:: Aramil :: "All I ask is that you convince her to speak with me, Master Aramil. I do not expect to entirely convince you; you are not a gnome, to know the matter to its deepest root. I certainly do not expect to entirely convince her; she is a gnome, and about the only one I might have a chance of thoroughly convincing is a gnome themselves caught in the throes of the Bleaching. But ..." Nymaah gives a sad sort of smile. "If I can speak with her, in private, and with you - a voice of logic - at her side, well then maybe a step or two can be taken towards understanding and tolerance."
OOC:
This is definitely a trust exercise between leader and cohort, I agree - and then an exercise in Porablum trying to sound 100% convinced when she feels only 51%, as it were.
I think that Aramil's best chance to get Porablum to talk to Nymaah would be to try to play up the 'tragic hero' side of the bleachling reputation, and reassure her that he's got her back and will be right behind her every second. Once she gets there, of course, we need to get her from 10% convinced that bleaching isn't a catchable disease up to 51% convinced that this bleachling at least is going to be stowed away out of sight (and well out of touch) in some remote monastery.
And then, armed with that dubious and partial confidence, Porablum gets to turn around and convince the other gnomes to basically take a step back. ;)
:: Aramil ::
Nymaah looks beyond at the Aldori present that you and she can see. "A poor example, I think," she replies; "they wear their obsession on their sleeve, and keep their honor and temper in the same scabbard as their sword. For all that, it is not a poor question.
"But alas, passion suggests foolishness, focus without greater awareness. Awareness of the elements that press upon your concern, that influence your decisions; awareness of the flow of life, of the consequences of a decision, both near and far. My few kindred and I ... because of this suggestion, this implication of foolishness, I cannot confess to having anything that we - I - am passionate about. But there is a concept shared from ancient times by both dwarves and elves, though I am certain that if you asked them about it, they would deny it to their deaths; it may have its roots in the concern for the world that in time became the druid's pursuit - passion, if you will. In Taldan, I think it would best translate as 'necessary balancing'."
The bleachling gnome takes her hands out of her sleeves and, holding them palm upwards, imitates scales. "The world has balance, I am certain you would agree; too much of one thing, whether that is of structure or of chaos, of idealism or of selfishness, and inevitably death follows - death of living beings, yes, but soon the death of the very world on we stand. The Worldwound is an excellent example of this imbalance - and one which must be corrected. Others of my kind address the balance through the druidic philosophy and art; I, through patient education of those around me." She gives a slight smile in which the echoes of the winsomeness of her gnomish youth still flit. "Such as through our conversation.
"But what does this mean for me? And you? And them?" Her pale grey hand gestures towards the mayhem of her gnomish brethren. "Only that I seek, along with the others of the Silver River, to create a place of contemplation, of philosophic debate, of education and meditation - and mediation," she adds, once again with a hint of whimsey. "They seek to cast me out; I seek to be 'cast out', into the monastery we hope to found. Behind its walls, I would be out of their sight and, should they manage it, out of their minds." She looks towards their group, and adds, "I doubt many would manage it, but the condition is not, after all, catching - only inevitable, the way all age is."
She looks up at you, then asks, "Think you that I can persuade your compatriot Porablum of this, should you bring her over?"
:: Aramil :: "It is as much a condition as any maturation is, Master Wellys," the monk says with serenity. "And forgive me, I did not introduce myself. Azaneth Nymaah of the Silver River Monasteries." She holds out a gnome-small but almost paper-like hand (in color and, should you shake it, a certain amount of dryness and texture, too), afterwards tucking them back into her sleeves. "There are few who do know much about it, Master Wellys," she continues. "I used to think as they did. Bleaching was death, and to stave it off - the way the fore-kin of the gnomes forever do in the First World - is to remain alive. And the truth bears some similarity to that thought, but their idea is a glistening puddle left after a spring rain, while the truth is a deepwater lake fed by both snowmelt and hot springs - so much more complex, and yet in perfectly attuned balance."
She seems a little sad as she looks past you, towards the agglomeration of gnomes hidden by the dozens of people (and, yes, monks) between the three of you and them. "But the belief that bleaching is death is the belief of a child who thinks that growing up is their death. Alas, for most it is, for this belief is set so deep in my kind that they give up the will to live as they reach the very cusp of maturity." First her eyes, then her face shifts to face your own. "Do not all children have their obsessions, Master Wellys? I have seen it in humans and elves, in orcs and goblins, in puppies and cats. Do not all adolescents crave adventure and new experiences? Even the dwarfs and the dragons, the giants and kobolds, the pony and the horse seek to explore and discover their world. But only gnomes feel that to give up their obsession, to become mature is to have that world end. And so ..." Her hand emerges to make a gesture of offering, silently proferring the end result: that nearly all Bleaching gnomes die.
Returning the hand to its concealment once more, she states, "I cannot perfectly describe to you how I felt; perhaps if I could, I might help other gnomes through the process. For me, though, there was a moment of ... silence, perhaps. Or clarity. Balance might be a word that nears the mark. There was such vast sorrow for all that I felt I had lost, my fascination for the knowledge of the universe. And yet, at that moment ..." She pauses as a cheer goes up across the room, a continuation of the intermittent hoots and hollars of whatever drinking game or contest whomever it is has going. "At that moment," she says in a voice almost too hard to hear, "I knew that such focus was blinding me to so many other things."
:: Aramil ::
The monk leads the magus past the cluster of monks (here, six or seven of them, most with their hoods drawn back to expose their faces) and further through the crowd to where a pair of monks stand, one tallfolk and one smallfolk, both of them with their hoods concealing their faces, their hands in their sleeves. As Aramil arrives, the shorter one exposes pale hands and lifts them to its hood, drawing the grey cloth back to expose a gnome's visage - gnome, but leached of color and liveliness, the things that make Porablum such a vivacious companion. Not quite white, the middle-aged gnome - female, you are fairly certain - has more of a faintly grey skin tone and hair color, the latter of which looks to be long and simply kept, perhaps in a basic braid.
"Master Aramil," says the bleachling with a dispassionate distance to her voice, as if she were reading a particularly boring tax list. "Thank you for agreeing to come see me. And thank you for your attempt at defending me." She nods to the monk who led you here, who bows and withdraws back into the crowd. The other monk, still hidden in the deep hood, hands within sleeves, remains silently at her shoulder. "While my presence, my existence, is something that makes most gnomes upset, I hope to convince you, and with you convince your compatriot, that The Inevitable" -- and you can almost hear the capitalization -- "is not actually a contagion."
