Log:Hearts Like Silver

Hearts Like Silver
And so it is that the White Bird's nest became his tomb, his blood-stained golds and blues reflected in the sky-clear water.
Participants Olivia Utridge, November, Weaver Utridge, Saulot	4 August, 2018 The Senior Proctor wants to regale a visiting tribe with tails from the local Changelings. She's offering a small bounty of meager hedgefruit (although major to them) for any would-be storytellers to come for a spell, and share what they may. Part of Perfected Metals
Location Suburban Sprawl
Weaver was leading the way again, largely because the hobs didn't know most of the other Changelings and to ensure that no murdering would go on for either side. From the rainbowside markets they travel, and when on the trod he watches the back due to the recent issues of other hobs. Due to this the walk is slower than usual, but they do eventually get there. The hob's village lies within the Suburban Sprawl. While the other homes sit as oddly as one would expect in the hedge. Except for several connected by way of metal walkways and walls that combine five houses into what amounts to a large factory of sorts. Outside several hobs are on break, although work can still be heard from inside. The goblinoid creatures don't stand much higher than four feet. The biggest variances come from the various colors of their skin from green to pink to red and so forth. Additionally and especially notable are their prosthetics. Arms, legs, and in some cases much of their torso or even their head. Sitting near an overlarge collection of wood is another set of hobs without those metallic limbs and are only colored brown. All of them are currently grumpings as they look around and await the arrival of the Changelings. At least Olivia has had some exposure to the hobs. Some of them probably know her by now. Not that it does much good; she still has no idea what she's doing or is capable of a good chunk of the time. She wanders along with her cousin, looking around curiously at the current goings-on around, studying the people and the buildings. November is November. November is also the Trickster, and the rainbow, which as Kermit could tell you is only illusion, but rainbows have nothing to hide. For the trip through the Hedge, she wears water. Yes, water. It's very pretty water, and very transparent, but then, SHE is transparent, too, so the pretense of human modesty is at least tacitly maintained. The floor length gown's movements are simultaneously as fluid, light and heavy as one would expect, were water somehow able to be woven into twisted, twined and intricately braided fabric. Her heels, too, are delicate confections of sunlight caught on dancing water, because wearing heels into the Hedge is how this is supposed to go. Unfamiliar with the group of hobs as she is, she studies them with somewhat distant curiosity, remaining silent, though the aurora of ever-shifting hues which floods the air around her body does briefly take on exact duplicates of each skin-colour in sight, flickering through as though making some wordless, internal catalogue. Brown IS included. As always, she carries herself with an air which equally wordlessly expects the world to shape itself to her whims for no reason other than that -she- is there to require it to do so. The hobs stop to stare at the many hued woman, and the other two Changelings are to be greeted by Ulidia. She's an older sort. Smaller than the rest with rubies for eyes and a pair of metal legs. Despite the newer legs she walks with a cane, and eventually makes her way to the group. She thwaps Weaver on the shin with the cae, and narrowing her eyes on November. "Who's this?" she asks curiously. "She is cold like coo-zen." Then she moves to November, and offers up a hand to the much smaller women. "Who are you?" she asks rather bluntly. "You are stronger than most." Olivia can't help but snort as Weaver gets smacked again. It seems to be an ongoing ritual with Ulidia, it would seem. She laces her fingers in front of her, looking from November to Ulidia curiously. Apparently she's been dubbed 'coo-zen' for life, but she doesn't seem to mind. Indeed, she is nowhere near as strong as November is; she certainly isn't wearing water. Or anything hedgespun. Her clothing is simple, normal even. By human standards, at least. Stares are accepted as comfortably as stars, trees or stones; they are part of the natural world. Upon Ulidia's approach, the too-Fae Fairest glances at Olivia and murmurs a sotto voce, "Rather colder, I expect," toward the other changeling before dropping into a ready, graceful crouch to make accepting Ulidia's hand easier on the old hob. Her queerly fluid hair, knee-length strands behaving as much like a liquid as a solid, drifts weightlessly in her wake on the way down, floating with blithe indifference to gravity and rippling in every breeze. Thankfully, the spines of frost which crown that icy brow serve to keep it away from her face. Her gown, of course, puddles about her feet like the water it is. "November an Nua," she replies, voice as lovely and inhumanly pure as one would expect. "Yes. I am." A slow smile builds, not a trace of shame or fear, as she studies the much smaller woman. "Who are you?" she asks, in turn. Notably, the thin scrim of frost on her hand melts in contact with body heat, but Ulidia's hand -would- briefly be host to fine frost-featherings of its own, complete with the same colourful 'mists' which rise from the rainbow's icy flesh. Despite the lower lighting, her colours glint and glitter quite clearly. "Kinder than these two," she says of the Ogres. "I am Ulidia. Senior Proctor of The Iron Tongues." No pride nor cander, just a matter of fact from the hob. She lifts her hand, examining it for a few moments. "Come. Come," She motions for them to follow, and Weaver remains a bit behind, grousing at her behind her back. He mumbles something under his breath while waving for Olivia to come along. "It's good that you all came. The Havka have come, and we've told them much about the Lost Ones that have passed through." The chieftan of the lot is easy to spot, he's much larger than the rest and sports a headdress made of feathers and bone. "You it?" he grumps at the Changelings. "I thought these fakers were bigger an' shit." Olivia's brows rise up sharply when Ulidia speaks, eyes going a bit wide. "What did -I- do?!" she squeaks, lifting one hand to press it against her chest in surprise as she looks between Weaver and Ulidia. "I've done nothing but help!" She huffs a little bit indignantly, walking along with Weaver with a similarly disgruntled expression now settled on her face. The faerie Ancient dips her head a polite increment when given Ulidia's name, accepting it and its delivery with the same simple grace with which she rises up to stand on her ridiculous high heels again. Only three-inch heels, mind, but any heel is ridiculous in the Hedge. She gives Ulidia a curious glance at the reference to being kinder than the Utridge Ogres, glances at Weaver and Olivia, then follows behind the hob until she indicates the 'Havka' chieftain. Again, the stranger is studied with distant curiosity, intent, but impersonal. "I lack the context behind your statement. What are we 'faking'?" "The real lords of the land," he notes brusquely. Ulidia rolls her jeweled eyes to that, and turns to Olivia. "You are coo-zen to him and look like him. You are smarter than the dumb dragon, but you are a dragon." She nods as if this somehow makes it all true. Then the giant set of logs she turns and after a sharp whistle three other hobs approach with torches - two men and a lady. They turn to the Changelings, a purple-haired one looks to Olivia, stands on her toes, and gives her a wave before turning her attention back to the pile of wood. It's lit ablaze, and soon the chieftain continues. "The True Faeries. You all are fakers, but you," he points to November, "I can't tell with you. Are you one of the real ones? We came to hear some of what you fakers can tell us about this place." "I don't even know what that means," Olivia grumbles, crossing her arms a bit petulantly. "And what's wrong with being a dragon, anyway? I don't have wings. I don't breathe fire." Pause. "Or acid." She puffs out a breath between her lips and turns her eyes towards the purple-haired girl, offering her a small smile and a nod of acknowledgement. At the mention of stories, historical tales of this place, she looks blankly between Weaver and November, shrugging a bit. Inquisitive, while Ulidia is explaining to Weaver and Olivia, November is offering a calm, polite, "I agree that the Fae are true lords of their land," with the air of one discussing the finer points of philosophy over tea. "I disagree with my understanding of your assertion that the Lost are 'fakers' in comparison. Inferior, certainly. Less skilled in the arts of the Fae, to be sure, but those arts were given into once-human hands by the Fae themselves. Most Lost, in my experience, wish rather to be human than to be Fae. A futile endeavour, but I can't begrudge them the effort." A hand spreads slender fingers. "In that, I do agree, they 'fake' humanity." And, being a lovely and wonderful and SO totally not tricksy person, she slides a sly smile Olivia's way, light glinting from frosty lashes and transparent lids. "Would you like to begin, lovely? I feel that I am at a disadvantage; you know the Senior Proctor's people, and I have only just made their acquaintance." Olivia's expression remains mostly blank at the idea of telling a story. A tale. A legend worthy of retelling. "Uh." She wasn't actually expecting to have this, and looks completely lost before her eyes slide over towards her cousin. Help. "I know them, sure, but I'm not sure what sorts of things I could possibly tell them. This is a learning experience for me, honestly. Weaver keeps taking me places, but I don't really have anything to tell yet. I don't KNOW anything. Yet." The light dances in Ulidia's many-faceted eyes, and she nods. "That is fine." She smiles for the first time tonight. She nods and then moves to sit alongside the chief. He sneers down at Ulidia, but his body language softens then. "Yes, you do, but I gotcha." Weaver clears his throat, and sets his hands behind his back. His wings spread and his mantle flares. The shadows creep around despite the glow of the fire, and he looks as much monster as man. "There were two changelings that used to live around here. All love, happiness, and all that other bullshit. You're following me? Good." Weaver clasps his hands together, and continues on. "Well these two lovebirds were some of the bravest warriors Summer had. The type that'd cut your dick off just because you looked funny." He pauses, smiling at the two ladies. "Or tits, too. They weren't that picky on who they picked a fight with. Well, they started wanting bigger fights. The humans couldn't offer that any more, and the cops weren't worth a damn. So they upgraded to Changelings. Lost Ones. Beat the right shit outta them to. Punching and kicking from Phoebe. Stabbing and slicing from Amber." Weaver stops for a moment to imitate the actions, and quite clearly not one to use much in the way of weapons. After stumbling for a bit, he dusts off the front of his shirt as if it's nothing at all. After clearing his throat he goes on again. "They were too good for them too, and started looking around in the hedge. It didn't matter who or what got in their way. Grave wyrms. Fort breakers too. Cut 'em down like it wasn't shit. Then they found the best of the best. They thought it was a Changeling, but he seemed stronger than the others. They cut him down too, but he came back. Again. And again. He just kept coming back. Until it became to wear them down. They grew tired and eventually Phoebe went down." He stops, frowning for a moment. As if he might just care, but there's a smirk from the ogre. "When Phoebe died Amber snapped and finally found her trueself. She killed him, and then she knew who she was. A keeper. Her keeper. Their keeper. He shaped her perfectly into what he said she'd be. A killer. A warrior. The best, and now he finally got what he'd wanted. She'd earned his title, and in turn would bear his burden as Pedgo k'g'lwamek." He stumbles on that last bit, and can't quite get it out compltely. It's close enough for Weaver as he ignores it to keep talking. "She continued her killing, now out of despair and rage. She grew into that title as. Fuck. What was it? Oh, right. She that returns to yell. It eventually took her over before she couldn't handle the hedge anymore either, and she made her own bloody hell to stay in for eternity. She took from the world, from the hedge, wherever. She'll find her own champion. Her one true warrior until she can pass on that burden. She's still taking people now, or so I've heard." This earns a brief bought of applause from the Havka, but not from The Iron Tongues. They weren't excepting such a drab story, and it doesn't impress the chieftain either. He tosses a dream-a-drupe at Weaver. It rolls off of his chest as the dragon stares at it, and the Havka chief shouts, "What's with all this love shit!?" He's still stuck on the beginning. Laughing quietly, unabashedly inhuman in the merrily melodic amusement, November tells Olivia, "The Fae enjoy creativity. How could their neighbours not?" Still, creativity or no, the rainbow listens to Weaver's tale when he begins, her colours drifting through aimless swirls which are difficult to see clearly, given the lighting. When it ends, too, her colours continue their aimless drift, though more of them are bloody now, matching the described hell in the tale. "Not a realm I would fare well in, I expect," she murmurs, amused, then flicks a glance toward Olivia as if to ask whether the newer fae has a tale of her own to add. Olivia listens to Weaver's tale attentively, stepping off to one side as he spreads his wings, allowing him a bit more room to put on the show. She clasps her hands loosely in front of her, head tilting curiously to one side as she listens, considering how much of it is truth and how much is embellishment. It's impossible to say, really. A brow rises as one of the fruits ends up hurled at her cousin and she turns her head over towards the chieftain to stare at him. Rolling her eyes, she glances back in November's direction and shakes her head quickly, looking more than a little intimidated by the entire situation. November does not -act- the parts of her tale. That's what illusions are for. With all appropriate drama, she gestures, and a trailing mist follows her hand, other mists rising from the ground to meet it in luminescent, fleecy white -- then fading, to reveal the illusory landscape which has seemingly replaced the area around them. Since the hobs were all within the illusion when it was cast, they may see through it to the reality it covers, if they so choose. High, high above a barren land of taupe/tan/browning rocky earth and scraggly scrub-brush clinging to rain-scoured cliffs, the remnants of human skyscrapers cling in rusting, aged majesty. A bird quite fully as large as a house is perched atop one of the buildings, its feathers cloud white and sharp-seeming, its proportions not quite right for the mortal world. November's voice, when she speaks, seems to come from the air itself. "Once, there lives a white bird in the future of a human past. His nest is old-bone ivory and new-leaf green, crumbling gray concrete and rust-red brick, but his very favourite part of it is mirror blue, the pool of sky-clear water held within a tumbled stone atop the highest bellyscraper of the clouds, for in it, he sees himself. His beak is fearsome sharp, his eye a keen white-blue, his claws and wings the bright-loud thunder of the lightning in the storms which carry prey, and to his eye, he is beautiful, terrible, alone." The scene shifts, a lushly forested, green and living place, if equally barren. Not of life, but of humanity. A woman walks through it, a bit past middle age, toward a primitive lashed-wood hut with what appear to be hand-made tools and utensils, very little metal anywhere, but rather a lot of magical conveniences to serve the purpose for her. "Once, there lives a woman in the present of a human future. Her home is old-bark rough and new-bark smooth, the greens and greys of nut-brown trees in hair and eye and skin, weathered by long living. Cast out, away, she lives alone, but solitude holds secrets well, and secrets are her solace. A witch, they called her, and a witch she is, was, and will be, but time is fey and fickle. Some kingdoms past, a lord secured a promise: she will be free, unfettered and unharmed -- if she deals with the White Bird of Liewe. "So she does, did, and will continue to do, though the bird may know it not." The woman, steps into the hut, the illusory scene following her into the intimate darkness, and as her silhouette steps out on what seems to be the other side, it is immediately obvious that she is far younger, and that she is not in the same forest. The trees are not as gnarled, not as strong, not as ancient. Most importantly, there are other buildings, homes, even a castle in the distance. A troop of men in armour stands before her, led by a regal, if teenaged figure in bright armour and a blue surcoat. A golden crown is on his head. He looks bored, petulant, annoyed, and points away into the distance. "Greater than the kings before him, greater than the princes who have followed in the ruin of his wake, the lord to whom she pledged had power beyond telling, but he was callow, young, lacking in the wisdom of the world. When the storms began, he accepted them without question, though they tore furrows in the soil, stole farmers from their fields, and babes from mothers' arms. "Mothers were untouched, spared from the storms, sign of the witch's mercy; without a mother, how could more prey be born? Prayers a-plenty were sent to the gods, visions given, quests bestowed." Cyclonic storms, seemingly a cross between a massive hurricane and tornado, tear across the land, but touch down only in very specific places, a frightful blend of raw strength and almost delicate precision, catching up people and animals and carrying them off. A brief hint toward the edges implies the colours and sere, dusty landscape around the Bird, before the group's surroundings are lost in the tangled shiftings of the storms, endless variations on the same horrific theme. "Three heroes strove, and failed, to stop the storms: "The first hunted the spirits of the sky, and left his blood as rain for those below." Those gathered feel an illusory breeze ruffling hair and clothes, and the soft, warm-slick pattering of illusory blood from above, copper-sweet and a bit too realistic for comfort. "The second sought the knowledge of far distant lands, returning with nine precious glories, only two of which remain, the rest long lost and scoured away." Nine glowing orbs, each a different colour, spiral up from all directions, swirling about the group, then clustering together around a silhouette in a bright column of light which strikes from above, like lightning writ larger than any lightning seen by man. All but two of the glowing orbs fade, dissolving into nothingness, as the hero shatters and fades away. Those two orbs settle, nestling into the earth, and scuttling figures scoop them up to take them away. "The third, wiser than the rest by far, spoke to the wind. 'Whence come you, and whither?' he called into the storm." Another silhouette appears, stepping out onto a high stone cliff, hands cupped about his mouth as if to be heard from far away. "The wind, heeding his words, swirled once around him, twice, and on its third spin bore him up and away, beyond the kingdom's far borders, to the witch's solitary home, but its aid carried a price: he could not speak to it again." The landscape shifts, swirling in a dizzying rush to resume the lush greens of the witch's ancient, lonely wood. "The witch, hitherto unsurpassed in cleverness, was pleased by his arrival, for it is one thing to be clever and another to be proud. Green and grey and brown she was, and the hero all bedecked in blue and gold, armour glinting in the dappled shade, a kind soul, and a noble one. "His nobility proved his undoing, for the witch, alone so long, told him the truth: she had been exiled by the Callow King of kingdoms past, who bade her deal with the White Bird of Liewe, lest she be slave, captive, and slain. He has spoken to the wind; he knows the power and its price, and that not all costs are of her choosing." The two figures appear to be speaking, almost arguing, before the hero girds himself and marches off toward the edge of the forest, the view panning out to show his tiny, gold-blue glint starting the trek across the Bird's sere soil toward the towering skyscrapers of a lost era. "And so it was that he went forth, afoot and alone, to face the Bird of Liewe. "And so it is that the White Bird's nest became his tomb, his blood-stained golds and blues reflected in the sky-clear water. "And so it will be that she who sent him lives, alone, and deals with the White Bird of Liewe." Weaver had copped a seat when November began. His reptilian gaze remained on her, although he did bump shoulders with Olivia when the story shifted into the hunt. Like a kid listening to his mother's faerie tales he listens attentively until she's done. He claps happily, although the chief doesn't appears as pleased. At least initially. There's no fruit sailing at the rainbow's head so she's done something right. He nods, arms crossed over his chest. "This pleases Stomachfires." He nods again, and poitns to November. "Of course the better story came from Close to Lords." Ulidia then agrees with a smile she can't quite get off of her face. This doesn't please The Iron Tongues as much as all this sadness doesn't bring much mirth to them. Olivia listens attentively, eyes going wide at the images as they're woven. Alive. That's just... that's a lot. She inches in closer to her cousin, half stepping behind him as the illusions act out the story that November tells. It's vaguely intimidating, and a little bit unnerving, to see this sort of thing. Still, it is a good story. She offers her own applause with everyone else, giving November a small smile. Yes. Very realistic. Of course, the glowing pink bunny ears which linger just out of Weaver's sight above his head are anything but real. November dips her head, accepting what approval she is given, and evidently sees no reason to contradict the chief who calls her close to Fae. Why would she? It's only the truth. Poor Olivia. The left ear twitches above Weaver's head, and a fluffy white cotton tail glows at his rump. Hey, she has control of these illusions for hooouurs. May as well use them for something. Weaver is completely oblivious, and calls for one of the Iron Tongues to come over. As he does, a taller one with a prosthetic chest. "Can you bring us a few bramble beers, and- Hey. What's so funny?" He doesn't have the sense to look around, but the hob finds his new, lagamorphic look hilarious, and doubles over at the sight. The other hobs join in too as Weaver shrugs and rolls his eyes. The chieftain looks around, as confused as the other Havka. "I don't get it." Olivia's eyebrows hitch up and she lifts one hand to cover her mouth, her body turning slightly away from Weaver to stifle the laughter that's threatening to erupt at the extra appendages that appear on her cousin. She clears her throat a bit, offering an overly-large grin to her cousin, but managing to stay mostly composed. "You are looking truly fierce right now, Weaver. Just... the most intimidating person here. Really." November, who is of course completely innocent of any potential wrongdoing or error, dips her head to the hobs again and mentions, "I would have enjoyed hearing more tales of the Lost, had we more storytellers at hand. Still, we do have Olivia." Olivia, yes, who suddenly has illusory dragon wings far larger than Weaver's. Very obviously fake if examined at all closely, given the nature of the chimerical diversions, but there. "Have we been of assistance?" This, to the chieftain, expression as polite and otherwise unreadable as ever. The chieftain nods. He's still as stoic as ever, arms finally unfurling from his chest. "This pleases." He nods, and stands. "We shall carve this into the backs of our enemies for our next battle, and your names shall be remembered." He turns around to grab a horn, and after blaring that noise out the rest of the Hakva rise up after him. As they begin their march away Weaver simply shrugs, and looks to Olivia. "Pretty good, right?" He opens his mouth to ask something else, but then he spots those wings. "What the actual fuck!?" And then jealousy sets in.