[The Scholar's Forum] A Tale To Lift Your Spirits (Wrenmae)

by **Minerva Agatha Zipporah** on May 22nd, 2012, 5:16 pm

Minerva zoned out a bit as the first man started going on about history. It had never been a subject that held much interest for her, and the man seemed a little to full of himself, like he wanted to be the center of attention. Minerva never cared about being center stage or being noticed (even though, absent of her awareness, her behavior quite often made her the center of attention). She just believed in getting the job done and moving on. Stories and poetry should be the same; say what you needed to say, educate your audience, then be done.

But this man seemed quite intent on stealing the show, so much so that Minerva rolled her eyes at his pompous grandeur. She whispered back to Wren, probably a bit louder than she should have, "Oy, anything's be better 'an 'is garbage..." Her comments drew some sharp looks from the others nearby, but she didn't even notice. She tended to ignore the looks people gave her.

She gestured vaguely to the audience and said, "'E ain't gettin' 'em involved. Ain't gettin' 'em excited. Chap's gotta learn 'ow ta rile folks up..."

When the man finished, he received polite clapping from the crowd, but there was no energy. The next person in line to speak seemed hesitant and nervous. Tock was bored. She decided on a whim that somebody needed to liven this show up.

That somebody might as well be her.

Rather than 'slipping in', as Wren had suggested, Tock cut straight to the front of the line and stole the podium. This drew some gasps from the crowd. Everyone else had signed up, and were scheduled to speak in a certain order. Everyone else was dressed up fancy. Tock wasn't on the list, and she was still wearing her work clothes and tool belt, with sawdust smeared across her shirt. She didn't care though, and just started performing before the confused people around her had a chance to tell her 'no'.

She raised her hands above her head and started clapping in rhythm. The people just stared at her in confusion for a moment, until in between claps she waved her hands upwards, encouraging them. When one person started clapping in rhythm with her, she nodded at him and grinned, and soon others joined in. Once she had a good number of people clapping, she stepped forward and lifted her hands towards the first clapper to indicate he should rise. He frowned in confusion, and she simply grabbed him by his shoulders and guided him to his feet. Still clapping in between each one, she moved down the line and started guiding people to stand, until they all got the idea and everyone was on their feet.

Minerva wasn't much of a poet. All she knew was bawdy bar songs, and somehow she doubted this crowd would appreciate them. So she decided to make something up on the spot, not really giving a damn if it was any good. As long as it was lively, she figured people would enjoy it. She stepped back to the podium, but instead of standing behind it, she hoisted herself up to sit on it, then continued clapping her hands above her head as she started to half recite/half sing the first words that came off the top of her head:

This city ain't crashed to the ground
Why does ya all look so down?
So what if a storm rocked yer boats?
That ain't no noose around yer throats

Ain't no reason to be sad
Why ain'tcha all just fine an' glad?
Don't know 'bout y'all, but fer me
I'd rather see yer cheer an' glee!

So don't be quiet, make some sound!
Send some good cheer round an' round!
So quit 'uddlin' in yer overcoats
An' 'elp me sing these 'ere notes!

Stand up, an' bring yer Ma and Dad
I promise ye'll be glad ya 'ad
Now ladies, gents, I sure can see
What 'is city's bound to be!

Don't matter 'ow 'at storm did pound
No matter if she comes back 'round!
Jus' fix back up 'em big sailboats
An' button up ye ol' raincoats!

Cause ye can see, it ain't so bad
Ain't no reason to be sad
This city's great, an' I know she
Is bound fer better, wait an' see!

by **Wrenmae** on May 23rd, 2012, 11:49 pm

“Not bad,” Zan muttered from within Wrenmae, seeping up and down in his stomach, “The girl has a talent for improvisation.” He was inclined to agree, but honestly his attention was otherwise captured.

The way she moved, bringing her calloused hands up to clap, calling them to rise, it swept the assembly with strange and unexpected energy. The participants were slow to move, to stand, to join, but when they did the thunder of synchronized clapping filled the hall with the noise of their presence. Smiles were born from concerned silence, joy from trepidation. Her poem was simple; the rhyme scheme of an amateur, but her voice was the quirky resonate brogue of energy. He found himself standing, applauding, clapping his hands along with her suggested tempo. With each resounding crack, he fell more and more into her performance, the way she moved, her smile, the sheer presence of her conviction.

Erudite should have been here, she would have enjoyed the presentation. Tock held the attention of her peers by the throat, forcing them, at least, to take notice of her presence if nothing else. But in the end, was that not the lot of all performers? In lieu of true entertainment, attention at least kept their names immortal and their faces carved in memory. Certainly Tock embraced that part of the performer’s life. As she finished, Wrenmae applauded, whistling along with several others of the crowd. The first tale teller looked annoyed, his arms crossed across his emblazoned blue chest dispassionately.

He would have waited for her to return to her seat, congratulated her after she had a chance to absorb the praise of her act. But the poor boy had no handle on his own mind, nor the dangers that lay with immersing himself in this kind of crowd. Somewhere between applause and sitting, he lost himself, vanished entirely and was stuffed into some compartment far in the back of his own damaged psyche.

Weaver held vigil now, although the name was more a title than anything else.

Praise-Drunk, eyes…wide, steps were the pitter patter of punctuation, each legfall a story and each footfall an end. He took no route constructed of man, no, vaulting over the empty benches and gaps between swaying bodies. Up! Up! Thy temper is tempo, Up! Up! Vault the skyward leap! The space between Tock and himself was a ribbon of folding energy, a whip curling, a child yawning, the breath of movement that forced rhythm, forced sound, forced character.

Tock glowed, Word-heavy, bright-spoken, she was the protagonist in the room, a hero given form and function through haphazard rhyme scheme. Wrenmae’s eyes had changed, morphing Djed lancing across his gaze to brighten the color to an almost luminescent green. Sliding forward, stepping upward, he brought a hand on Tock’s shoulder, held his hand out to the audience, and spoke.

“They say that once, Mizahar was perfect!” He called it out to them, sang it, “That the face of the world was smooth, without texture!” Releasing Tock, he took her shoulders and turned her to him, his face, posture, everything that he once had been before electrified, elastic. “And in its arrogance, its perfect roundness, it did decry the sky and its misshapen clouds, its uneven stars, the shapes of the moon.”

He paused, winking at Tock, then glancing back out to the audience, as if including them in on his little secret, “They say the sky took offense to Mizahar, to its brash superiority, her haughtiness. They say the sky readied itself, prepared for violence and waited only that moment of arrogance when it crossed the line.”

His voice fell, almost whispering, a hissing out over the gathered masses. “But what could anger the entire sky? What could motivate the heavens to vent its wrath?” He grinned, turned, and pressed his lips against Tock’s with unexpected fervor, his soft palms cupping her chin, her cheek, capitalizing on her shock for the one moment in time where all laws were as word-weary as the dying, leaving holes within surprise he exploited for his tale.

He waited for her retort, hoped it was what he expected, a blow of some kind, knock him tumble-tumble from their high place and to among the lessers, the watchers, the waiters, and the guessers…let them play meaning with entertainment, what was real and what was not. This was no Alvadas, but in games of stories.

What worlds are true but the ones spoken first?

by **Minerva Agatha Zipporah** on May 24th, 2012, 12:51 am

The applause and whistling came as a pleasant surprise, and Tock grinned wide, laughing giddily. She made a sweeping bow (she was NOT the type to curtsey), feeling her face flush red at all the attention. Being stared at or being the center of attention was nothing new to her, but applause was something else entirely.

She barely noticed Wren heading towards her. She didn't really know him, beyond the briefest of conversation they'd had earlier. She'd be lucky if she remembered his name (had he even told it to her? Amidst all the work and business of the afternoon she wasn't sure). She was too caught up in the moment, though some part of her noticed the glow in his eyes, yet things were happening too fast for her to stop and focus on that strange detail.

When he started speaking, she grinned and gave him her attention, thinking he was merely about to spin his own song or story. She was ready to step back and give him the stage when he spun her to face him. She was clapping along with the crowd, giving her own applause for the next upcoming performance. Her clapping slowed as she focused on his face and the glowing eyes started to actually register in her conscious thought. Her hands slowed and grew still, the grin fading from her lips.

Then he grabbed her, and kissed her, and she felt violated.

Gut instinct would have been to punch him right in his big nose, or knee him in the groin. But her awareness of the crowd and the several stern talkings-to she had received from her boss tempered her anger just a little. Not completely, though.

So when her arm came back, instead of a fist it was a slap, though she still put her FULL body weight into it, hitting hard enough to stagger him. She then screamed at him, "I done gots a boyfriend, ya blimey JERK!"

by **Wrenmae** on May 24th, 2012, 3:49 am

Withdrawing, retreating, his neck craned backward, his steps stuttered. She, face ablaze with conflicting emotions, wild, shocked, rage-swoon, and came her hand to crease the air between them.

Smack

The sound of flesh and bone on flesh and bone, richochet! Thunder-loud! Pop! Force of unrelenting emotional eruption, counterpoint, her response, the objection! Speak with with the words on your tongue and the muscles in your hand! Two part-retort.

Perfect.

He wheeled, spun, hurled himself through the air, lending momentum to momentum and soaring for a moment before the (fallen) crash. Tangled limbs and digits splaying, all the gasps that held, the voices swaying. To play or to lie in pain, oh choices.

For moments upon moments there was silence, it followed Tock's words like a tagalong, peering wearily at them all in the wake of the moment.

Out came his hands, his arms, drifting up towards Tock, pointing at her. "And so in its perfection, Mizahar thought itself to be sovereign over all in existence, that even the sky should submit a perfect kiss. But oh, did the sky tremble in its rage, and brought down fury upon the foolish Mizahar."

Slapped hands on white marble, rolling and standing, turning and speaking, grinning, bright-eyed story-mad, exultant and enthused.

"It tore into Mizahar, ripped holes where water bled, pushed up jagged Kalean peaks of bone and skin, tore landmass from landmass, and sundered Mizahar's perfect beauty." He put a hand to his face in emphasis, skin was pulsing, red-hot, color-drunk, wild in the aftermath of longing connection. Blush, rash, or welt, they all became one in the moments of their birth.

"And from these wounds, true beauty came. It seeped from the trees of distant Falyndr, crossed the snowy pristine peaks of Kalea, the golden sands of Ekytol, the emerald sea of Cyphrus, the Woodlands of Syliras. And through its holes and tears, a wind blew music, music which brought to life the first man. Even in destruction, there is beauty, for we see that there is always more to be built, to be understood."

Eyes traveled to Tock, winked, once, "To be experienced."

Attention followed him, clung to the threads of his clothes like burrs, crawling upon him, devouring him. He welcomed it.

"Stand tall, Zeltivans, No storm of sky can destroy us, Hunger will not hold sovereign here, and the sea will never wear away our stones." Standing now, dusting himself off, "We are Zeltiva!" Chanting, crying, singing, "We are not so easily defeated! We make destruction into beauty!"

Applause, hesitant, wide-eyed, shock-glut.

Perfect

And he was not himself.

Wrenmae blinked in the wake of the cheering, the clapping, staring wide-eyed. "I...err" He stepped back, afraid, his every nerve telling him to run. Why was he here? How did he get up here? What happened?

His face throbbed, and he put a hand to it hesitantly, hissing and bringing it away, flabbergasted. What happened? He looked to Tock, the only familiar face here, and her expression was twisted in furious indignation. He whipped around, searching for the subject of her ire.

There was only him.

"I..."

He looked down at his hands.

Never safe. Never in control. He'd done something again. He couldn't even remember.

"I..." Eyes wide, terrified, mortified, he backed away from them all. "I..."

He couldn't stop staring at his hands, at Tock, at the crowd.

"I..."

He ran.

by **Minerva Agatha Zipporah** on May 24th, 2012, 4:15 am

Tock stared at Wren like... well, like everyone always stared at her. Like he was crazy.

Then, as his story continued, her eyes narrowed and her fists clenched at her sides. He'd done that on purpose. He'd used her, used her touch and her body, to put on his goddamn show. He'd grabbed her and forced his lips upon her just because he wanted to entertain everyone.

It made her feel dirty.

When he winked at her, she grit her teeth. Back home, he'd be flat on his back right now as she pummeled him for this. Here... here she had to worry about getting in trouble. She had to worry about her stupid reputation, about her job and school and all the trouble she could get into. She was already on the Bossman's list at work, though she was trying hard to make sure her successes and her skills outweighed her outbursts. She couldn't afford to get into a fight here.

Not in front of people, anyway.

And then he ran, and she followed.

She ran after him as fast as she could with her limp, ignoring the pain from her still sore foot. Once they were out of sight and earshot of the crowd, she called out to him, "Oy! You! Blimey bludger!" When she couldn't catch up to him, she pulled Grippy from his leather holster and aimed him at the fleeing man's back. The extendable arm shot out and closed the distance, and she clamped the claw down on the back of Wren's shirt. She then stopped and dug her heels in to force him to stop.

Slightly out of breath from the short run, she strode forward, reeling in Grippy as she moved, until she was right in front of Wren. Then she did what she had wanted to do the first time, but couldn't because of the witnesses.

She punched him dead in the face.

"I ain't no whore fer ya ta use fer yer damn show!" she screamed at him, red in the face. "I ain't no showgirl, an' I ain't nobody's puppet! Ya EVER think o' comin' near me wit' yer disgustin' lips again, an' I swear ta the Gods I'll rip ya a new arse'ole, YA GOT IT!?" She shook her fist at him to make sure he got the message, holstered Grippy, and turned and stalked off into the night.

by **Wrenmae** on May 25th, 2012, 7:34 pm

Wrenmae sprinted from the applause, his face red, eyes darting from corner to corner. He half expected to see the phantoms of his dreams there, crouching behind alleyways or watching him from the rooftops. Shroud? Weaver? Egyptus? The names of his ‘selves’ as they’d revealed in the dreams with Ulric, always shadowing his victories with despair, snatching away his memories and time. Who was he anymore, what was he? His legs pumped adrenaline, his breathing short and constrained in his throat. He aimed for the open streets, for the docks, anywhere really. The destination wasn’t half as important as the journey anyways. He ran not from Tock, not from the Scholar’s Forum, but from the realization that he had cursed himself as deliberately as if he’d cut off his own hand. Hypnotism…the book warned him of what could happen. Foolish child that he never listened! Now what? Run forever? Live the fragmented quarter life plagued with blackouts and events he had no control of? Was suicide an easier option? Should he fling himself into the sea?

Something bit into his back, catching through his shirt and burying into his skin. It felt like fingers, claws, and for a single terrified moment he thought a ‘self’ had crawled from the shadows to pull him back. But when he turned it was Tock, her face a mask of grimace and snarling rage. The thing in her hand…whatever it was, hissed back on a metal cord, and she holstered it at her side. He couldn’t begin to explain to her that he had no recollection of what happened, that it wasn’t him that…did whatever it is he did. His hands rose defensively, palms out, his own face radically different from what it had been when he was Weaver. Brown eyes, wide and panicked, all the confidence bled from his face leaving a wan and bloodless film over his vitality. “Let me try to-“ He began, his voice stuttering over itself,

She punched him.

Wrenmae wheeled under the blow falling back to clatter onto the street, his vision swam lights turned and swam in his gaze and the sound of his heartbeat overcame her growling warning. Something about…lips, something about whore, or puppets…gods, what had he DONE to her? She didn’t seem damaged, just angry…but he’d hurt her somehow, at least insulted her gravely.

“Want I should mess her up for ya, bossman?” Zan chirped as she turned and stalked into the darkness, “We still got the jump on her. Ya know, rough her up with a one-two reimancy combo! Or something.” He felt Zan crawl up from his stomach, the warm liquid slither of his familiar coming up. Pressing his hands over his mouth and nose, Wrenmae shook his head, waiting till she had vanished into the night to relinquish his grip.

“No…” he said, laying back “Let her go. I don’t know what I did to her, and you won’t tell me.”

“Fraid not,” the familiar sighed, “I promised to bond to you, bossman, you and you and you and you. Just cause you’re all scattered doesn’t mean you aren’t yourself. Everyone gets their secrecy, boyo, everybuddy.” Wrenmae groaned, lifting his hand to his nose. It came back bloody, he let the hand drop and sighed.

“Maybe we pay Erudite a little late night hello?” The familiar offered, “Get her to fix you right up with her mark?”

Again, Wrenmae was already shaking his head as he stood, “Later, I think…I think I need to just rest tonight.”

“Boring answer,” Zan scolded, “Not much of a go-getter are you?”

“No,” Wrenmae said, standing and heading back to the University, “I guess I’m not anymore.”

by **Cascade** on May 30th, 2012, 3:47 pm

Adventurer's Loot

Minerva's Loot :

Wrenmae's Loot :

I always find it funny how Tock is so oblivious to the fact that she has an accent. Haha. Also love Wren's conversations with Zan, very amusing. All in all... this was a very enjoyable read, and I was amused by it. Can't wait to see how Satevis and Tock treat Wren from now on (seeing as they have classes together). If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to PM me!