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Music OOC

Spoiler

 


Saturday, 6 June, 599

 

Call me Tyra. Some time ago, having grown disenchanted with the lands of this planet, after crawling across fields and climbing atop mountains, navigating through deserts and negotiating with forests, I thought I would kiss the shore goodbye and dip my feet in the waters of the world. As left leg left land, crossing the space between solid and liquid, right leg bid farewell to pier and met boot upon deck—and like that, I was gone with the wind. I discovered, like an explorer braving the boundless horizon, how the sea can wash one’s soul of misery. When grey clouds loom overhead and darkness paints the sky; when not one drop is held back as the rains cascade with abandon; when a damp blanket coils around my body, cold and grim, and I shiver as I am submerged up to the brim of my nose—then, I remember that I am already floating on the ocean, it cradles me like a baby in a crib, and my woes and worries are lost like salt in a gust. 

 

What can one wonder when they savor such serenity? When the tranquility of the waves surrounds you like dancing grass in a rolling meadow, greeting one another in the breeze like rustling leaves of an eternal wood, it challenges the mind to think of anything else besides bliss. What, then, is one to do when that joy is suddenly robbed from you like a child from a mother’s womb? In the sweet kiss of summer, as the morning sun beckoned me awake, never would I have expected that day to be the darkest day of my voyage. Few things are so terrifying as to enter the maw of the ocean’s titan, watching the world soar above you as you sink into the abyss, with hollowed howls haunting your descent into doom. 


After being spat out by the frozen depths hiding beneath liquid sapphire, I breathed in a new clarity. I flew beyond sea and ship, my momentum a constant craft, like a bird whose wings could carry it across the sky for months on end. The sea, I had learned, was a world beside a world. I was now learning that the sky was the world above both. The wind that had once decided the fate of my sails was now little more than an ocean of air to conquer; the clouds would part before me like frothing waves around a prow. Airships, the gargantuan gems that glided above Genesaris, giving birth to glory in the old times and returning in the wake of war—well, I had one of my own, and with it I went gallivanting across the welkin.

 

When you stand on the deck of a ship at sea, you can feel the spray upon your skin, taste the salt on your lips, smell the sulfur and the brine, hear the murmur of the ebb and flow, see the royal blue of the aquatic kingdom. On the deck of a ship in the sky, things are a little different. The world is beneath you now, not beside you; the earthen lands that once held your feet before planks of wood ever did were no longer silhouettes whispering on the horizon. Those mountains were now mole hills, castles and their lords were naked behind their walls, cities were like mazes viewed from above, and those birds who once threatened to repurpose your poop deck now glided beside you as though to guide you along as a fellow flier. On the sea, I had fins that carried me. In the sky, I have wings. 

 

I want you to know something else. I was born upon the land—never mind who my parents were—but I never truly came to life until I stretched my arms from the bow above the water, and I never truly lived until I leaned over to watch the world from the stern beneath the clouds. Those moments, if they could be captured in a bottle, I would trade bottles of Orisian wine and Terran whiskey for each one of them. Those moments opened my heart and my lungs and kept me from dying slowly. Far from such a fate, I am alive. I am Tyra Delane, Captain of the Wildwind, and some would call me the same. Wild Tyra, Captain of the Wind, for I let it propel me across the sea and the sky in an endless journey that knows no bounds. Yet, a name is meaningless if there is no life behind it. As I write these words, watching ink seep onto paper, I am all too aware of the life that is seeping out of my soul, and the fear of what might become of my name is as real as hot sand beneath bare feet. 

 

It is thus that I return to the land that birthed me, that I might rest upon the soil that was my bed amid the trees that once stood tall as my sentries. It is a comforting thought, to lie down and close my weary eyes, watching my life unfold like a letter read only once. Alas, my sleep shall be short, for this is by no means the end of my journey but a new chapter to steer it forward. Where I go, there is another life that slumbers; a vessel yearning to awaken with vigor for the voyage. Oh, how I have lived on my ship! Sea ship, airship—but have I really lived? I have held a husband, never had a child—is that what it takes to really live? I do not know, but I may yet soon find out; in a manner, at least. The trees call me home, a forest awaits, for in the region of Chesterfield is a ship that stands as tall as a tree, and it is my life’s goal to set that ship free, like a bird from a cage or a fish from a tank. Freedom is not simply a state of being—it is a vessel to possess and a horizon to chase; an ongoing war where victory is decided with wheel and compass.

 

This is my substitute for sword and pistol. With a groundbreaking boom, Uhltoria lifts a battle fleet into the air; I quietly take to my ship. This should not be surprising. If only they knew, almost everyone at one point or another shares my same sentiments of the sea and the sky. There is an explorer in each of us, a wild wind within all of us, a beating heart and breathing lungs that beckon the brain and the body to sail and to soar and to never look back but forward. Always forward. Land, water, air. Sea ship, airship—bioship. Forward, always.

 


Chesterfield

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Use only as aesthetic reference
 

 Music OOC

Spoiler

 

The Captain of the Wind

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The sun was a beating pulse that morning. Summer was creeping right around the corner, searching for a crack to break through, with golden rays glimmering upon the pastel-hued marble of Valucre with a sadistic smile of soon-to-be-baking-you. Some loved it, some loathed it—that budding breeze beside blossoming foliage, bright and warm and lively; that sweltering heat that parches the throat, gnaws at the skin and oozes sweat. With four seasons and four or more reasons to counter them amid such prevalences as genius loci, Lagrimosa was a bounty of climates. Not just physically, but socially, politically and economically. For instance, take Chesterfield. 

 

This morning, amid a river breeze that drifted mercy toward the throngs, the sun held sway over the steaming metal that the blacksmith dipped into the forge. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and bid his apprentice to acquire their purchase from the general store. That apprentice dipped further into dichotomy, departing the shade of a stifling shop into the open air to brave the sun and the masses beneath it. He passes by an artificer whose creation came from the blacksmith’s craft, now on his way to insure it with a Titansinger representative before selling it to a Genesaran buyer, courtesy of being ferried by the Casper Shipping Company. One of their representatives is already on site to represent the Law of Salvage in a legal dispute concerning the renovation of a Renovation ship that sunk in the Sea of Regrets. Sunken but surprisingly whole, hoped to be lifted from the depths and turned into a museum that the prowling tourist influx would dive toward and sink their money into. 

 

Or, at least, it seemed as much to one woman as she walked the streets of the city. Her eyes were on the passers-by, the denizens of the urban clutter pacing to and fro, or hollering out prices from stalls and leaning against buildings to smoke their pipes and trade sorrow with laughter. Pigeons pecked the crumbs off the spacious square, competing with daring ducks from the river, and children befriended one another as locals mixed with foreigners to feed the birds with food to spare. Kids laughed the same way, the woman thought as she watched them play. Adults were different; they had a unique laugh for every occasion, and some individuals had the kind of laugh that you learned not to trust. 

 

This duality of sameness and difference, it translated to the cityfolk and their habitat like water into wind. Streets led to streets that led to the same streets; people lined those streets who might have been glimpsed walking the other streets only moments ago, their footfalls a forgotten echo that all sounded the same; the goers of to and fro lining up like soulless soldiers to do the same work today as yesterday, go home at the same hour, wake up in the same spot, repeat the same task. As she watched them, her hands pocketed amid the crowds whose arms flailed, her lips a rigid line where others were smiling or frowning, Tyra pitied the people of this city. So many of them, all of them so bound to the same land, the same routine, day after day after day. She sighed as she walked on, savoring the solace of her own routine that was never quite so. She might lay in the same bed every night, but her ship was never in the same spot, and every day was a new day that called for a different adventure even on the same ship. 

 

As the captain paced onward throughout the streets of Chesterfield, her gaze finally graced her quarry. The Silver Screen advertised itself with one flashing bulb after the other, but it was the pub beside it that drew the elf’s eyes as she approached The Purple Pig with a grin. She might have forgotten, had somehow remembered, and was positively amused at an all too familiar sight. There, standing at the stepped entrance of the pub, was a burly fellow with a grey head and yellowed tusks, one hand gripping a tankard and the other a club that looked like a giant mallet. Jolliver? The name sprung to mind as Tyra looked the figure up and down. No...surely not. 

 

“Morning,” she spoke while ascending the steps. The wereboar said nothing, leaning lazily against his weapon as he guzzled from his tankard. He clearly was more decoration than defender. “Jolliver?” Tyra determined. The wereboar cocked a brow, looked her up and down, and snorted. “Never heard of him.” With that, Tyra shrugged and moved past, opening the doors to The Purple Pig, where a waking pub traded sounds with a metropolis, and the captain finally felt like she was home.

Edited by Die Shize

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Incredible, terrifying quaking of the earth. Glowing chasms so large entire flooded oceans drained down into them. Bodies sucked into the hole in Valucre. And Michael saw that, standing in the emptied firth between entire broken continents, He stood.

Jerking awake, Commager unclenched the white-knuckled fist at his side and wiped sweat from his brow. Looking around the haunts in which Yshmael and he hunkered for the night, he breathed a sigh. Instinctually he looked east, seeing no sunlight on the horizon; so he looked to the moon. Still high in the sky, he decided there was time for more sleep. Doing so after a nightmare, in nightmarish woods, was what one wearing his mantle was capable of; for after a couple stints at home, Michael rarely ever slept in the same place two nights in a row.

The next day, from the southeast, Matte approached Chesterfield for the first time ever alongside Yshmael. Before he saw the city itself  he saw CSC vessels, other merchants, and adventurous Chesterfieldiens of other varieties roaming down the main path out of town. All of them were indicative of the culture, and the disguised Commager found it suitable that he had covered his appearance.

“I know we were on our way north,” he said to Yshmael, who was undoubtedly nearby, “but I couldn’t resist stopping by here. I’ve heard a lot of good things about this town.”

When they were farther into town, Michael too observed a bolstering public atmosphere. Even at midday karaoke could be heard echoing from a bar nearby, amazing pastel art covered a nearby building, and symbols could be heard banging in the distance. Michael was trained to observe a city’s darkside, so he immediately probed for the sounds beneath the music- they matched the sights; laughter of children, a pair of mothers exchanging recipes outside an open vegetable stand, a dog playing with a little girl. Quickly, his innately suspicious observation infected him with the joy all around them.

“Jolliver?”

“Never heard of him.”

Tickled by the interaction, maybe just ready to go off at the slightest stimulation because of the way Chesterfield had stricken him, Matte beckoned to Yshmael.

“Let’s go in here,” he said, and they too entered The Purple Pig. 

Where the woman who’d made Matte laugh sat, they sat just beside her. Matte ordered a drink, asked if they served burgers, then looked at her.

“Hey, who’s Jolliver? That’s a funny name.”

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“I was there for what you did. It was seamless, instrumental.. It was for Gaia..”  Michael emerged from the trees not toward Yshmael, but into his path. “Will you join the clergy, officially?”

He extended a rough hand, his clothing some kind of hard black hide that yet failed to limit his indomitable motion.

“After what you’ve done, I feel together we might rend the fabric of evil into a thousand pieces.”

 

Sometimes, all it takes is seizing one single moment to change your life..

 

      One shan't turn fate down when she so brazenly exposes herself to you. Yshmael's entire life could be dictated by such a sentence. The sacking of the caravan, the pilgrimage west that delivered him to the small town in the Middies, and now onto the path of serving the church and Gaia more directly than before. He had dedicated himself to her through her manifestations: the Triad manifestations known as the Wyld, the Weaver, and the Wyrm to Triaditionalist Pagans. This is not to say they did not revere Gaia.. more directly, they found her aspects in all forms of life around them, and hardened themselves from it all.

 

      The darkly tanned Disciple adjusted his layers in the twilight hours within the forest they had hunkered down in. As a nomadic type, he too found solace in keeping it moving rather than settling into a space consecutively. His sword and long knife were secured to his back, and he had taken up his spear to advance with throughout the southerly drift they'd taken. Promise of interesting reward and guaranteed adventure. The man could not resist the call, and Matte-now-Michael (in discretion) did not have to twist his arm very much. Without anything to return home to, he simply left his life in the hands of Her. For he would not be on this path without Her, no matter the hardship.

 

        “I know we were on our way north,” he said to Yshmael, who was undoubtedly nearby, “but I couldn’t resist stopping by here. I’ve heard a lot of good things about this town.”

 

"Think nothing of it, Matte. I am eager to see all that the land has to offer. Gaia's vastness knows no bounds, it seems. Even into the heavens, it seems!" He mused, commenting on the high buildings. The Dead Peaks were still higher..

 

     Years of trade within and around Blaurg Mountain and Blairville could not have prepared him for such a modern feat, but it mattered not. He knew of further advanced peoples -- hells! There were caravans of all sorts out in the sands. Jewelry, Clothing, Weapons. There was no shortage of artisans and artificers and arcanists, despite all that went on. Blairville alone was exposure enough to prepare him for uncertain cityscapes. Gaia had gifted him with an extra sense or few, to which he utilized almost constantly.. call it a result of trauma? Nevertheless, this man braved the unknown with his good friend Michael Matte.

 

      So into the unknown, that on the whim of a name being asked he led the Pilgrim into the Purple Pig. A familiar concept in an unfamiliar scene.. drinking and eating and lounging was done in the Wilds, but it was open face and outdoors.. This was all inside! It had every smell these patrons had to offer, unfortunately. Adjusting his robes and removing the hood of a cloak, he walked with his spear against his shoulder, nice and high. Matte ordered a drink and asked for...

 

"A bur...ger..? Burrger.. Matte, what is a burger?" He beckoned, resigning to the seat adjacent and ordering himself a fortified wine, as well as something akin to an Earthen Tequila. The man knew his plants, that much was for sure.

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Music IC

Spoiler

 


There were some dining establishments out there in the world where you had to pinch your chin and think about the story behind “The Red Creek” or “The Drunken Otter” or “The King’s Abode”, particularly when the entire interior of The Red Creek was blue, there were plenty of drunks but no otters in The Drunken Otter, and the king never stepped foot in the den that was The King’s Abode. The Purple Pig, on the other hand, was one of those pubs that needed little less than a first glance to understand how it got its name. 

 

Various shades of violet, from lavender to royal purple and other unnamed hues, dominated the scene, with green-cushioned vintage chairs and tables and lights that glowed an orange amber. Even most of the many bottles that lined the bar wall were purple glass, dotted with pink contenders and an oddly out of place red-and-black contraption at the top shelf. That much took care of the “Purple” in the name, though it was up to the imagination as to whether the “Pig” referred to the wereboar standing at show outside the main entrance. All in all, as the pub’s golden taps dripped beer and cider, the entire establishment dripped with panache, the kind that attracted patrons on their way to or from the Silver Screen not but a building away. 

 

Tyra was quite taken to the atmosphere in the stretching hours of the morning, watching the other patrons spread sparsely about. A young couple looked like they had gotten up to brave the day some hours ago, bright and early and eager for breakfast or brunch; an elderly gentleman sat at a corner table with his nose buried in a book; and at the bar was a who-knew-how-old, his head resting on the counter. Probably since 3 AM this morning. For her part, Tyra was sitting at her own corner table with a good view of the pub and with a window to her left. She found herself gazing out of it as the pub’s music gave way to a melody that took her back to the ocean—blocked by streets and skyscrapers that it was. The female voice gliding from the speakers was of a Terric dialect; smooth and serene like the waves in a calm sea. She sang of a quiet port of shelter of a greater future, one still not lost, but Tyra might have disagreed. Here I am in the city of Chesterfield, only a few hours in, where there are no waves and there is no wind. 

 

Sighing, she looked away from her surroundings and took a hint from the old man with his book, opening her journal to record her thoughts. It was only moments later when two men approached her side of the pub, one of them carrying a spear and the other looking suspiciously similar to the bartender yonder. Tyra had to even look between the two lads to deduce whether they realized their own likeness before she settled on it with a glass to her lips and pale ale down her throat. A server stood at the adjacent table, informing its guests that burgers were right on the menu. “Try the Whiskey River BBQ burger, a house fave,” she had said, leading Tyra to lick her lips before opening her menu. There it was: Whiskey River BBQ—chuck ground beef, mayonnaise, onion rings, melted cheddar cheese, tomato slices, chopped lettuce, and Coban whiskey BBQ sauce right from Orisia’s namesake.

 

On 6/16/2020 at 12:38 AM, amenities said:

“Hey, who’s Jolliver? That’s a funny name.”

 

Tyra heard her stomach growl just as a voice broke her trance. She looked at the speaker and smiled at the question. “Jolliver?” She hesitated, realizing in an instant that he must have overheard her addressing the would-be bouncer outside the pub. “It’s a long story... I guess the short version is that he is a wereboar like the one out there,” she nodded toward the window. A little too alike, actually. “A jolly name for a jolly fellow, I’ll grant.” She shrugged. “...But known to crush skulls with a giant hammer in his less pleasant moods. Some knew him as 'the War Hog'. I was fortunate to know him mostly as jolly Jolliver. Haven’t seen him in years…” 

 

Tyra drummed her nails against her glass, the frothing bubbles bringing her back to the ocean, to clashing mugs of ale and blades of blood, and a wereboar whose laugh and cry were much the same. Blinking, she glanced between the two men beside her, noting the spear and the robes. 

 

“You two from the city?” She asked passively, swimming into the smalltalk. “Passing through? On your way to the theater, perhaps to see The Prince Groom? I hear it’s as amusing as adventurous.” She smiled as though she had already seen it, but really its very tagline was all too reminiscent of her very own life.



@amenities@L E V I A T H A N

Edited by Die Shize

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Walking in, the pair recently united by the hands of Gaia was struck by a much fancier presentation than the drunken boar outside. Daemon’s eyes widened impressed as they took their seats beside Tyra.

"A bur...ger..? Burrger.. Matte, what is a burger?"

“Try the Whiskey River BBQ burger, a house fave,” said the server before Matte could respond to Yshmael, handing each of them an open menu. You can tell the cut of some places just by their menu, and The Purple Pig’s menu was a perfectly manageable vertical rectangle. You can also tell the cut of some wait staff by the simplest of gestures; and this one’s dainty dual-wielding menu technique struck Matte as experienced.

Even more enticing was the burger.

“Oh my saints, please bring two! This man has never had a—” he paused to read the menu again, one hand perched up on Yshmael's shoulder— “Whisky River BBQ burger,” said Daemon excitedly, sliding his finger down the menu to a Dali red wine. “And one of these for me, and a water.”

That was when he turned and caught the Jolliver lady licking her chops to the sound of that sweet and tangy BBQ burger.

“Hey, who’s Jolliver? That’s a funny name.”

Matte was lucky enough not to bear the same appearance as Michael, otherwise Commager’s red eye would be quite telling— perhaps absolutely telling, even. The young man Tyra saw here was weathered by experience; not the rote, inextinguishable flame of eld. By appearance, Matte was indiscernible as Peacekeeper Michael Commager besides, perhaps, in gesture.

Spoiler

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“Ah man crushing skulls, he sounds scary,” Matte half-lied.

“You two from the city? Passing through? On your way to the theater, perhaps to see The Prince Groom? I hear it’s as amusing as adventurous.”

“We’re from Aspyn!” he responded with prideful citizenry loud enough for all to hear, but another demonstrant of Chesterfield’s diversity. He seemed ignorant of all of Yshmael’s sharp edges, ignorant of the image this might pervey in a pub full of non-strapped individuals.

“Where you from, miss?” said the youth as the water was placed before him.

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"Yes, Asp-yn..." He mimicked, uncertainty in his voice. His confidence for botched annunciation was astounding, but he rolled with the punches. "Here to offer rites to families, as well as bless new homes.. A little exploration never hurt, either, yes?"  

 

      The Pilgrim played with a coin stack for a good time until his drinks arrived. Happily paying the tender, he took clean and deliberate mouthfuls of the spirit he ordered, blood rushing his vascular system as he felt the initial whims of inebriation come about. A satisfied exhale was elicited as the plate fell before him. His eyes widened as he stared, sniffing it with a bit of skeptical curiosity. 

"A Whiskey River BBQ Burger.. And these are..." he began, inspecting the side dish of battered and fried potato chips. "potatoes..?" His curiosity had finally tipped over. A delicate pinch with the thumb and pointer finger delivered one to his open mouth, which snapped shut in a most gracious and quiet manner.

 

      Chewing commenced. Eyes would widen as he looked at the plate in awe. Hands found the burger, swaddled in patty paper, and brought it to his lips. Leaning forward in order to take a "clean" bite over the counter, Yshmael's hungry maw found the burger.

 

      Now was the time to savor the rich flavor in this tasty local delicacy. An all-beef patty topped with two slices of peppered cheese, crispy onions, strips of Applewood-smoked bacon and a "Fireball-Whisky" infused steak sauce -- it all amalgamated in the best of ways. Yshmael had had beef, and sandwiches and fried food in his trips to Blairville with the caravan, but never before had he been served something so deliberately and fantastically savory! The flavors paired so well! He was struck silent for the longest before The Apprentice wiped a bit of sauce back onto the burger and looked to Daemon, swallowing a hefty mouthful. 

 

"By Her Will.. Is this what you eat all of the time?!" He questioned, eyes finding their way back to the burger. 

 

      Another bite -- It was too good to abstain! The Agent of Gaia had been on the  move, and had naught but wild game or quick, sorry meals from midway village inns. Coming to Chesterfield was already paying off for the man!

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Music IC [Recurring]

Spoiler

 

 

The fellow with the bowl cut was doing little to stave off Tyra’s appetite. She had dared not upset the enthusiasm but followed suit so that the server had struck three orders for Whiskey River BBQ burger, with a side of peppered fries and another glass of ale for the lady. After the waitress walked away, the three patrons were treated with the appetizer of conversation. 

 

Tyra smiled at the ardor of native claims, her gaze dancing around the pub, but the early handful of patrons were quicker to look away as though they might have heard someone ask for aspirin. For her part, Tyra nodded as though congratulating the two men’s place of origin. Biazo Isle was altogether a fun little island to explore, largest though it was amid Lagrimosa. Raw fish and rich wine. Can’t ask for much more. As for Aspyn, Tyra had met a golem there that might have given the wereboar a run for his money. The city helped explain what sounded like Terril on the two men's parts. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly coming together like a ten-foot wall as she eyed the robes of the man who carried the spear. Gaian clergy? A guard against the Unnaturals?

 

Thoughts might go further if they were voiced, though her own were interrupted when the server came back with drinks in prompt time given that the pub was not all that busy just yet. Tyra was yet to move onto her second round as she sipped on the memories of home—golden beaches, jagged cliffs, seas of grass surrounded by oceans and the restless ships that watched them.

 

“Well,” Tyra answered the returned question. “I’m an islander like you boys, if a little far from Biazo. No, this gal is from Orisia.” She might have added more were it not for a ray of sunlight that soar from the canopy of clouds to brighten the window. She followed that light as though she were watching the sky from Versilla or Coban. Sipping on its whiskey, never mind whiskey sauce. A break in the conversation ensued with her gaze beyond the glass before she realized the spell of silence that had ensnared her. Her trance with both the world outside and the life in her journal was broken as she looked up from the pages to receive the server with their meals. 

 

The burger looked as delicious as it smelled. Tyra closed her journal and went straight for the ketchup, asking for bottles of mustard and mayonnaise and extra napkins while she picked at a few fries and saved the rest for the bath to come. She couldn’t help but chuckle from the glee of her taste buds and that of her fellow patron as both man and woman chomped into their burgers. Mr. Robes had indeed clearly never bitten into a burger before. He’s probably biting into the best one this side of town. She would have to appeal to her cook to acquire this recipe for the Wildwind’s galley. 

 

While wondering whether the spear-wielder either did not get out much or was under some clerical oath to abstain from good food, the server returned with the napkins and condiments. Tyra licked her lips and began filling a pool on her plate, using a lone fry in place of a stirring spoon as she mixed the ketchup and the mustard and the mayo into a colorful chaos and put her teeth to work. 

 

“Sounds like you two are on a bit of a quest!” She dipped back into the chat, recalling Robes’ words about offering rites and blessings. “Like a pilgrimage? On the mention, I’m something of an explorer myself. That’s what brought me to Chesterfield this very morning.”

Edited by Die Shize

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“I’m an islander like you boys, if a little far from Biazo. No, this gal is from Orisia.”

“Oh wow, I’ve never been there before!” said Matte before drinking his entire glass of water, asking for another to sandwich the wine in his stomach. 

Matte Daemon was not, in fact, a native islander. Nothing, ever, would eliminate his inner Michael Commager’s first memories. He was seven, sunken and scraping face first against destitution, almost definitely destined  to die. There were no programs in a falling city to take in a boy like him, and few homes willing to take in a stray long enough to clean it up once and give it a meal before pinning a participation badge on their lapel and never helping another one again, if he was even lucky enough to be that stray.

Things were different back then, though. A boy had become a man, and now an even differenter man sat before Tyra! He had become more than just a man, but one of many hats and faces at that.

As their food arrived, Matte and Tyra both snapped out of very different reveries to received the meals all three of them would enjoy.

"By Her Will.. Is this what you eat all of the time?!"

“Only sometimes,” laughed Matte, patting his young-looking belly. “Don’t wanna get fat!”

“...I’m something of an explorer myself. That’s what brought me to Chesterfield this very morning.”

Matte quirked back to Tyra readily. Talk of his own ventures interested him little, for what he was willing to say about them was a short conversation. ‘We’re just headed back to Aspyn actually,’ is something he probably would have said, but Tyra’s conclusion invited him to continue concentrating on her journey. There was no rush back to Aspyn, and in fact the culmination of someone else’s search could be what he was looking for too.

“An explorer huh?” he said, looking intently at but not having touched his food yet as both of them dug in. He grabbed one napkin and unfolded it, placing it in his lap. He took one deep breath, brushing a couple hairs off of his shirt and taking just large enough a sip of wine to douse his tongue with its lush fermentation.

“What are you looking for in Chesterfield?”

Deep inhale.

Deep exhale.

While listening for the woman whose name he didn’t even know yet, Matte began devouring his burger in a truly carnal display of satisfaction. His first massive bite was a matter of savouring taste and texture, chewing with indomitable force against the great mass in his maw. His second bite was just as massive, but now he churned the meat and onions and sauces together, swallowing and biting again over and over at a truly impressive rate for a little-looking guy like him.

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On 6/29/2020 at 1:32 AM, amenities said:

“What are you looking for in Chesterfield?”

 

Tyra had just swallowed a lump of bread and beef when the question came. She took a breath and opened her mouth to speak when the man opened his mouth to eat—or whatever he called it. I guess I can’t judge… She sat there twirling a fry in some kind of red-yellow-white soup on her plate before chewing on it and the thought that someone else might have toward her special little blend. Though, her gaze had previously passed over another burger on the menu where peanut butter was the spread of choice on the patty, so there was that. If we can’t go crazy with our food then what’s the point of any of this? What does the world even mean?

 

“Well…” She began to answer her own question out loud before clearing her head and her throat. The ceiling’s speakers gave way to a violin that guided her thoughts; melodic and melancholic, taking her backward and forward at the same time. “...Escape…” She settled on that word as beer settled down her throat. When she licked her lips she tasted flower and fruit, earth and pine; sweet and bitter like a sleeping sea beneath a swollen sky. With a ship between both, cold and lonely in the warmth of solitude. 

 

“I needed a change in pace,” Tyra told no one in particular, speaking to the table beside her as much as the bar before her. “After sailing and flying for so long and so far, I decided to explore this world in a different kind of vessel altogether.” She smiled, looking back at her fellow patrons with their burgers just like hers, wondering if the similarities ended there. 

 

“So I came to Chesterfield on the wings of my Wildwind,” she leaned forward, suddenly alive with the vigor of an adventurer with a tale to tell. “I heard talk of a nearby forest where the trees aren’t just trees—they’re ships. Not just ships, but living beings, like you and me!” She nodded at the pair as though they needed reminders. Did the Gaian Clergy even let its members actually live? She shrugged. “Maybe not just like you and me...but still organic. You bond with one where it rests upon the earth, learn to trust it as it trusts you, and then you take it to the clouds…” She shook her head as though struggling to believe herself, even despite all the things she had seen in this crazy world. “That’s why I came to Chesterfield. To head to De Viento—a forest of wind.” Tyra took a deep swig of her beer and let out a refreshed sigh. “To get myself a bioship…and to get away.” Away from...one million miles away from home...

Edited by Die Shize

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“Well…"

"...Escape…”

 

"I learn more and more that this is a rather vast world.. Plenty of places to go, one could assume. I am but an infant to the wonders our world holds.."  

      And a survivor of the horrors among TerFractimosa..  His words rumbled forth after wiping his face and mouth of sauce and such. Admiration for the other two's styles of stuffing face was felt in his gaze as he looked around, listening further.

 

                                                        “I heard talk of a nearby forest where the trees aren’t just trees—they’re ships. Not just ships, but living beings, like you and me!”
 

      The man's eyes fixed on her in curiosity, as well as deep interest. Everything under the sky was Hers.. and thusly something from a forest was surely to invoke great potential with a man of the (Gaian) Cloth. His robing, still his own but bearing tags and emblems of the Triad-that-is-She, was adjusted as he put himself more in a comfortable lurch, leaning in to listen to her. Chesterfield was already turning out to be something truly worth visiting! 

 

“Maybe not just like you and me...but still organic. You bond with one where it rests upon the earth, learn to trust it as it trusts you, and then you take it to the clouds…"

 

"Fascinating.. Even the sky is privy to Her Influence.. She truly does provide for all possibilities! Matte, might we accompany the lady? I would want nothing more than to find connections in this world to further propel our endeavors! My horse might even find rest, if all goes well! " he jested, fixing his attention to the man he now spoke to. 

 

      A hearty grin found his face before fries, dipped and dragged in sauces left over on the plate now bereaved of its fantastic burger. Awaiting a response to the provocation of thought and choice he now offered the two, he comfortably continued snacking until all was done... and then he ordered more fries. Pleasures of the urban denizens was finding its way into the Nomad's heart.. but mostly his stomach! The Forest was on his mind most of all, though. He could not fathom how a plant might live and think.. much less make a  connection. Long ago, though, he had conceded that All was One, and bore deep connections to the very terrestria of the plane they resided in. Old Wives always spoke of remaining open to the unfathomable.. and this was something he wholeheartedly hoped to embrace.

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While Tyra talked, the tantalized traveler consumed his meal-- no, consumed isn’t the right word. More like, he inhaled it. Matte was done eating with alien speed. Even a patron four seats right of Yshmael and the bartender on the opposite end of the counter glanced in discreet awe. It was as if Tyra’s vigor for escape empowered Matte to finish his meal and absorb himself in her.

Why else absorb yourself in a new area or person than to catch up in the winds of adventure?

Matte’s elbows were on the table, his entire shoulder-to-neck complex arranged into a leaning fathom culminating just one wide-eyed foot away from Tyra.

"Fascinating.. Even the sky is privy to Her Influence.. She truly does provide for all possibilities! Matte, might we accompany the lady? I would want nothing more than to find connections in this world to further propel our endeavors! My horse might even find rest, if all goes well! "

Gaia's phenomena for bringing the wayward inward filled Matte on a more inner level that Yshmael's. Silence endeavored between the three there in an almost uncomfortable span where Matte might otherwise have thrown in his own chips of excitement. Instead he gazed up from their table to Tyra like a mannequin with only one expression for almost twelve seconds during which the breaking-down onions and mayo and pickles filled his stomach with their resulting gasses. A momentous but breathy-versus-vibratory burp filtered through vented fingers as Daemon turned his head away from Tyra.

“Yeah let’s do it together!” he exclaimed in the regurgium of his afterward agreement.

Perhaps Yshmael and Matte’s forwardness was a foreign friendliness to Tyra. Perhaps Yshmael’s sharp issuance and Matte’s blunt machinations hadn’t deterred Tyra; and if they didn’t, a merry trio they made as they finished their meals. Staring at his plate as he downed his wine and then some dessert, Matte wondered aloud about the forest of which he had, admittedly, heard in scant conversation prior.

“I wonder if we can decide the ship we want or if it gives you what you get, you know? Just imagine,” he said, biting something like a giant bite of key lime pie and talking through the bite and imitating a flying ship with his fork. “'I want a laser ship!' You get a flying toilet instead.”

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