vielle

Having fallen off the bus again until I've gotten wind of the announcement, I'm heading on here one last time to reminisce and say goodbye. I cannot thank Csl and my own lucky stars enough for introducing me to this site and all the wonders therewithin. The friends I've made and the people I've told stories with have been such a huge part of my life, it's ridiculous. Nearly four years here, and already, I've learned a lot about myself, grown so much in terms of writing that I'm often left agog when I compare the then and the now. Valucre is a home I'll never forget. I'm glad I got to be a part of the awesomeness that it was and is. Packing things away, turning off the lights, closing the door—moving on to another adventure has never been so bittersweet. This may be an end to an era, and there's time enough to grieve, but there's also something waiting on the other side of the gap, and it's going to be as good as we make it. And hell, but I've always been a sucker for new beginnings. I've headed over to PGRP to make a new home out of a new world, and I hope I get to see some of you there too. Thus to all, I say: farewell, farewell. We've had a good run. Thank you for the stories and the memories and the fun. Wherever we may go now, I hope you all flourish and thrive. And now, en avant. It's going to be a blast. 💖

Involving the Mork'Outh sounds good! I've written characters engaging with the Mork'Outh before, but not with the Conclave Tel specifically, so this should be fertile ground I'm looking forward to till. 😁

I'd definitely prefer a member of the Conclave Tel if we're doing it in Taen, so I can make use of local-based characters. 💖 If we're thinking of elsewhere, Hyacinth is who I'd like to go with. That being said—I am very inclined towards playing in Taen. 😂 But I'm up for whatever the group is up for too!

I love exploration-type stories and threads! 💖 If you'll have me, I'd like to put forward Hyacinth Vasilika. If this is happening specifically in Taen, I'd also like to put forward a member from the Conclave Tel, a spelunking salvage and adventuring group based in Taen wherein its collectors sell off their findings from the wild to the highest bidders (I've yet to make their organization sheet; will get on that very soon). 😊

/ MURIEL / When the stranger speaks, honeyed poison dripping with every word, Muriel is perturbed but not surprised. How many times has it been, this wearied dance at the ballroom, hot coals under bare feet? Her family, her upbringing, the glimmer of her intellect and her success and her goodwill: they are all viable barbs to tear at her skin, potential stumbling blocks that can be employed to make her falter. She may yet be inexperienced in all the ways their world works, but she knows a threat when she sees one, and she has been to this performance a hundred times before. Knows what to do in the shoes of her own role. (The Academy would not have let her survive without a little bit of dogged tenacity and a stiff upper lip.) This woman does not know just how much she has sacrificed. Does not know that the being wearing Muriel C. Grey's skin is as much a battle-hardened creature as she is—if not less elegant about it, more clumsy and devoted and forthright about her ill-advised possession of a tender heart and where she stands. Even as her life has been all but spelled out for her like an obstinate toddler, this stranger does not know her. She takes this fact as refuge, bleary lighthouse glare in the foggy chaos of this turbulent sea. Her eyes cannot see the harbor and the giant waves are threatening to drown her, but this: this is a glimmer in the gloom. When the chair is dragged in her direction by some unseen force, a phantom pressure she knows to be a knife aimed dangerously at her jugular, Muriel betrays nothing but the slow release of air from between the grooves of her teeth. Like a punctured balloon. (Her lungs aren't punctured yet.) She does not take a seat. A glass is handed over to her, and she grips it tight between her palms, willing the thundering of her heart to slow down. "You must really care for John... or really think he's going to carry you to much greater things. Out of curiosity, which is it?" "Both," she tells her, a bland smile painting the arch of her cupid's bow, "but I think that was obvious to you already." There is the sudden appearance of a vial with contents Muriel cannot trust, placed next to a knife. The sinking feeling in her chest is a yawning crater, now that she has suspicions on what is about to happen. You know pain, now, don't you? Muriel sneaks a glance towards John, asking a question that need not be verbalized, and then follows the woman's prompting, placing her fingers on the glass where it is instructed to go. (Her hand does not shake. She refuses it to.) ///

/ ARDÍS / The Archangel turns his attention towards her, and there. There it is, that itch growing desperate under the skin, the instinct of desertion she knows all too well: that broken thing in her bones that she cannot hope to fix, having strayed so far from the Sozdavanje, so fallen from Grace. Oh, but here is a trickle of doubt, now, in the aftermath of her wild maddened rush to try and mediate things between the Archangel and the Middling. It's a pebble thrown into the sea of her soul, ripples shaking her resolve. Is this Fallen worth this? She is not nearly as strong as she once had been before her exile, before her wings had been taken from her and the love in her chest had been burned away. Despite the considerable skill she still has to her name, she knows she is no match for a warrior Ang'eli operating at his best. The Middling is attempting to take his leave, but the Archangel refuses him. His power is palpable in air, a violent kiss of a spark against the skin. He demands he think and she come closer. She could leave him. She still could. All it takes is a murmured spell and the use of adrenaline pooling through her veins to bid a hasty retreat from this encounter. She could leave him and save her skin. (But she has not been built in the forges of her Creator to be heartless.) And so Ardís steps forward as she is bidden to, just enough to place her within the clearing but still far enough to be just barely out of reach should the other Archangel choose to attack. She stamps down the fires of fear in her belly, keeps her facade cool and composed as she glances between the two of them, her hand still tight against the hilt of her weapon. Now that she is closer to the other Archangel, she recognizes his vestments; the House of Válka stands above many others in Grad na Ang'eli because of their inclination towards war and defense. She does not remember who he is exactly nor whether they had known each other Above—her memories yet another part of her that had been wrestled from her being—but what she knows is enough to make the blood in her veins run cold. It is paramount to not only her survival but that of the Middling's that the Archangel calms his horses, as the mortal term goes. "If it is amenable to you," if you've any sense at all, "you would stand down." She fixes her gaze on the glow encasing his hand with light. "Perhaps you would do this as your own effort to preserve civility, as you say." @Ripley @L E V I A T H A N ///

/ HELENA ; BLACK ROOM / She notices the wandering of his focus before he deigns to answer her. It turns her head towards Willow, her gaze trailing the white fabric of her sleeves as it hangs in the air in the act of surrender. Such a shame; she would’ve wanted to pick through the lady’s mind for information on the cosmopolitan beyond, follow the scent of satiating curiosity like a bloodhound. Nevertheless, they are but strangers, and there are more paths to follow that might yield wealthier bounties. Perhaps their paths will cross again some other time. Helena returns her focus to the man before her. “Of course my lady; please drink your fill.” “Perhaps,” she demures, a tiny quirk at the edge of her lip as her gaze flickers towards the vampire doctor standing nearby. There is nothing to prevent her from taking what is duly offered on a silver platter, even when it seems a bit like trespassing. Still: she can afford to be generous if she applies herself. Helene steps forward and puts her mouth on his skin in the same place the Lord Father had fed on, displaying a show of restraint that vastly differs from her first meal. There is obvious proprietary here in this act of feeding, where there had been little to none with Willow. She had entwined herself around the woman, draped her folds against the cushions of soft flesh as she sucked crimson ichor from the veins; here, she maintains a polite distance, holds herself with considerable space between her meal and her body. Despite this, her grip on the man’s arm is iron; he will not move away without her say-so. It does not take too long—far shorter than Quinn’s own feeding—before she has her fill, retracting her fangs and straightening up tall. Helena plucks her handkerchief back from the man’s grasp, dabs lightly at the corner of her mouth as her gaze flits back between the woman and her meal. A most curious thing, really. She takes note of the dazed look in the man’s eyes that have nothing to do with his latest feeding, takes note of the vampiress’ focus turned inward in reflection of recent events. “So,” Helena begins, clasping her handkerchief tight between her two palms, “if I may pry and you are willing to indulge me, I find myself curious as to how you two are acquainted.” @Mickey Flash @DarkHorse @danzilla3 ///

Hey @DarkHorse and @danzilla3 — I'm very surely posting tonight to move us along. 😊 Sorry for the extended delay! I'll try not to take too long next time. 🙏

/ MÍRA / It seems the woman wishes her to take care of the fish first before herself. Míra murmurs an affirmative in her direction and turns her attention to the catch. She hauls the fish up; a flick of her wrist makes its weight slightly more bearable to wrestle away from the riverbank. A little bit of magic is cheating, the Polina in her head reprimands, but really. There are hungry people up and about that will require sustenance. The faster they get to prepare their meal, the better. Upon returning to the gathering by the firepit, Míra places the fish down and pivots to stride back over to the other woman's side. "Let me help you up," she tells the woman, reaching out and taking hold of her hand, moving to guide and support. Together, they make their way towards the others. “Just out of curiosity, how big is that thing anyway?” Igni beats her to a reply, but she finds herself compelled to help reinforce the thought. "Yes, it's rather humongous. Enough to perhaps feed all of us, though I believe some of the others might want second or third helpings if we cook this right." The old man appears to have cleared off a space for the preparation of the fish, a sheet laid out over the grass a few ways away from the rest of the gathered partygoers. She listens but does not turn to look over her shoulder as Emilio calls out in the direction of the nearby sycamore tree, questioning one of the others about blades, and whether they have any that can be employed in service of preparing the fish. Well. It's a good thing she has come ready for this very sort of thing, then. Polina would have her head if she hadn't the knife set available on her person at such an occasion. (It had been a gift on the opening of her new theatre back in Blairville. Aside from food preparation, they have their uses elsewhere.) Míra takes it upon herself to start deboning the fish, welcoming helping hands should any be forthcoming. She sits herself down on the sheet, producing a sharp knife from her leather roll. Her movements are jerky, the motions rusty but ultimately held together tight by muscle memory: make a small cut through the base of the tail. Loosen the flesh from the skin. Slide the knife down, discard any small scales that get caught. Igni's question about her clothing makes her halt for a moment, blade halfway through the fish. Fish out of water, indeed? She is about to answer—something about not expecting the party to be this in touch with nature, something about only being used to the soirées of high society, where everyone is prim and proper and secrets flow as easy as brandy—but then the woman continues. “I correct myself: it seems nothing is out of place here, least of all you.” "It appears you might be right," Míra replies, a quiet smile playing on her lips. She continues working, her gaze on the fish under her hands but with one ear open to the proceedings around. @Venus Sprite @DarkHorse ///

/ IRIS / Iris watches as the elf inspects her payment before seemingly deeming it to be fitting for his services to her. She clasps her hands together as his final words flit into the air between them. "Ye art a fine business woman. Thy money will do just fine. Come back whenever thy swords need repair my good lass." Perhaps she would, indeed. Aside from her own personal taste in weaponry, the Crow herself is a connoisseur of quality and craftsmanship. She thinks her Mother might be able to spare some more coin in the blacksmith's direction, should more repair and upkeep be necessary for their armory. She presents a polite smile in the man's direction. "Thank you again for all you've done for me. Have a good day, sir, and may your good work continue to prosper." Her business is done here. The snow-haired woman gives the master blacksmith a low bow, and then out she disappears through the doorway, nothing but the faint smell of irises to indicate that she had ever been there before. exit iris. ///

/ IRIS / If there is still any performative sense in her to act helplessly blind, it is gone, now, dissipating into the winds. Iris moves forward in a manner that appears to be almost giddy, footfalls near-silent against the floor, and receives the swords from Velindrel. She cannot see the glow her weapons exude, but she can feel the warmth they radiate, the touch of power that's almost tangible when she holds them in her hands. Her fingers ghost up the steel, remembering the weight and the feel of them, and here now that they are made whole again: it's as if no time had passed at all, no breaking to show the fall. Well. Perhaps she's gotten a greater bargain than she'd first thought had been possible when she'd first entered the stately manor. The elven blacksmith, she concedes, must indeed be a master of his craft. "You've done me a great boon, sir. I will most definitely pay you a visit again in the future, should my weapons require upkeep." She slides the swords into the holsters strapped to her back. "I might refer my sisters to you as well, if they're in need of any repairs to their armory." He asks about the matter of payment as a true businessman would, and she has come prepared for it. The Crow may be underground, but her wealth is more than enough to continue supporting the various exploits of her daughters. Iris produces a coin purse from the folds of her clothing and offers it up in Velindrel's direction. "Eight ounces of rhodium as payment for your services to me," she explains. "You may determine its validity and counter check the weight, if you'd like. A job well done deserves a great amount of compensation indeed." @Velindrel ///