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Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dewdrops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone:
Our queen and all our elves come here anon.
GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT
SUN.
—————
1
GIVE me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-
dazzling;
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the
orchard;
Give me a field where the unmow'd grass grows;
Give me an arbor, give me the trellis'd grape;
Give me fresh corn and wheat—give me serene-moving
animals, teaching content;
Give me nights perfectly quiet, as on high plateaus west
of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars;
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers,
where I can walk undisturb'd;
Give me for marriage a sweet-breath'd woman, of whom
I should never tire;
Give me a perfect child—give me, away, aside from the
noise of the world, a rural domestic life;
Give me to warble spontaneous songs, reliev'd, recluse
by myself, for my own ears only;
Give me solitude—give me Nature—give me again,
O Nature, your primal sanities!
—These, demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless
excitement, and rack'd by the war-strife;)
These to procure, incessantly asking, rising in cries from
my heart,
While yet incessantly asking, still I adhere to my city;
Day upon day, and year upon year, O city, walking
your streets,
Where you hold me enchain'd a certain time, refusing
to give me up;
Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich'd of soul—you
give me forever faces;
Walt Whitman from "Leaves of Grass"
My favorite poet seemed appropriate for this campaign. Yours inspired me.
Full many knights adventurous and stout
Have enterpriz'd that Monster to subdew;
From every coast that heaven walks about,
Have thither come the noble Martiall crew,
That famous hard atchievements still pursew;
Yet never any could that girlond win,
But all still shronke, and still he greater grew:
All they for want of faith, or guilt of sin,
The pitteous pray of his fierce crueltie have bin.
At last yledd with farre reported praise,
Which flying fame throughout the world had spred,
Of doughty knights, whom Faery land did raise,
That noble order hight of Maidenhed,
Forthwith to court of Gloriane I sped
Of Gloriane great Queene of glory bright,
Whose Kingdomes seat Cleopolis is red,
There to obtaine some such redoubted knight,
The Parents deare from tyrants powre deliver might.
Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene
__________________________________
Though I'm actually fonder of Shakespeare and Tennyson. Give me Ulysses over the The Faerie Queene.
The Wolf
How many times have I set forth
with a bent back
and a waterskin slung on my shoulder?
How many valleys have I crossed—
lands barren as an ass’s belly
where the wolf howls
in its dire need?
Once when I heard that howl
I offered a reply:
“We’re hard up, you and I,
brothers in destitution.
Whatever we lay hold of
we soon let slip away:
times are always lean
for those who sow like us.”
- Imru al-Qays (translated by Kareem James Abu-Zeid)
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This is a dream.
It must be, for you do not remember ever seeing a forest like this one.
You do remember falling asleep, perhaps even in a forest, but what you see around you is a far cry from where you laid your head down for the night a few hours ago. ...Has it been a few hours? You have the strange feeling that in this place time has rather different rules - if it has any at all.
You look around.
It is difficult to distinguish details at first, because there are just so many of them, and what should be familiar is strange and marvelous and impossible and slightly frightening all at once.
There are trees that resemble those long-legged water birds that balance on one foot, their deep green foliage edged with white and pink in a profusion of narrow, feathered leaves. You lean in to examine a gorgeous fuchsia orchid as it suddenly takes flight, trailing a shimmering powder. The moss underneath you is improbably soft and almost warm, like the fur of some fuzzy creature. A cluster of sapphire-blue mushrooms edged in yellow is pulsing slowly a few feet away, as if breathing. Tendrils of some flowering vines undulate upwards, their trumpet-shaped blossoms snapping at the droplets of a small waterfall that originates somewhere in the unseen upper reaches of the canopy and dissolves into jeweled hummingbirds before it reaches the forest floor.
Everywhere you look, the senses are dazzled by the multitude of imprints and impressions that seek to make themselves known - not just colors and shapes, but scents and sounds as well, some familiar and others utterly alien. There's rustling and flapping, creaking and chittering, tinkling and whistling and many other noises, layering and overlapping, harmonizing for a moment before bursting into cacophony. The smell of petrichor forms a base from which other olfactory flavors bubble up, bursting with the scent of fresh berry juice, sun-warmed rocks, fig leaves, wet fur, fresh snow and many others still - peppery, soft, tangy, melancholy, ticklish, until you run out of words to describe them.
Once your consciousness is slightly less overwhelmed, you begin to notice others around you, stirring as if from a deep sleep.
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Halrod blinks, instantly awake. <Something is wrong!>
He rolls up into a crouch, gripping his bow, but starts to look and feel and smell the riotous world around him. His jaw hangs briefly open as the strangeness and beauty wash over him. Tears roll down from his large black eyes and he doesn't know why.
This is no place in the Stolen Lands, though it reminds him faintly of dreams he had when he sojourned in the Forest of Thousand Voices. Was that when he was a king? Or no... the time he lost them all? He couldn't remember, the memories flitting away from him like they always did, like the strange and beautiful birds of this place.
A half-remembered scent flits by among many and slowly one thought bubbles up through his mind <Falathiel. She... Does she live here? Was that her scent?> But then it was gone, like those memories that danced upon the edge of his mind, always shifting into something he couldn't quite grasp.
Then, a light from somewhere he couldn't name fell upon a simple white flower and in that instant the flower opened, spreading iridescent petals of shapes and hues for which no name existed in any tongue of men or elves. The beauty of that unfolding was so astonishing and over so fast that Halrod reached out, wishing to see it again.
And it happened again. Time repeated itself for just a few seconds, the amazing bud opening again in its full glory as Halrod stared in rapt attention, then faded once again to plain white.
The archer nodded, coming at last to himself. This was somehow the First World, a place he had studied much but never before visited. He remained vigilant, for the difference between a dream and reality in this place was perhaps not even discernible.
"Welcome to the First World," he said to the others. "Be careful. Here nothing is as it would be on Golarion. Above all, remember this: eat and drink nothing that is offered to you if you wish to see your homes again."
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"Hmm, why?" A tiny sprite with auburn hair lies flat on the moss, leather jacket hanging half-open to expose his chest to the sky. "Is there something wrong with the food here? Does it turn you into a bird? Make you grow tentacles out your ears?" He rolls over and grins at the elf. "Or are you going for something more literal and think that the wine will make you blind? Relax. My folks come here all the time and always made it back for breakfast." He glances up at the waterfall-birds and shrugs. "Well, not here here, but close enough for horseshoes."
In a flash, transparent wings grow from the sprite's back and carry him to a crimson branch just slightly above the elf's eye level. "Oh, but where are my manners? Clementine, at your service." He holds a hand out for the elf to shake, cheerfully ignoring (or unaware of) the bobbing of his perch beneath him.
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Lani slowly opens her eyes, blinking against the bright light filtering through the canopy of the strange forest she finds herself in. The gnome sits up, rubbing her eyes, and takes in her surroundings. Beside her, Glitterbloom yawns and stretches out her body, her wings giving a little flutter.
Listening to the elf's words, Lani nods. "Ah, yes. First World problems." She gets to her feet and brushes off her clothes. The riot of sights, sounds, and smells all around momentarily overwhelm her heightened senses, so she stands there and tries to steady herself as Clementine gives his introduction.
"Partaking of food and drink here can give the First World a hold over you, particularly if it is offered by one of the residents. So say all the stories, anyway."
He looks at the diminutive sprite. "Perhaps the result is different for faeries."
Nidintu slowly gets to his feet, straightening his spectacles with one hand as he steadies himself with the lengthy handle of his massive maul. Memories of a building ablaze and a trackless desert wash over him as he looks around the chaotic forest, then vanish just as quickly.
Who are these people? he wonders, as his eyes linger on the strangers drawn into the dream alongside him. Guardians, as I am? Are they aware of the powers they wield? His fingers brush an elaborate compass at his side as he considers his position. For that matter, am I?
Straightening to his full height, he addresses Halrod. "My thanks for your warning, stranger. I have dreamt like this once, but the land where I found myself was considerably less..." Nidintu tilts his horned head to one side as he examines the mass of vegetation around him before finishing. "...verdant."
His eyes wander the clearing once again, as if searching for something. "Many years ago, when I visited another land in my dreams, I was offered a choice between freedom and an unearned second chance." At this, Nidintu looks at his compass again. "I wonder if a similar choice awaits us now."
Realizing himself, he extends a hand to each of the strangers in turn. "My apologies for not introducing myself. I am Nidintu, a simple wanderer. May I inquire as to your names?"
Lani turns back to the others, looking up at Nidintu as she takes his hand. She speaks in a high, melodious voice. "Lani. Lani Bralani. Yes, it rhymes. And this is my familiar, Glitterbloom."
At the sound of her name, Glitterbloom trills a high, tinkling note, as if to echo Lani's introduction. She flutters her wings and gives a playful little hop.
Lani's body is small and slender, standing just over three feet tall. Her features are delicate, with large, expressive eyes that are a deep blue in color. Her hair is a vibrant shade of purple that seems to shimmer in the light. She wears a colorful tunic, vest, and flowing skirt, along with lightweight leather boots.
Lani's familiar Glitterbloom takes the form of a small, otherworldly creature that seems to glow with an eerie, golden light. She resembles a mix between a cat and a bird, with a sleek, feline body and a pair of large, bat-like wings. The creature's fur is a deep, midnight black, with faint, glowing gold stripes that seem to shimmer in the darkness. Her eyes are a piercing bright gold, and they seem to glow with a strange inner light.
Halrod is a tall and slender elf clad in hide armor pressed and shaped by kyonin leatherworkers with motifs of autumn leaves. He bears a great bow and a slender rapier. He carries little besides. His hair is silver-white and hangs perfectly straight past his shoulders.
"My name is Halrod of Wyvernstone,"he says. "Once of Kyonin... one of them, anyway."
"You I do not know, Nidintu, but with Lani, Glitterbloom, Clementine, Farfadet and Roots-Sink-Deep I am well acquainted, for we have crossed paths before now. I commend them to your high regard."
Turning to look around him, his elven eyes peering into the distance, he says "No random happenstance is this, the drawing of so many wanderers to this place. Some mind or will is at work here and we had best discover it before long."
Lying amongst the purple roses, orange tulips and yellow sunflowers (coincidence) each intermingled, intertwined. Interdependent, is a Root Leshy. His bark polished. His vine-like appendages spread above his small head. His startlingly expressive blue eyes wide in pure unadulterated joy at the beauty, wonder, and strangeness that envelops them.
Not saying a word, the Root leshy pops up, shakes, shivers, and shimmys his bark-like body as if having a seizure. Suddenly halting his strange dance, he turns his attention to those present.
Those are some wicked 'shoots Marianne gave me!
Roots-Sink-Deep turns, spins and twirls in a circle for a full minute.
He then lazily flops down once again amongst the foliage.
I remember way back in the day (last month) when I first found a Bush! This is way cooler!
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Marvels of the First World soundtrack
Among the luxuriant vegetation, a small huddled figure struggles to get up. At first, a small pale hand, the fist tightened by a long deep sleep, stretches. Amidst huge moonlike leaves, untidy bright red hair can be spotted, hiding a pair of half-closed eyes. The lids, appearing heavy and burdened, have a hard time opening to the grandiose scenery surrounding the group of wanderers. Yet as soon as they eyes beyond have somehow aligned into cohesion, they sparkle with bewilderment, and the huddled figure instantly rises to its feet, gazing around with great interest. "Where... What... Wow!" he quickly interjects, oblivious at first of his companions. He relapses into an admirative silence, bathing in delight and wonder.
The red-haired figure belongs to a young gnome, dressed in travelling clothes covered with greenery of all sorts. Leaves, branches, wreathes, even some stones of all shapes, sizes and aspect are tied to the gnome's leather belt. Pouches still humid from dew also about, smelling of wet earth and humus. His clothes themselves are mostly green, though it is hard to distinguish whether they were that colour in the first place, or they are thus because of how worn and trodden they are. The young gnome, despite his young age, has obviously travelled far and wide. The gnome's first move is to draw an odd-looking paper lantern beaming a soothing eerie light, although it seems more like a hard-learnt reflex rather than out of present need. He steps forward, ignoring the warning issued by the elf, and attempts to climb on a large-capped toadstool mushroom to gain a somewhat better view. It is only a good half-minute later that he turns towards the other souls that woke beside him.
"Oi! Ye see this? 'Tis the First World! We gnomes come from there, or so I've been told - though the Elders would just bleach rather than admitting it, so busy that they are with they're almighty work." he snorts with disgust at that last word. He jumps back on to the mossy soil, and steps forward to graps the offered hand. "I'd be daft not to honor such a delightful flying creature's greetings. Well met, Clementine, I'm Farfadet, self-proclaimed king of myself, and free soul of the wilds. 'Tis good to see faeries such as you! Do you live here?" he wonders aloud.
Only then does he turn to the other people surrounding them. "Roots! How glad I am to see you here! I haven't seen you in like... wait... a good tenday or so. Fancy meeting you here! Oh, and you're also here Halrod, you are a welcome sight, friend." he greets with genuine warmth and friendliness. "Nidintu, is that you? Now I feel safer already! I see you have met with Halrod and Roots - they're great companions, also lone wanderers like me." he adds, nodding at the verdant warrior leaning on his massive maul.
He finally catches glimpse of Lani and Glitterbloom, and blinks twice. Then once more, at a loss for words. "Err, I, err... glad to meet you, miss! Farfadet, at your service." He stops abruptly, then raises an eyebrow, holding a finger at his lips playfully before winking at her. "'Tis a manner of speaking, of course, but still, I'm very glad to meet you!"
Farfadet then turns to lose himself in the sheer beauty of the wild nature surrounding him and his companions. "The nature here, dangerous? Luring, most certainly... I wonder what brought us here."
Lani smirks as Farfadet introduces himself. "I'd be careful who you pledge your service to, especially in this place. It may come at a cost you're not prepared to pay."
Her eyes narrow as she sees the lantern the other gnome bears. "Mm hmm. I thought he might have had something to do with this. I'll bet he's laughing at us as we speak. Never one to miss an opportunity for a joke, a jest, a jibe." She scans the surroundings, as if expecting something or someone to jump out and say "Boo!" at any moment.
"Ah, you are all here. Very good."
A slight rustling, then no sound at all as a figure alights from a high branch and settles into a comfortable squat as she regards those assembled before her. Lithely muscular, with chestnut brown skin that gleams like polished wood, she tips her head to one side, black braids rolling off her shoulder to hang almost to her waist. Her face is all angles and planes, a strong brow and thick eyebrows like slashes from an inked brush shadowing narrow eyes that slant upwards, the pupils glowing amber. Her wide mouth quirks up at one corner as she rises, clad in only a loincloth, with a panther skin slung across her shoulders. As she begins walking - or rather padding, like a cat would, slow and measured and supremely self-assured - it becomes apparent that the black hide melds to her back, and it is difficult to tell where skin becomes fur and vice-versa.
"Welcome."
She halts, yellow eyes pausing on one, then another, then another, still smiling lopsidedly (although it is difficult to tell if it is a friendly smile).
"I am supposed to... what is the word. The thing you do with questions." She half-closes her eyes. "But I don't feel like it." Smoothly, she turns on one heel, all her movements precise and efficient and suggestive of practiced control.
"Follow me. They are short a few extras, and the play is starting soon."
Roots-Sink-Deep smiles at the surprise reunion. The Root leshy moves about, offering his hand, bowing in greeting, and offering advice on floral arrangements.
Lani! It has been ages (or a few weeks) since I was privileged to be in your company! Farfadet! Swinging that lantern like a dancer swings his ass! Well met! Halrod! Did you think I could grow my ears like that? Nidintu! My what a big maul you got! Can I try? Clementine! Ooh! Your wings are beautiful! I don't have wings. But I have Erastil 's bow!
The Leshy then stands on a billowing yellow flower, as it rises and falls gently.
I am Roots-Sink-Deep! Hunter for Erastil! Defender of the wilds! Protector of the innocent!
The Root leshy bows gallantly.
At the sudden and strange appearance of the Cat-lady, Roots stops speaking. He patiently awaits for her to finish her prancing and directing before shouting
The small leshy just blinks innocently at her.
Nidintu adjusts his large spectacles as he recognizes a few acquaintances among the gathered group. He stands about seven feet tall, and the metal armor he wears is scuffed and dented with age but appears to be well-cared-for. Underneath, he wears simple, roughly-woven clothing, with a variety of unadorned items distributed around the pack at his feet. The one exception to the overall theme of practical utility is the compass at his side, an ostentatious, elaborate affair which seems to have two needles. His pointed ears mark him as an elf - to some extent - but his backwards-curving horns, sharp teeth, and pointed tail suggest a fiendish ancestry. His yellow eyes almost seem to glow against his grey skin.
"Farfadet? It's good to see you, my friend. I'm glad to see that you at least didn't think I was mad when I told you about my dream."
He raises one eyebrow as he addresses Roots-Sink-Deep. "And greetings to you as well, my... excitable brother in faith. Unfortunately, after the regrettable incident with Mrs. Taravax's prize-winning pumpkins, I am disinclined to give you a blunt instrument. I understand that parts of her cottage are still orange."
As the mysterious woman appears, Nidintu turns to face her and waits in silence as she speaks, then whispers to Farfadet as she leaves. "You seem to know more about this world than I do, my friend, so I have a question for you. Is everyone here completely mad, or just our feline visitor?"
<It's only madness if you're a mortal,> thinks Halrod, thinking of the strange half-logic of every encounter with fairies in Golarion. <By their lights, we're the mad ones.>
Having his bow in his hand makes Halrod feel more assured. The creatures of the First World may be capricious and cruel, but an arrow through the heart will do the same thing to them as any mortal. Provided they had hearts.
He follows along behind the woman, wondering at her final words.
Farfadet's silent reverie ends with the sudden appearance of the cat lady, whom the gnome listens to casually, his thoughts still lingering on the feeling of purpose buried deep within him at this precise moment. One of Nidintu's words, however, makes him snap out of it instantly. "Mad, you say? There's no such thing as mad here. Only fleeting words, lingering feelings that may or may not counterdict each other. This is the First World, a universe both permanent and impermanent at the same time - if it makes sense?" He bursts out laughing with a clear, high-pitched giggle. "I do sound mad, don't I? We'll have to get accustomed to it, my good friend. Forsake all seriousness here, yet don't forget it's a thing when we are inevitably confronted with the powers that be in this world. More importantly - follow the light." Farfadet concludes with great emphasis on his final word.
He brandishes his lantern, and follows the cat lady, his senses alert. Strangely enough, the soothing eerie radiance emitted appears to cause interference on his surroundings, as the limit between the light cast and the darkened out-of-reach corners seem to blur in a perpetual conflict.
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Lani is completely unsurprised when the feline fey makes her appearance. Glitterbloom trills a greeting as the glowing creature flitters about, eventually settling on Lani's shoulder.
When Farfadet moves to follow, Lani does as well, a wry smile pulling up the corners of her lips. "Hmm. Perhaps the play's the thing to learn the game plan of the King."
The woman stops walking at the question from Roots-Sink-Deep, heaving a huge sigh and turning to face the leshy. "So impatient." She narrows her eyes at him and sniffs in his direction. "You are a very young one, so I will allow you the questions." Her gaze loses focus for a moment as she seems to ponder something, then she speaks again. "Names. Hm. I have a few, and I have been called by many more. The one you can have is Kilava."
She grins as she takes a step closer, revealing white teeth and slightly-too-long canines. "As to my 'cape'..."
The air around her shimmers, sembles, stretches - like a heat mirage. The eyes and mind cannot fully follow what is happening, but one moment the woman is standing there, and the next there is a large black panther, a very large black panther, yellow eyes trained on Roots-Sink-Deep. She flicks her tail back and forth - once, twice - then turns and begins padding away, the sleek fur rippling with the movement of powerful muscles underneath.
The propped up Root leshy nods at every word that the cat lady says.
Nice to meet you, Kilava! I am Roots-Sink-Deep! Erastil 's hunter and protector the the land.
Roots stops. He looks around at the current landscape.
This one too!
The young leshy then smiles, hops down and follows.
What's a play?
"What's a play?"
"The play's the thing, according to... Lani, was it?" Clementine's large brown eyes sparkle with glee as he swings down from his perch and follows Kilava. "It's also what children do for fun - some adults too, I believe. Like a game of catch-the-tiger or put-the-tail-back-on-the-lizard. Or perhaps it refers to some part of a great strategy between two opposing forces? Oh! I know!" He claps his hands delightedly. "It's a bunch of folks acting out a story! And if they do it while standing on books, then it's a play on words!"
"It is like a good song, only with movement," says Halrod.
Striding along the beautiful, Sparkling, breathing foliage, Roots-Sink-Deep turns his expressive blue eyes up at Clementine, as the giggling sprite begins to float fantastically down.
Catch-the-tiger or put-the-tail-back-on-the-lizard? My what violent things to have as a hobby! How dare folks trespass on the rights and dreams and appendages!
The small leshy begins pulling out some chalk and a piece of flat dead tree bark.
GIVE me their names. I will search them out once our vacation here is ended!
The Root leshy seems serious.
As Roots-Sink-Deep and Clementine argue, Nidintu stands to one side, lost in thought. Eventually, he speaks. "My brother Vanrith once told me of a philosopher, Nabonidus of Astrabad, who claimed that there was no greater play than life itself, and that we mortals are unwitting actors performing for the entertainment of the gods." He shrugs. "I initially dismissed this as one of my brother's many eccentricities - he was quite the lā rāš tašīmti sometimes - but this place makes me wonder if we are indeed characters in some divine tale, the grand sum of all the comedies and tragedies that ever were."
After a moment of hesitation, he begins to follow Kilava.
Farfadet's thoughts race as he follows Kilava, lantern in hand. A play! Wonders abound in this place. I wonder what it's about, or whether we'll maybe even get to play in it! And look at her, so gracile and imperious. A true fey indeed! This is your chance, Farf', don't mess this up. You're among amazing people, off to amazing adventures. So keep the pranks to a minimum and try to fit in for once, mother would say. Hah! That would be the right thing to do, but would it be the fun one?
Farfadet attempts to know more about what's expecting them. "A play, you say? That's exciting! May we know who or what this is about? Or who will play the main part? I remember a play enacted by the famed Dandelion, the Taldan favourite of the crown. Never had I seen something so moving and spectacular!"
Following in the wake of the feline fey leads the group to a clearing full of clamor. Sprites, nymphs, satyrs, brownies, leprechauns, melixies, naiads, grigs, pixies and many more are scampering about in a whirlwind of activity as leshies, drovovoi and dryads are shaping saplings and bushes into something resembling a stage.
A copper-skinned nymph bathed in sunlight (despite the green-tinged penumbra of the forest) and clad in loose and airy silks that layer yellows, oranges and reds seems to be orchestrating the semi-organized chaos. It is her that Kilava approaches, stopping a few paces away and sembling again into her humanoid form.
"You needed help? I brought some..." She turns to regard the assembled group, yellow eyes narrowing as if trying to find a proper classification. "I think most of them are mortals. -Ish."
The nymph whirls around, eyes blazing with golden light. "Oh! Helpers! How kind." She touches one hand to her chest, the nails painted a cherry red. "I am Cerise, the director of this play. And stage manager. And mistress of ceremonies. And, something to do with costumes? Anyway." She sweeps her other hand towards the glade. A few paces away, a half dozen sprites are swarming around a nymph, applying colored powders to her face and body in what seems to be an attempted approximation of what a human woman wood look - the result is decidedly uncanny. Cerise leans forward, bringing one hand near her mouth in a stage whisper. "It's a play about mortals. But we are having some difficulty with... err, reference material. I would be ever so grateful if you could help us."
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Posed to prose the persons possibly positioned to be pardoned from perversed proclivities, the Root leshy pauses.
Apologies, Clementine, but is it possible, perhaps, professionalisms prevent procuring said impostors of positive purpose?
Roots-Sink-Deep winks.
The proud privileged private in Erastil's employment pauses. Viewing the wonderment of visions of Sprites, nymphs, satyrs, brownies, leprechauns, melixies, naiads, grigs, pixies and many more are scampering about in a whirlwind of activity as leshies, drovovoi and dryads are shaping saplings and bushes into something resembling a stage, the Druid produces a proud smile.
What were we discussing? Probably not important. Now where do we fit in?
Blue eyes growing quite big at the approach of the copper-skinned nymph bathed in sunlight (despite the green-tinged penumbra of the forest) and clad in loose and airy silks that layer yellows, oranges and reds, the Root leshy quickly brushes any stray debris from his person. He whispers to Clementine.
How's my hair look?
Halrod bows gallantly to the nymph. "Lady, it would be a pleasure. Has your play a name?"
<I think I was gallant, right? I mean, it feels right. At least some times I was?>
Nidintu steps forward and addresses the incongruously-illuminated fey. "We are indeed mortal, Miss Cerise! For a certain definition of mortal, that is. As the famed theologian Uru-Agais once said, 'if you prick us, do we not bleed?'" He surveys his fellows before amending his statement. "Or at least ooze a moderately convincing substitute?"
"Regardless, my point is that I would be more than willing to help with your play. What assistance do you require?"
“ How's my hair look?”
“Like a snowbank at noon on midsummer.” Clementine winks up at the leshy and grins. His gaze wanders to the sprites fluttering around the nymph, and his cheerful expression stiffens ever so slightly.
"Oh, this should be good," Lani says wryly as she surveys the whimsical scene. The two elves have already agreed to the nymph's request, so the gnome simply nods in agreement.
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"A name?" Cerise raises a finger to her lips, nibbling on it thoughtfully. "Ah! I think I shall call it 'The True And Unadulterated Tale of Prince Clanar And The Wicked Maid'."
Cerise claps her hands. "Alright! Final rehearsal!" She looks around the clearing, searching for something, or someone. "Where has he gone?" she mutters, stamping one foot. "He knows we're rehearsing." Cerise waves a hand airily. "No matter. You, the mortal with the pointy ears. You shall play Prince Clanar. Your role is to be tall and look princely and mysterious." She indicates Halrod, then begins pacing back and forth, the sunny spotlight following her.
"Alright, so you are a prince of mortals, very powerful, handsome and so on. And single!" Cerise punctuates that particular aspect by stabbing her index finger upwards. "The other pointy ears mortal shall be your bodyguard and confidante." She nods at Nidintu-Bel. "Your advisors and your subjects want you to marry a queen from a good family, wise and kind. but then she..." Another stabbing finger, this time pointed at the nymph getting her make-up done. "She uses forbidden magics to charm you and make you fall for her, because she wants to be the queen even though she is just a lowly maid." A grimace on the last few words, as if Cerise has bitten into a ripe apple only to find a worm inside.
She whirls towards the rest of the group. "You can be the advisors, attendants, pages, messengers. Whatever you like. And remember, this is supposed to an authentic depiction of mortals, so no glamours or fey magic or anything!" She claps again, raising her voice to be heard above the conversations and shouts ringing across the glade. "Alright, everybody, PLACES!"
Farfadet is flabbergasted at the whole scene, and at first his cheeks grow reddish at the perspective of being on stage. Thoughts race through him, then suddenly a bright smile illuminates his childlike visage, as if seeing something he hadn't before. He immediately sets off to enter the stage first, moved by inspiration and sheer enthusiasm.
Feys acting like...us? Oh, the irony! Do they marvel over us as we do over them? Let us play along, and we shall see what comes of it!
"My good master, where are you hence? Where have you gone? Have you fallen for the charms of some passing girl? 'Tis I, your faithful Baldric! Egad, where has the scoundrel fled? To the petticoat of a mere wench, no doubt! He needs me more than ever- If the Queen learns of that, my good Prince is done for! We have worked so hard for this union to happen." Farfadet runs in an erratic manner to and fro, looking everywhere, raising curtains before dropping them, acting ever bit the comic relief of the play. "What's more, where are my good companions, trusted advisors of the Prince? I shall find them and return."
Winking at Clementine, straightening his muted green branches and shaking any dead leaves of his dark chestnut brown polished trunk, Roots-Sink-Deep approaches Cerise.
Sweeping his branches out to either side, bowing low, blue eyes staying focused on the nymph, the gallant-sounding Root leshy begins reciting
dazzling;
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the
orchard;
Give me a field where the unmow'd grass grows;
Give me an arbor, give me the trellis'd grape;
Give me fresh corn and wheat—give me serene-moving
animals, teaching content;
Give me nights perfectly quiet, as on high plateaus west
of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars;
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers,
where I can walk undisturb'd;
Give me for marriage a sweet-breath'd woman, of whom
I should never tire;
Give me a perfect child—give me, away, aside from the
noise of the world, a rural domestic life;
Give me to warble spontaneous songs, reliev'd, recluse
by myself, for my own ears only;
Give me solitude—give me Nature—give me again,
Roots finishes with another grand bow, his blue expression leshy eyes big and saucer-like.
Been working on that forever (or like 2 weeks)!
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As Nidintu moves towards the stage, he takes the script offered to him by a brownie with a nod of gratitude, quickly finding his part - Rab Kadanu, the prince's bodyguard - and reading the current text of Cerise's play. His eyebrows raise as a passage catches his eye. I see here that I die in Scene Two... and apparently again in Scenes Seven, Eight, and Eleven? He flips back and forth between the relevant pages, trying to make some sense of the seemingly contradictory directions. Little wonder the fey need help learning how to be mortal...
Entering from stage right with long, quick strides, Nidintu begins to speak. "Prince Clanar! Where are you, my lord?" Throwing up his hands in exasperation, he paces back and forth across the stage, growing more and more agitated with each line. "When the impenetrable fortress at Urkesh rebelled against Prince Clanar, he stood firm! When the Seven-Headed Beast of Tell Mozan turned its wrath upon him, he held his ground! When the vast armies of Quataban and Aswan stood united against him, he did not falter!" He shakes his fist in the air to emphasize this last point, then slumps, defeated. "There is only one foe that can cause his invincible resolve to waver - marriage. Lady Trezibond is a wise and just ruler, and under her guidance, the province of Galatia has prospered, but the prince spends his days as if in a torpor, his thoughts elsewhere. After besting all foes from without, is he now to fall victim to his melancholy?" He exits stage left, continuing his search for the prince.
The light falls upon Prince Clanar, alone in his chamber, a framed image of Lady Trezibond in his hands. The distant sounds of his retainers' calls echo in the wings. "I that did the Dukes of Manipoor enchain so that they rail and rave ever in their subterranean gaol, shall I tremble before one no more dangerous than a moonbeam? Yet in moonbeams there may oft lie dangers unseen, methinkst. For the gleam of her eye, the curve of her smile do unman me, all like a coward."
Prince Clanar strides to the window and looks out into the moonlit night. "Vouchsafe me, you gods, but a tenth of that courage in this matter that you have visited upon this my heart in battle, and I shall be well-answered! But hark, here comes my bodyguard Rab Kadanu, and my good counselors calling for me. They shall speak wisdom to me, as they have always done."
Lani and Glitterbloom enter the stage alongside the others. The gnome wears a floppy hat and oversized spectacles as she peers out at the audience.
"Hail to thee, Prince Clanar. 'Tis I, the court wizard, Cicerone. Hark, come hither, and give heed, for the air rife with the stench of dark magic. Mark me! Something wicked is at work here. Something rotten maligns your mind. We must discern the source, that it may be pruned afore it begins to fester. For the sake of the kingdom, my lord!"
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Farfadet returns on stage, one step behind Lani, mimicking her gestures in a comical manner, as if to emphasize how serious the court wizard takes themselves. His face contorts and pouts, grimacing at every sentence. As soon as Lani appears to turn and check what's going on behind her back, he stops and gazes at the stars, pointing at them innocently.
"A hard truth, My Prince! The stars here reveal that a shadow, whether o' the mind or occult, has a dark hold over you. Search your soul, my lord, for what shakes your resolve anon. But behold! The celestial bodies above us warn against a lingering..."
I dare not say it! This grueling pain lingers in... Should we prune it indeed? He then makes a grossly feinted shocked face, putting both hands to cover his own loins, then chuckles, and shifts back to a serious demeanor.
"Wherever it may be, consider what is at stake, My Prince, for the realm shall not suffer this situation any longer! The reason of state dictates that a fruitful alliance should be concluded."
"My Lord!" Clementine rushes onto the stage with a winged helmet perched atop his head and a rolled-up piece of what was probably supposed to pass for parchment, but is clearly tree bark held in both hands like a log. "My Lord Prince Clanar! I bear a missive from Her Majesty Queen Trezibond, sealed with her ring and her kiss. She bid me return with your response post-haste!" Carefully he winds himself up, then heaves the "parchment" towards the elf's face. Or midsection - both being pretty far up there for the sprite.
Roots-Sink-Deep watches in awe his fellow thespians performance. His expressive blue eyes following whomever is speaking, gesturing, dancing while pouring forth words glittering and Sparkling to the innocent Root leshy.
Dressed in bark-made armor of a Knight, the small leshy's mouth moves, following the manuscript in his hands. As Clementine delivers his missive, the knight marches onto the stage.
My Prince! The most terrible of fates! The peasants persist to prevade the populace of the palace! Protec us all, my Prince!
The Root leshy finishes his speech. His blue eye roaming to see how Cerise response ....
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Halrod goggles at all this, being indeed no trained thespian. But perhaps his open-mouthed hesitation might be taken for acting... by someone with little experience of mortals. He barely catches the scroll tossed to him by Clementine, bobbling it a little, a sure sign that the nimble elf is surprised.
"Um... Right." He stares at his companions, uncertain.
"Princess, Dark omens and um, peasants? Uh, yes. Clementine, take a note! Tell the Princess that I am delayed by omens and, um, uproar. Tell her that no wise prince pursues love while his realm is uncertain, for there would be no safety for his beloved. Ooh! Tell her, that I seek her wisdom in unraveling the truth of Farfadet's occult omens and beg her to send me her best advice with haste. Don't, uh, mention the part about me being uncertain. Women, I am reliably informed like letters but not hesitation."
"Roots-sink-Deep my good, uh, knight? Inform the peasants that I shall meet with them as soon as I hear from my... from the Lady Trezibond and that ill omens and curses lay upon the castle so they'd better retire, um, anon."
He looks at Lani. "Did I cover it all, good Cicerone? Will this ado make all my troubles to interfere each with the others? For certes I could use a span of minutes to think!"
Nidintu watches his fellow thespians impassively, his (often unwilling) participation in his brother's plays helping him adapt to the situation. Certainly more cheery than Vanrith's plays - I understand that several of the actors in The Tragedy of the Spiral Seal are still having nightmares.
"A wise decision indeed, Prince Clanar - one truly worthy of Her Grace Lady Trezibond!" "Rab Kadanu" turns to the audience to deliver an aside. "A skillful imitation, to be sure, but one born of infatuation or desperation? Ah, but 'tis not my place to say!"
Clementine makes an exaggerated show of writing something down on an invisible page, then tips his winged helmet to “the prince” and bounds offstage.
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Lani nods sagely, adjusting her spectacles. "Yea, verily, and forsooth!" she says.
Saluting smartly (knocking his wooden helmet off his head to the floor and scrambling to retrieve it).
At once, my Prince!
The fumbling Root leshy knight trips off stage.
The nymph blinks at the leshy's recitation, then smiles blindingly. "Oh, darling, I can give you the sun, absolutely. You seem very young, so you may not know this, but I am exactly the right person to talk to about sun and summers!" She gives a curtsy, her silks flowing around her, and Roots-Sink-Deep gets a waft of sun-scorched grasses. "I am a summer hora, and the summer solstice is my demesne, when the sun is at its most powerful. I'm not sure what all those other things you asked for are, but I'm sure we can figure out something."
Cerise claps her hands in delight. "You are all SO good! I knew it was a brilliant idea to invite subject matter experts!" She puts one hand to her cheek as she gives Halrod a head-to-toe look. "And you are much better at being Prince Clanar than Hanith - I'm sorry, darling, I know he's your brother, but he's just so stiff!" The latter is addressed to Kilava, who has made herself comfortable under a tree and responds with a toothy smile. "Speaking of, where has he gone? Midsummer is almost here and this is our last rehearsal! I absolutely must have this play turn out perfectly!"
Her gaze roams the glade again, searchingly. "Well, I'm sure he's fine." Cerise snaps her fingers at the nymph playing the wicked maid. "Is your make-up done? Let me see." She tilts the nymph's face this way and that, puffs of coloured powder drifting off as the almost clownish face paint flakes away. "Yes! Perfect! Isn't she perfect? Doesn't her character just scream 'I'm a wicked temptress with ambitions far beyond my station'? Yes, you are, darling, yes you are." She gives the nymph a slight shove towards the stage. "Now, let me see you in action!"
The nymph sashays onto the stage, her every movement exaggerated in an almost comical rendition of a sensuous and duplicitous creature, frequently pausing to tap her fingers together while smiling evilly to herself, a caricature of a plotting villain. As she comes across Halrod on stage, her demeanour abruptly shifts, and she clutches at her heart with one hand, while the other is raised against her forehead dramatically.
"Oh, my lord! My light! My life! What is this I hear? That you are to be married? Say it is not so, for I could not bear to lose you to another! I shall climb the highest tower in the castle and throw myself from its highest window!' She begins to fall forward, stepping at the last moment and looking like she's about to collapse. "You promised me, my prince, that I would be your wife, that I would be queen!"
"Did I indeed, Lady?" asks Prince Clanar, reaching with not entirely feigned chivalry to support her.
"Thou art sweeter to me than a day in Spring and in thy arms I find a peace I have not known hitherto. Yet I have a duty to perform. Even a prince is not above duty. Nay, a prince is yet more straitly bound by duties than any man of lesser station. We are but actors on the stage and each must play his part. Mine is to be wed, will I or nil I."
"But let not thy heart be troubled, for thou shalt not be cast aside, wanting. A castle thou shalt have, and jewels. Silks and servants at thy bidding and knights to bear thy arms. A great lady thou shalt be and I shall admire you from afar. Is this not sufficient reason to stay thy hand and go not to the window?"
He looks at the nymph in his arms and the ridiculous thickness of her make-up, but sees the eyes of the real person beneath and stares into them, more than a little overcome in truth. He blinks and shakes his head to clear it.