Merisiel

Lolenthiel's page

22 posts. Alias of Drakli.


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"A bit of advice," Lolenthiel glances aside at Karrin, "If it's about the potential end of the world, ask for clarification."


Lolenthiel was nowhere to be seen when the world went old. She fades back into view now, unravelling in reverse, like a Cheshire Cat sans the smile. If anything, she might look solemn.

Despite missing the toast, she reaches for her discarded cup of cider, and says, "Arnesen. Gygax." before downing the whole thing.

"Temporal spacial anomalies disturb my already unfocused dimensional stability." she offers in a slight slur, by way of explanation.


Lolenthiel's antenna writhe slowly, her equivelent of a thoughtful expression. She waves a spoon vaguely in Sharinda's general direction, "I've always thought of them as more like hallways, where the Heavens, Hell, Mechanus, the Prime are all just rooms. But I suppose people don't usually build waystations or cities inside hallways." That said, she proceeds to attack a bowl of cooled soup.

"... my analogies always break down. Usually when I try to find a similie for infinite space or alien entities no sane mind can describe."


Lolenthiel replies, "A rogue transitive plane with variable or infinite dimensions... and a greater than average sense of hospitality." Her feelers, more or less of their own initiative, seem to be trying to smell one of the bowls of soup Sharinda placed on the table, "It seems to attract those who... aren't tied down to their homeworlds."


Lolenthiel lowers her head toward the table so she can look Hoptoy in the eye more respectfully, "My thought was on similar environmental demands providing similar adaptive responses from different entities, but that's true, that's true, there is evidence of a connection, whether one way or another, between the... spiritual planes and the material. Which way it goes, that depends on who wishes to feel more important. The gods created all, and all comes from their hand, so they say." If her eyes weren't flat black, like bug's eyes, she might roll them.

She does tilt her head up toward Maelfaar and she notes, "I wish my familiar was more interested in planar philosophy. She spends most of her time trying to pretend she's still a cat."

Idly, she turns her head over toward the newcomer(s), "Oh, do come over and sit down... we don't bite." She hesitates, "Except maybe the goblin... Or the inkeeper." glancing at snake-eyed Mitchfer.


Lolenthiel regards Maelfaar's familiar thoughtfully a moment, her feelers wriggling on their own, and she addresses the mutant toad directly, "Why do frogs look like slaad? Why do goblins look like dretches? No reason, no reason I know except that swimming through muck is like swimming through chaos, and short, brutal lives are very like short, brutal eternities."

She adds, "Frogs taste better than slaad."

That said, she reaches out nudges her cup slightly in Witchbrand and Sharinda's general direction, "I recommend the sweet cider." The pale insect-like woman might be slightly tipsy. She looks robust for an elf-creature, but is rather drifty, "Why don't you try some and I'll have the water?"


In greeting to Witchbrand, Lolenthiel turns her head slightly from contemplating a scroll in her lap to reply in a low, croaking tongue. It sounds as if she's trying to talk through a crushed windpipe with a bellows.

<<Exploding bellies speak of the happiness of my hated sister brother daughter son as blue swirls with red>>*

After a moment, she explains, "A traditional Slaadi greeting. Translated roughly, it means Nice to meet you."

Pausing thoughtfully, she adds, "Translated more strictly, it means... well, something less pleasant, I suppose."

----

* Translated for characters who speak Slaad, and the viewers at home.


Lolenthiel gives Malfaer a blank look, "I do not sleep." She's good at blank looks, but there is a touch of embarrassment there, if one knows where to find it.

Very precisely, she picks up the mostly empty cup of cider, and puts it as far away from her as she can reach.

Her feelers drift vaguely, listing toward the newcomer, "That must be a remarkable... pie. And I think most goblins don't look as smart as they are. A survival trait?"


The familiar glances up at Karrin with the calculating consideration felines (and otherworldly horrors) like to believe they possess.

At last, she decides the teifling probably won't eat the blue mouthful, or let the goblin.

Good. That's resolved, then.

Her "future dinner" saved, the bug-cat hops off the table and proceeds to set herself to the important task of investigating Maelfar's bag of monkey-head, trying to bat at it insolently with her quasi-locust-like paws.

Lolenthiel drifts out of her tipsy trance, mumbling a word salad in Goblinish. Something about baby toes marinaded in candle-wax winning a contest of wills.

"Did I miss anything?" she says, at last. She looks up at Raizen with unblinking, empty, black eyes, and says, "Oh. Hello."


Lolenthiel, it should be noted, might be a light-weight. Either that, or her slightly insectoid physiology might react more strongly to intoxication from fruit-based alcohols than most other sources.
Or her player might sometimes space out on Bulletin Boards from time to time. Sorry. ^-^;
Either way, she seems to be in a slight state of doze or drunken reviere from that second cup of cider, one of her feelers drooped into the cup.

Her greenish, winged cat seems to be paying attention, though. The familiar's been watching Traveller Sm*rf with an air of calculated dis-interest, as if he's much less appetizing than the sashami she daintily picked apart or the turkey she's been considering trying to steal bits from.

But she can't have the goblin trying to stake feeding rights on the little blue morsel. Oh no.

The alien feline meows noisily and hisses at Brinkt, staring with six bug-like eyes.


She pauses slightly, regarding Karrin quietly for several long moments as she asks several questions and makes several statements. Finally, the elf says, "You're very verbose."

She adds, "I cannot be entirely sure about this other world. I might not have walked it. I might have dreamed it while caught between spaces." not that elves exactly dream, but she's not exactly normal either.

Smiling thinly at Sharinda, she takes the cider and sips at it gently, "As for anecdotes...." she pauses and narrows her glassy black eyes slightly at O.L.L.I., musing over this, "In the Far Realms, there is a beast a little like a wolf, a little like a crocodile lamprey, and rather like a spider... that has a most unique feeding habit. It fearlessly throws itself at prey, often perishing before creatures too strong for it. Through some form of temporal... loop, it later arrives at the site of battle again and devours its own remains. It stays full on its own paradoxical corpse."

Considering this, she adds, "The Far Realms are not for those who depend upon a sensible universe."


Considering Karrin's question, Lolenthiel replies, "I believe so. It was very cold. I have... involuntary planar dysphoria. I drift a bit... between the Far and the Near."

To Sharinda, she says, "My compliments on the cider," sipping from her mug, one of her feelers drooped almost all the way into the cup, as if drawn by the sweet scent of the brew, "May I have another?"


Incidentally, when Lolenthiel says something portentious (or pretentious) feel free to pass the salt. She could probably use a few grains. ;)


Lolenthiel gazes off into space... somewhere at a point just inside the turkey dinner, as if she's engaged in a staring contest with the ghost of its missing giblets.

When Karrin speaks, she snaps out of her involuntary reviere, looking to the tiefling, "Beyond the bleak gulfs of the void, on the dead world that watches from seven eons to the left of time. There is an an answer there, though I do not know the question."

As if that was just a cheery mealtime blessing, she smiles a little, and starts heaping food onto a a plate.


Malfaerr wrote:
I'd think that no one in their right mind would listen to me, but perhaps someone like Olli could warp anyone he came in contact with . . ."

Lolenthiel sighs gently, "My problem is generally that no one listens to me..." she looks piqued for a moment, nibbling gently at her apple, "Especially when I say, 'It's a bad idea.'"

She alternates between regarding OLLI and Malfaerr. There's burning curiosity flowing through the agitation of her feelers, but she seems to be anxious as well. Finally, she blurts out in Abyssal, <<I confess, I have a lot of questions of my own. You're the only other one like me I've ever met.>>

The rhyming/not-rhyming bit seems to have gone over her head.


Lolenthiel looks at the bag, narrowing her eyelids. Unbidden, her feelers lift to wave themselves in its general direction. Intriguing.

Then comes the stabbing. She deduces this to be a touchy subject, and grabs at her antenna, reeling them in and pretending to preen them delicately with her fingertips.

"The problem is... the problem is..." she drifts a bit, speaking Common, picking up one of the apples, "Knowledge isn't theoretical. It isn't abstract. It's physical, actual, and takes up space, on a scroll or in your mind. Let's say your mind is this apple. Taking Far Realms knowledge in your head, is like letting a grub live in this apple. It won't end well for the apple."

She pauses, and tilts her head at an odd angle, "Actually, I don't know if I need the apple for this metaphor. It's like letting a grub live in your real brain."

Crunch, she bites deep into the fruit.


As the winged cat nips and nibbles at the fish bits, Lolenthiel clucks out a few elven words to her insectile feline, that if translated, amount roughly to ~Who's a pretty kitty?~ In elfish, it sounds almost melodic, but the fact that her palatte seems to rather emphasise clicks and rasps gives it a weird edge.

To Traveller and Karin, she responds, "It's difficult to explain exactly... think of us as warriors comparing old battle scars, or emerged moths comparing wing patterns. It may disturb or confuse, to speak openly." Her voice has a vague not-quite-here softness, quite unlike the focused and utterly intent sharpness when she blurted the last few Abyssal words to O.L.L.I.

She leaves it to the Modron or Maelfarr to explain about the Great Old One beneath the sea.


"Thank you," the psuedo-elf takes the plates from Sharinda, and nods, "I will feed her. She bites." Her cat swoops down, and lands upon her shoulder, leaning insolently forward to peer at the fishy treats. There's a second... just a second, when she touches her mistress, that the cat looks almost like her fur is actually made of locust shell.

Lolenthiel starts to feed her familiar, <<Hunger for knowledge was always my strength, or my downfall, at first.>> Her empty eyes make it harder to read her, but to those of a Far touch, her antennae seem to have acquired a mellow and comfortable draping about them.

To O.L.L.I. she simply says, <<In that case, I recommend reading the wrong book.>> then, she fixes him with an intense, mantis-like stare, <<Only, I don't.>>

To the blue traveller, she replies back into her more drifty-toned voice, "Abyssal."

*<<>> translated from the Demon tongue.


She gives a slow nod. The motion causes her feelers to droop forward and then to the side, like parted bangs, "Well met all, at that." she sits, letting her forbidding tome and scrolls plunk heavily onto the table.

"Lolenthiel is enough. I'm not here on any business requiring a title..." her head tilts off to one side, and she stares at a point of empty space for a moment, the tips of her feelers jangling slightly, "... that I'm aware of."


Malfaerr wrote:


"Cthulhu fhtagn," she eventually says, her tone makes it sound like a question.

The pale elf starts to approach the table, then pulls up suddenly short. Her cat yowls from above, opening rather more eyes than it should have.

Lolenthiel's hair rustles like long grass with serpents slithering through it... and a pair of long, pale-green, jointed antennae emerge, arcing through the air, "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn," she chants slowly. She has very good diction, but it almost seems like an automatic, instinctive response, rather than a voluntary reply.

Her teeth snap together, with a click that sounds almost like insect mandibles. She shakes her head slightly, as if looking at Maelfarr for the first time, smiling slightly, "Oh. Hello. Do I know you already?"

To Mitchifer, she ohs, "That sounds delightful. A few apples for me, and can my friend up there get the sashami, please?"


She fixes a blank stare at Mitchifer. Just stares, for a long moment or two. Then,

"That ...sounds nice. Do you have any apples?"

She turns toward Saurig, "...Thank you. I'm known as Lolenthiel the Weird," and pauses, glancing around at all of the odd people around her, "...It's something of a professional title. I'm not claiming anything by it."


Skimming on wings covered in fur and feathers, a strange feline creature flies into the Inn, its sleek pelt a soft leafy green hue. Anyone native to the Realms that keep getting Forgotten might recognize it as a breed of flying cat known to be popular among elves there. It circles the room several times, looking for a likely perch... someplace high up, where it can look down on all the goings about. If there's a mantleplace, it lands there, to look down upon all of the 'mere mortals' in that smug way cats have.

A woman follows soon after, pale, so pale as to seem nearly an albino, with thick, flowing, silver hair. But her eyes are dark, without whites or pupils or iris... just glossy black orbs. Of course, she is an elf, (probably, though she's a bit robust for an elf) and some elves do have eyes like that. But hers look different, somehow... almost insect-like in the blankness of their stare. Clad in a gown that consists largely of a myriad, draped, light-green scarves, she clutches an overly thick tome and a series of frayed scrolls to her chest.

"This is not the Other Place." she speaks aloud, apropos nothing and to no-one in particular. She seems slightly in a daze, "It's... unexpectedly stable," stamping her heels against the floor. Her hair shifts, as if something alive squirms underneath it all, "How.... strange..."