision momentarily. It takes a few long moments for your eyes to re-acclimate themselves, but when they do the form of the Maelstrom is before you where the lightning had just struck, the sand beneath His feet scorched and glossy.
He is an Immortal, tall and brawny, with corded muscles beneath rugged, tanned skin. Taller than a Troll, He carries Himself with a fluid grace and a rolling gait to His steps, like a sailor accustomed to the unsteady footing of a ship at sea, while His brawn is underscored by a quiet, tense agility, as if constantly prepared to happily dive into a nearby brawl. A mass of tattoos spirals across His weathered skin in a dark network of designs - elevated above the simple lewd creations of a rowdy pirate's ink, the patterns seem somehow alive, with sea monsters writhing, mermaids brazenly winking and posing, and the flags of ships rippling in hidden winds across His skin. His features echo this theme, with the craggy, harsh face of a simple sailor made transcendent by a pair of fathomless eyes, as deep as the ocean and churning in a constant, unnerving swirl of blues and greens.
(wrinkled and worn) : a pair of white cloth trousers
(hanging loosely from His waist) : a black weaponbelt with silver clasps
(left to lay against His chest) : a crude shark tooth necklace
Blinking heavily, the blur obviously agitates Mariena with each swipe of her hand across her eyes. She realizes how close she is standing to Slyphe a moment later, and, with a prudent step back, she looks him up and down. Lips purse as she stares between his feet. "I bet You made glass with that last strike," she comments by way of greeting.
"Very likely," Slyphe nonchalantly retorts, His own lips pursing as He regards you in turn. A silver flagon is held within His left hand, His right sat comfortably upon the gleaming hilt of a scimitar that dangles upon a small strap affixed to the weaponbelt He wears. "Tell Me," He requests, gaze narrowing just somewhat before He takes a quick sip of the foaming beverage within the flagon. "Do you see any tentacles upon My form?" His head cocks to the side just somewhat.
Mariena narrows her eyes, their depths shifting to a cautious dark hue. "There," she notes with a pointed finger, "Tentacle is trying to get the ship. Kraken?" She asks conversationally while watching the creature and ship play out their scene on the God's tawny flesh.
Your pointed finger brings about a much more drastic reaction in the moving imagery inked upon the Deity's body - the writhing tentacle bursts forward from Slyphe's flesh into a much more tangible, larger, and quite dangerous-looking appendage-like extension of the God's form. The tentacle darts with blinding speed towards your neck, and in but a few moments wraps itself around it. Its slimy nature undoubtedly makes for an uncomfortable experience, but the barbs upon the back of it seem to maintain their distance from the tender flesh in addition to its lack of actual
squeezing, making it for now a nearly harmless, albeit still potentially harmful display.
Lifting the flagon to His lips to take another quaff of the beverage almost nonchalantly, Slyphe, the Maelstrom says, "You are a brave one in the way you invoke the names of My Siblings and I, you know." Slyphe sips from a gleaming silver flagon overflowing with beer.
Mariena's chin tips up to relieve the slight pressure and, even though a panicked yellow flares through cloudy grey, her eyes remain turned up towards Slyphe. "You may kill this form, sir," she answers honestly, "but it is by Varian's will I return, until the Mirror declares otherwise." She pauses a moment and nudges the tentacle with a few questing fingers, as if she is easing the thing from her body. "There are mysteries I wish to know the answers to. I walk among animals with Your power on the daily. I instruct the young to bind to Them. To call upon Them. They would not
hesitate to make Their ire known either."
Your prodding only draws the tentacle more tightly around your throat. This seems to bring about some semblance of an amused grin from Slyphe who seems to do little more than watch onwards for a few pensive moments. "You cannot threaten Me, little Shaman," He remarks with a sly sort of chuckle that's echoed by the humanoid figures inked upon His skin - a mermaid lifts a hand to cover her laugh, while a captain who seizes a bronze ship wheel goes so far as to level a finger towards you while shaking his head in amusement. "Mortals these days seem to jump to the conclusion that all We wish to do is kill them," the Sea Lord finally professes after a nearly-distracted second or two. "But when it comes down to it, there's so many better options for Us." The last statement seems to play a role in twisting the Deity's countenance into one of clear disapproval. "Options of which I have no problem employing should you see fit to continue acknowledging Me as you would one of your little Shaman novices."
His chin lifting, Slyphe, the Maelstrom says, "You show Me respect, and perhaps I will consider indulging in this little game of question-and-answer you propose."
Mariena stops prodding and huffs in answer. "How am I treating you like my own?" She counters boldly. "How do I threaten?" She taps at her head, being careful to clear the thing pressing against her throat. Stance shifting to one more solid within the sands, she continues, "I am saying what You can do, I live with on the daily. If You wish to kill, you will do so. If you wish to tear My mind asunder and make me go quite raving, You can. I have the Bonds of those who can do that in here. My will is theirs. I understand the risks I take." Shrugging, she adds passionately, "mortals
jump to the conclusion because some of your Sisters are rather.. quick to draw. So to speak."
"Oh, but you do not," Slyphe counters with a shake of His head, His chest lifting as He releases a grunt. Out of seemingly nowhere the tentacle releases its grip upon your throat before snapping back towards the Deity, its length seeping into the skin of His chest to make itself little more than the tattoo it had previously been only a handful of moments ago. The God allows silence to reign for a few unnerving moments, the sound of the waves crashing behind Him almost deafeningly loud in comparison. "What do you wish to ask Me?" He finally queries, a brow arching before He takes another sip from the gleaming flagon.
Offering a quick smile, Mariena asks quickly and probably more bluntly than intended, "is there plausible room to have both Dendara worship and the worship of the Divine. Both paths seem to to be their own distinct one and each path also takes an immense amount of attention. Also, do You, as the master of the Seas, know if Your own goes to Dendara when they leave this plane? The whales, the fish I have not seen."
Slyphe's lips twitch into some semblance of a wry smile as He utters a short 'tsk' noise, head shaking as He raises a finger. "You should work on your decorum when posing such questions," the God almost seams to tease - quite the drastic difference from His disposition just earlier. "I will answer only one of your questions," He acknowledges before pursing His lips. "There is plausible room to worship both, yes. The spirits of Dendara are not as... mm," He trails off, a hand gesturing as He attempts to find the proper word. "Hands-on, I suppose? As My siblings and I." A hand strums pensively upon the intricately-wrought hilt of His scimitar as He seems to continue formulating the response. "They're quite different, yes," He concludes with a wave of the hand that bears the flagon in a nearly dismissive manner.
"They are quite different," Mariena agrees with a bob of her head. "You are quite hands-on. I prod the Spirits quite as often as I prod You and Yours," she admits in a continued rush, "You and Yours are much more liable to answer. I generally just get informed to shut the pit up by some form of Elder or Ancient." She stares past Slyphe's broad form for a moment - a feat considering - and then sighs. "But how else do I lead and learn if I don't prod and figure out things?" The question is more philosophical in nature and probably not meant for Slyphe, though she adds belatedly, "oh Mighty Lord of the Seas, Waters, and Strangling Tattoos. I do appreciate Your presence."
Somewhere within the period of your staring into the distance and your philosophical return to reality, the Maelstrom seems to have merely flickered away and out of sight, leaving your compliment to fall only upon your empty surroundings.
Nose wrinkling, you say, "I even pandered that time."
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