Eyktol Wide Plot - The Prologue

[Colombina]

The Instructions The semi-Eyktol wide plot begins with the Swan Parade. Please read the short writeup regarding it. To get this going I need input from you. The event takes place on the 20th of Winter. If you are not in Ahnatep, you will figure in a later part of the plot. Please choose a scene in which you interact with the following NPC and write it below. Your interaction and its extent is up to you and your creativity! You are not limited to the settings described below, but please thread at least one into the narrative. Do not complete the story as mods will provide conclusions. (Izzy and Subira, please hold off on this until your thread is complete.) The NPC, Rezon Four-armed Eypharian male, about 18 with black hair, tanned skin and arresting, pale green eyes. He is unpolished with a Svefra influence to his speech paired with signs of being well-read. Has an avid traveler’s knowledge of people and places, but seems a bit awed by Ahnatep. He lacks nuance, is quick to laugh and a harmless flirt. He is a free spirit who tries to avoid anything that requires shoes, but can behave himself admirably when motivated. Will try to do the right thing, even when in over his head. The Scenes 1. At the docks in the early morning 2. The Boat Parade, where the elite pass by on small, beautifully decorated reed boats. Each boat has a theme. There’s typically one representative from each noble house, the Inkara Iris, several concubines on one vessel, a few Foxes on another, and a Semhu star or two with their own boat. 3. Amidst the celebrations on the banks of the estuary. 4. At the play “The Seduction” 5. Sneaking into a noble party at the South Winds.

[Gracen]

20th Winter, 511 A.V. The Boat Parade Timing, they said, was everything. Gracen had cleaned up a bit since returning to Ahnatep, but he still had an air of of the disreputable, his natural charisma tarnished by years and travels and various and sundry sins. His stance as he watched the frilly boats go by was almost defiant, Gracen versus the World. It was anyone's guess who was winning. But the grace of the boats on the estuary reminded him of summers gone by when life was beautiful and full of hope. He closed his eyes -- something he didn't do often when someone's blade might sneak between his ribs to acquaint itself with his vital organs -- and inhaled the scents of Ahnatep and its perfumes and incense, sea breezes and the faint taste of burning sands. This wasn't home. Home is where the heart is, they say. He was fairly sure the thing that beat within his chest was nothing more than a muscle-bound valve that kept his blood flowing, not the vessel of love and joy it might have been. The world was full of might-have-beens. The three deaths that might yet be, those would release him. Or if they would not, he would feel his work was finished and he could take Dira for a spin around the dance floor, let the psychopomp waltz his soul to meet Lhex before his next incarnation. Or perhaps he could smuggle some good mirage, share, and persuade them to send him off to a sweeter oblivion. The cut on his face ached, though it was quickly healing. Izdihar had offered him essence of something or other, guaranteed to speed healing and prevent scarring. A thread of laughter from the tapestry of sound around him drew his attention and his eyes cracked open to find one of the nearby revelers looking about with delight, a young Eypharian man with black hair, dusky skin, and bright, darting eyes. When their eyes actually met, his pure excitement startled a genuine smile out of Gracen, though it quickly tensed like a cramp that he had to willfully relax. Some muscles were underused, though his feral smiles were more often the sort that followed an animal's, the baring of teeth to warn someone off. Not this one, though it was short-lived. But he had to say something. "They certainly like their pageantry," he said in Common, for he lacked the Arumenic to even make an attempt to speak to an Eypharian in his native idiom.

[Emmadalor]

20th Winter, 511
The Docks, Early Morning

It was early morning, and Emmadalor had spent the night resting under the docks. She had arrived at the edge of this city last night after swimming for more days than she could count. She was trying to escape, escape the pain, escape the heartache. But there was no escape. She still dreamed of Velsri, dreamed that she had been forgiven, that they were together. But she always woke up to the cruel reality. She would never be forgiven, and Velsri would never be hers. She was destined to be alone for all eternity.

She pulled herself up onto the pier and stared morosely at her reflection in the water. She wasn't sure how long she sat there, but suddenly, there was another reflection in the water beside her own. "You have far too beautiful a face to be wearing such a sad expression," said an accented male voice behind her. She turned and gasped at the sight of a man stading behind her and immediately dived into the water. She peered at him from beneath the water's surface, curious in spite of her suspicion.

The man laughed lightly and said, "I do not mean to frighten you, little Akvatari." Slowly, Emmadalor raised her head above the water. He was very strange-looking: he had an extra pair of arms instead of wings, and where his tail should have been, he had... feet. She had occasionally seen other races from a distance when they came to trade or visit Abura, but this was the first time she'd seen an outsider up close. She watched him curiously, wondering what he would do next.

OOCPlease let me know if there's anything I should add or change.

[Colombina]

Gracen "Indeed!" the young man responded, clipping the answer off with a grin. "A thing worth doing seems to be worth overdoing here. Pomp, decoration, words...arms." He partially lifted his like a bird's, lightly displaying a trademark of the race's excess. His observations were cast from an outsider's perspective despite the shared blood. The city and parade were grand to him, even the portions in shambles. Ruins could keep majesty in Ahnatep, reminding men of the meagerness of their own lives. Even the cast down stones would survive the eras better than a man exalted. The young man's spine hurriedly straightened as if wrapped in crackling D-wire. He was braced for excitement, letting joy diffuse without shame. Enthusiasm was an enviable privilege of youth, but it could work like quick alchemy, gilding any who stood too close. He stretched against the sky, waving toward a vessel newly spied. Izdihar was perched in all her glory midship. Serene and seemingly unable to sweat like a commoner despite the layers of her costume and shimmers of heat fuming from the water. She was wrapped in a dress that bared one white shoulder and the whole of her back, the fabric halting just when things would get interesting. The dress was silk and crimped linen in a deep azure hemmed with twinkling shades of silver and green. It seeming to pool majestically at her feet, and the reed boat was partially painted to create the illusion her dress was water flowing over its prow. Poppies, grasses and lotus bloomed in its wake: paper, glass and painted concoctions. The simulation of fecundity was enough to dazzle anyone eking life from desert earth. The reed raft was piloted by two, only one of which seemed of the noble caste, a South woman with dark hair and a challenging sway to her gestures, as if she was perpetually casting herself into action. She wore blue, but it had a practical cut allowing for robust movement. "I know her!" the young man announced. "And her pilot," the latter acquaintance seemed less exciting to him. Using two fingers, he whistled over the crowd. Some turned, annoyed by this plebeian display. The Eypharian grimaced and withdrew with a mildly apologetic wince. One partially covered face still scrutinized the boy, but it had no annoyance, only a calm sort of curiosity. Gracen had the experience to recognize the glance as quietly predatory.

_____

[Gracen]

Gracen managed another bare smile that was just this side of a grimace. He found little joy in life beyond the moment of orgasm and the moment where he found some lead, some clue, that would help him on his path of vengeance. It was a sorry sort of life, really, but he clung to what dignity he could. But suffice it to say, he did not have many smiles to share, especially sincere ones. The lad's exuberance touched him, but not enough to share it, really. After all, feelings warmed things up, required more of them, and eventually the awareness of self that might prove his undoing. He watched Izdihar, feeling a reaction in his trousers. She was, indeed, a thing of beauty, an object of lust. But she was a spider like all Eypharians, with a clever mind to manage so many limbs and such a web. Betimes Ahnatep seemed like an overripe fruit, smelling sweetly, but easily smashed, falling apart, to reveal inner corruption. How like Kenash, he thought to himself. She looked almost like the daughter of Summer on that ship, some demigoddess to worship. Yes, he knew her too, but he kept that counsel to himself. Being a bystander, though, he was able to observe the reactions of those around them and he did take note of someone giving off a less than savory vibe. Whether it would amount to anything, he did not know. He didn't tense up, as it was not directed at him, but he would be more alert to what was going on around him for the time being. The pageantry and Izdihar would have to wait. "She's rather famous, isn't she?" he asked nonchalantly. "Prominent, what, Westwinds daughter?"

[Faroul]

20th of Winter, 511 AV After the Parade; Amid the Celebrations Packs of revelers continued to throng the banks of the estuary long after the last parade boat faded from view. Cheers of adoration for the glittering procession became cheers of mirth as those present turned their attention to feasting and games. Merchants from the Pavilion market had already erected gaily-colored stalls on the shore, peddling both the bounty of the House of the West Winds and sweet confections in the shape of swans or Cheva's Rose. Beer flowed freely, as did imported wines, and skewered fish and eel sizzled over newly-dug firepits. The aroma of drink and cooking food mingled with the scent of sea winds, baking sand, perfume, and the tantalizing musk of Eypharian bodies; the heady smell engulfed Faroul as he drifted through the crowd. Though instinct drove him to note all he passed, his thoughts floated with recollections of his youth and an Ahnatep two decades gone. He had delighted in these celebrations, once. Naked to the waist, oiled and adorned in the colors of their House, he and his fellow guardsmen had gathered to ensure that the West Winds' vessel received the loudest hurrahs. They had hooted and strutted and guzzled enough beer to fill the Eye of Syna, all the while fancying that young women admired them. Between quaffs and jests they'd shared their brightest dreams: hopes that Cheva would bless them with passionate loves and advantaged marriages, that they'd rise to command armies and resurrect Ahnatep's ancient triumphs, or that one day they would set foot in the Pressor's glimmering court. Youth was fire under their skin, the future limitless, and the pageants of the Swan Parade a promise. But it had not come to pass. The future had delivered him condemnation instead. Now he felt like a ghost as he passed through the revels, a being unmoored from time. Though some terrible miracle had returned him here, into the light, he was no longer part of this place, these people, or their joys. Hai had riven him, and the sliver that survived was estranged and alien, an aberrant shadow loose from the pit where toppling glories had cast him. He did not – and would never again – belong. As if in recognition of this, or perhaps only his Benshira heritage, no one disturbed his wanderings. Six-limbed partyers laden with food gave him wide berth as they returned to their mats, and only the boldest of young men allowed their gazes to linger for more than a glance. Adolescent lovers chased each other in giggling circles and breathlessly exchanged tokens, ignorant of his presence; longtime spouses joined hands and renewed their marriage vows. Kissing games and dice rolls proceeded around him no matter where he walked, and whispered assignations for amorous rendezvous were made without a care that he might hear. The only people to address him were two impetuous children, who cried out “Chupra! Chupra!” and shrieked with laughter at their own audacity. Their mother eyed him with a parent's intuition for danger even as she berated them. He told himself he felt nothing. In time, his meandering carried him to an outer strand with a wider view of the estuary and distant sea. Groups of revelers yet lingered, but a few extinguished bonfires, still exuding fingers of smoke, had been abandoned in favor of the coming evening's plays. Stepping aside to avoid hot ashes, his foot brushed against a discarded swan egg, half-covered in sand. Bending to pick it up, he brushed the granules from its pale surface. Cracks laced across it in numerous places – some admirer had thrown it at the feet of someone fancied – and cloying perfume leaked from the hollowed-out inside onto his fingers. The image stung him. It unstoppered too many memories of sweethearts chased and won and lost, of boon companions embraced and now vanished, of hopes transmuted into despair. How had he failed to see it? Ahnatep was too full of beautiful things made midden. Just as the city itself propped marble and plaster on top of ruin and called it grandeur, the ladders of the elite perched on mortal detritus. Lives and dreams made to be used, broken as easily as eggs. His own life. His queen's. Dimourla. The eggshell crunched as his fingers tightened. Gritting his teeth, he leaned back and hucked the swan's egg out over the waters. As it whistled through the air, a prayer followed, though one directed to no god. It was a simple wish, cast through the veil of years: Live. He watched it for long moments as it bobbed among the waves. “That's odd,” a jaunty voice said in Common. “I thought you were supposed to throw those at the feet of a beautiful woman.” Startled, Faroul gripped his khopesh, whirling to find a young Eypharian man not five paces away. The boy raised tanned palms in surrender, surprised to be greeted with aggression, though the curiosity in his pale green eyes remained undimmed. “Ah-ha, sorry! Didn't mean to sneak up on you. I just couldn't help noticing.” He nodded towards the floating egg with an apologetic smile. “Is the festival not to your taste? Or... have you lost someone at sea?” The Benshira blinked, releasing his weapon. He studied the Eypharian with wary interest, eyes picking at the details of his expression. “Lost, yes. At sea? … I don't know. How did you guess?” “It's a tradition in some places, to cast offerings into the water for the departed.” The boy regarded the ocean with an unexpected sobriety. “Laviku carry your prayers.” Little chance of that, Faroul thought. The gods are never so kind. But he inclined his head in an imitation of gratitude anyway; something about the boy was too familiar to dismiss, though he could not place it. “I'm Rezon,” the youth grinned, not to be deterred by unfortunate topics for long. “And you?” “Emed,” he lied.

OOC100th post! *cheers*

[Colombina]

OOCFaroul and Gracen, your stories continued elsewhere. Check your PM box! Emmadalor: Rezon peered into the water, looking for the surreal shape of the Akvatari. He spoke to the water like someone coaxing a child. “Don’t be like that. I’m perfectly harmless. Sand kittens are terrors beside me.” When her face crept above the water he released his half held breath, pleased to have charmed her enough to appear. “Plus I have good news.” The young man threw back his shoulders and smiled, ready to pronounce joyful tidings to the melancholy Akvatari. “Today is Cheva’s day in Ahnatep!” he gestured across the horizon with one hand. “You only get it once an era.” His eyes sparked with a bit of challenge as the theatric tone left his voice. It dissipated into something softer and meaningful. “And you only get today once in your lifetime.” With more understanding than he had a right to, he tried to bolster her ailing heart. “It is new life, little Akvatari. This day. We shouldn’t make a grave of it by filling it with dead pains.” He sat on the edge of the small piling and let his rough, bare feet dangle into the water. In this gesture of fellowship, he looked out to sea, letting Emmadalor gather her voice again. He spoke over her like a blessing or prayer, his tone wavering with its own fears. “May today have grace,” he smiled, “For the both of us.”

[Emmadalor]

Emmadalor stared blankly at the strange man. Was 'Cheva's Day' supposed to mean something to her? She didn't feel much like celebrating; if fact, she would probably never feel like celebrating again. She sunk a little lower into the water as she was gripped with a crippling sadness, a reminder of why she had left home in the first place. She struggled not to cry in front of the stranger; crying was a private affair, something to be shared only with trusted friends... and she would never have those again.

Dove into the water again, so that she could cry her heart out in the privacy of the ocean. As she let her pain flow out of her soul, she contemplated the stranger's words. A new life? Isn't that what she had been looking for? Wasn't that the reason she was looking for somewhere new? Somewhere where no one knew her, or what she'd done...

As she came to the end of her self-pity routine, she felt a little better, enough to resume her curiosity about feet. There were two of them sticking into the water. She traced the bottom of one with her finger, but it leaped away from her touch. Its texture was rough and leathery, not like the sleek fur of her own tail. She examined the other "foot" which had strange protrusions, like short, stubby fingers. They looked very strange and fairly useless to her, but she supposed that they must help with the travelling on the land that the other races of Mizahar seemed to do.

When she grew tired of playing with the man's feet, she began to think of more serious concerns. He was the first person she'd met on her new journey. Since leaving Abura, no, even before then, she'd been plagued by a terrible loneliness. Nothing could fill the hole in her heart, but she couldn't stand it anymore. Even a pretense of kindness from a stranger was better than nothing. Perhaps she would trust and follow this man... for now.

She retrieved her satchel from the pier she'd slept under last night. Then, from the sea floor, she propelled herself upwards with her powerful tail, bursting through the surface in a spray of water, catching herself with her wings and hovering in the air with her nearly transparent wings. Her long, wet hair was plastered to her back, and she was covered in droplets of water which glinted in the morning sun.

As she looked down at the man in front of her, she said quietly, "I don't know what to do now. The past is all I know...but it is too painful."

[Colombina]

When Emmadalor began the surprising examination of his feet the Eypharian startled and flinched. He laughed, louder than seemed polite. "A bit forward, eh?" He countered with an arch grin, but it was lost the girl-seal-thing. Her melancholy and memory weighed her shoulders and drew her into the seabed again. She emerged suddenly, splendid as an Ethaefal as new dawn light lustered her wet skin in rose and ochre. But her mouth opened only for sorrows to escape, dulling the beauty she approached. The young man stood and cocked his head at the hovering Akvatari, one set of arms folded while the other made expansive welcome. "You live in the past only because you fear the future," he answered with steady encouragement. "The past is a small place, not big enough for the living. Come." He motioned over his shoulder, the doubling of arms made it a rippling dance more than a gesture. "Let us start by getting you ashore. I have a mind to show you off like something I caught." He began walking towards the golden crescent of stone and sand, not waiting for the Akvatari to make further pessimistic protest. "I'm Rezon," he called over his shoulder, "And I demand you enjoy yourself this morning!"

[Emmadalor]

Emmadalor fluttered after Rezon in a rather confused state of mind. Enjoy herself? She tried for a moment, but it felt too strange. The emotion of joy... she'd heard of it, but only rarely experienced such a thing, and never for long. The only joyful memories she had were of Velsri, and those memories inevitably led to pain and heartache. Melancholy was easier than heartache, and familiar, and comfortable in its own way despite being a bit unpleasant. Could this be what he meant, about fearing the future? Perhaps she did fear joy, feared what she would feel when it left her. But she had left everything she'd ever known, and was now lost and alone, and this man was he first person on her journey to offer friendship. Very well, she would trust this man, and try to feel joy today...just...not too much at once.

It was difficult to beat her wings fast enough to stay hovering at his level, but she wasn't sure how else to manage it. Normally, she would sit, but Rezon was already walking away, and seemed to expect her to follow. He had said something about wanting to show her off. Does he think I am worth showing off? she wondered, blushing a little. (Did that count as enjoying herself?) It surprised her; she had never gotten this kind of attention at home. Velsri was always the beautiful one. Emmadalor touched her wet hair, and tried to smooth the plain brown fur on her tail, but she had no time to make herself truly presentable. She could only hope that Rezon had a plan.

It was then she remembered that she should return his name with her own. It had been too long since she had met anyone new, it seemed that basic courtesy had slipped her mind. "Rezon," she tried out his name, pleased by the feel of the 'z' on her tongue. "My name is Emmadalor." After a moment of hesitation, she said in a rush, "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance!"