View source for Log:Spinning A Colourful Yarn

{{ Log
| cast = [[Franklyn_Garreau|Franklyn]] & [[November]]
| summary = Can't sleep? Smoke and drink coffee in the public gardens instead. That's what Franklyn is doing, when November rolls in early - a perfect opportunity to start asking questions and sharing stories.
| gamedate = 2017.10.19
| gamedatename = 
| subtitle = "Nocte te ipsum: know thyself. Remember. Never, never let go of your memories."
| location = Riverside Gardens at Sugarhouse Studios
| categories = Changeling, Mortal
| log =Man. It's really early.

Early and pretty chilly; brisk and clear and absolutely stinkin' of woodsmoke. Here in the Sugarhouse Studio gardens, some entrepreneurial soul has already started feeding the fires over in yonder tiny sugarshack, and soon the vats of maple sap will be set to boil into syrup. Who would wake up so early, to start the day bright and early and busy themselves with humble labour?

Not Franklyn Garreau. She's perched on one of the benches just off the garden paths - bundled up for autumn in a long sheering coat, smoking a cigarette with one hand, and holding up a moderately sized square -- maybe a picture frame? -- which is entirely covered in brown packing paper and tied up with string.

Yet the Mortal girl is staring at it, like it holds something both precious and troubling. Her bag is by Franky's feet, which are clad in tall emerald coloured suede boots of a distinctly retro style, and totally on what would usually be the seat of the bench. She's got her butt on the curved back rest, see - precarious and... Totally Franky. Why sit where people want you to sit? She's a rebel, damnit.

A rebel who looks like she's about two loud noises and a bit of bad news away from entirely losing her mind. Franklyn looks like she's smoking that cigarette with some vain hope that it provides not just nicotine, but energy -- the girl is ''weary'', but it's the damnedest thing? Because 'bohemian waif on the edge of a nervous breakdown' is a ''great'' look on her. Ugh. Go figure. It girl expressiveness is shining through; along with that tempestuous emotional landscape filled with desperation and longing and paranoia and wonder. Girl's got a lot on her mind, apparently.


November, on the other hand, is the very image of receptive calm, kaleidoscopic truths veiled in long-lost humanity for the time being, though not everything can be hidden so neatly. Her eyes, for one, are a vibrant red-orange, and that heavy thigh-length hair is as many-coloured as ever, its streaks impossibly fine, its straight and glossy length almost artificially absent any trace of curling or split ends.

Today, rather than wearing it entirely loose, strands have been twisted back from her temples and curled at the back of her head in a messy bun, pinned in place by a simple No.2 pencil with a graphite-smudged eraser.

Her attire? A bright orange tank top under a long sky blue tee with a fraying, well-stretched collar. The t-shirt's breast reads 'I go to bed with a different author every night' across an image of red lingerie draping down over the edge of a stack of books. Beneath her mingled tops, a plain skirt of pleated black cotton covers thigh to knee, lengthy legs bare until black and purple plaid ankle socks disappear into fluorescent pink and purple running shoes. Chunky bracelets decorate both bare wrists, a cheap oval mood ring worn on her right hand.

Upon walking into the garden, she looks up, first, after a quick assessing glance for anyone likely to bump into her while she does, bright eyes studying the colourful maples and their leaves. This is November. Come on. How could she NOT be attracted to the nearest source of saturated colour? When she drops her eyes, Franklyn's perch catches her attention, a small and crooked smile touching the left side of her lips. "Franklyn!" she calls, announcing herself thereby, and begins walking nearer.


Oh, to be a carefree rainbow ice goddess masquerading as a colourful librarian... Franklyn has no such luxury; she is a mere Mortal, trapped in the complicated trials and tribulations of no doubt petty mortal concerns. Right? Like taxes or some barista who was mean to her or a parental problem -- it's not like Franky has any ''real'' '''significant''' problems, after all.

Whatever.

Franky is lost entirely in thought, until that brightly coloured tall drink of troubling water calls out her name. She blinks, takes a biiiig drag on that cigarette, and pulls the totally-a-wrapped-up-painting closer to her body -- she knows that accent. It's such a weird one. "...November!" Said like a indictment - j'accuse! - then Franklyn takes ''another'' drag, carefully tips ash to the ground, and pulls together all that well trained stage craft so she can put on a big old smile and look Attentive and Engaged. "Look at you!" Because Franky can barely look elsewhere. "What are, ah... You... Doing?"

Okay fine. Franky's not on her best form today - it's exhausting, being an actress; a little wariness creeps on in the edges, as November is looked over oh-so-carefully.


The faerie rainbow, regardless of how casually she is dressed, isn't bothering to hide the innate .. well, aristocracy isn't an innaccurate term for her bearing. Downright Gentrified, in fact. She carries herself with an air of competence and confidence, a natural leader.

Franklyn, now... those vibrant red-orange eyes study the mortal with mild sympathy, though she does, admittedly, avoid standing anywhere near the smoke from Franky's cigarette, positioning herself upwind when she reaches the other woman's bench.

"Oh, wandering this way and that," is the ready answer to the actress' query, accompanied by a sunny smile and the barest hint of an Irish lilt, as always. "Hadn't come inside this place before. Bruised my behind something fierce earlier, so the walking's better than trying to sit." And my, what must a bruised ice statue look like..? Pity Franklyn can't see -that- right now. "Word to the wise: horses are tall, and a name like Huge Yellow really should have clued me in on that." There's a hint of rueful self-deprecation, humour. She accepts her own stupidity and wears it well.


So Gentrified. It has Franklyn looking both sheepish and fascinated in turn; wobbling too and fro between the two states as she watches November -- slowly smoking, as she caaarefully places the brown paper package by her legs on the bench. There, be safe, important object. "I, see... They only finished improving the landscaping late this summer; it was kind of blah before..." Franky swallows, then squints curiously. 

Cigarette? Stubbed out on the back of the bench -- but before Franklyn can toss the butt aside, her hand wavers with hesitation, then she caaaarefully places it on the bench seat, next to the package. Never does she look away from November.

Maybe she's thinking about her butt.

"So you've been... Riding horses?" Skeptical. Does November look like a horse girl? Franky doesn't even know anymore -- gnawing on her lip briefly, before she adds. "Is this to do with the, you know, like... The ''thing'' this weekend?"

It's odd. Franklyn looks great - but her voice, or rather her manner of speaking? Just doesn't have the 'wow' factor at the moment. Exhaustion, man. Wears a girl out. 


Those bright eyes do, inevitably, dip down to see just what Franklyn is so assiduously hiding, but though they smile at her, no questions come. See, being a deity doesn't mean one must be impolite.

"Attempting to ride horses," comes the prompt rejoinder, along with a breath of laughter and a swift, "I'm opening a business. A tourney ground, for jousting and the sword, a park where lovely ladies may be wooed by stalwart swains and handsome knights ahorse...and I am utterly, absolutely inept at riding." The laughter is silent this time, but her shoulders shake with the suppressing of it, the first two knuckles of her right hand pressed briefly to her lips.

She takes a step closer, dropping down into an easy, graceful crouch which leaves a good several inches of bright hair puddling on the ground, and looks up at Franklyn for a more discreet murmur of, "Lovely, you look exhausted. May I ease it?"


Was that a little spike of anxiety from Franklyn, as November checks what she's hiding by her legs? Maybe, maybe... Franky's knees have been drawn together, hands now folded primly - back straightened, shoulders held back. Poise, man. She's posturing, putting on the role of polite formality which... Which is weird? Does she even know what she's doing? It's like she's sitting at court...

"What?" Oh it's not the horse riding or business part that has Franklyn wrinkling her nose with open and slightly judgey confusion. So much for polite poise. "Knights and swains wooing lovely ladies? That sounds like, really heteronormative and like..." Franky! Relax. Only she doesn't relax -- she merely deflates a bit, catching herself and smiling weakly. Sheepish shrug, head tilt. "...It sounds like people will love it."

Which is true -- or at least true enough.

It's only when November steps closer that Franklyn resumes sitting up straight - although a hand is raised, first defensively and then smoooothly into her just lifting it to her lips so she can gnaw at her cuticle for a moment. "Oooh! Aaah..." Concern. Scepticism. Curiosity. Then? Resignation, sort of. "...I am; but, I would not trouble you for anything, as I haven't much to offer in return." 

Yeah, yeah; because no good deed goes uncharged for. Nothing's free, at least not in Franky's warped assumptions vis-a-vis all things faerie.


Amused, the androgynous but very female rainbow points out, "The mediaeval period did not recognise the LGBTQ movement, but I do. Knights and ladies and swains may be whichever gender or multiplicity thereof they choose." 

Still, there's a weary mortal here, and a faerie who can help. She lifts a hand palm up in silent repetition of her offering, pale, graceful, narrow, yet callused in ways no desk-jockey's would be. "My offer is freely given, without obligation, let or lien, lovely." There's a pause, a hint of mischief lighting bright eyes, and a subtle shift in posture as she rebalances to glance off toward the sugarhouse. "I didn't need to ask." No snipe-healing, nope. Not this time.


Franklyn laughs - embarrassed! - the gnawing of her poor fingers ceasing, so she can press her hand over the side of her face. "Apologies, November -- I've been like, super sensitive lately? I don't know why... Maybe I do? I don't know. You know when it's like, push-push-push? It's got me like, looking for all the chink in one's armour, know what I mean? I don't mean anything personal..." Chatter-chatter. It's like if Franky's mouth isn't occupied by booze, cigarettes, or fingernails? She's gotta just fill it with -words- instead.

The Mortal girl must notice she's rambling, and she licks at the corner of her lip quickly while giving November a once-over, as ''if'' she could read the rainbow's emotional landscape and glean those motivations or feels. Hah. Fat chance.

"...If you really mean that... Then I will accept..." Franklyn says, slooowly -- but hell, from the looks of those weary green eyes of hers? She's desperate for any kind of relief. Because she ''is'' snappy. Listen to this: "And I '''know''' you don't need to ask for ''anything'', if you want something? You just take it, right? I mean, why not -- it's not like anyone really cares, or if they could it's not like they could stop you. It's like the wild west, right?"

So titchy today! But its like Franky is -compelled- to ramble, poor dear. Fingers tug at the sleeve of her jacket, then she sniffs in a bit and clears her throat.


See, there's more to concealing one's emotions than being stone-faced, and there's more to empathy than passive reception. Responding to Franklyn's raw ramblings with a gentle shake of her head and a slight warming of the smile in slanted eyes, she assures, "I mean it," and extends the offered hand to tap one of the It gurl's feet with a light, almost playfully swirled 'wingardium leviOsa' swish-and-flick fingertip. A wash of warmth and Spring's soft growth sweeps through the pooooor wee mortal in its wake, leaving behind the ease the rainbow promised. Exhaustion? Gone. Physical exhaustion, anyhow. World-weary attitudes are Franky's to deal with.

Speaking of attitudes...

Kindness bestowed, November tilts her head and, after a subtle effort to assure herself that nobody is near enough to listen in, she asks a rhetorical, "You don't need to ask to drive a dagger into my eye socket, either, but that doesn't make it right. Admittedly, morality is collectively loose. Laws are...what one agrees to be bound to." And, logically, ex-slaves don't appreciate bindings.

She remains crouched where she is, which -has- to be painful, but shows no sign of discomfort or displeasure with the body language of a 'Queen' at Franklyn's feet.


"...Okay."

There's something oddly resigned about Franklyn's reply to November's assurance -- like the usual fire that motivates the snarky stage school socialite has been dampened by... What? It probably isn't just exhaustion, even if that isn't helping... Because look at her! The fresh breath o' spring washes over Franklyn, and she's left reeling -- really, it's like plunging into a bath of Everything's Okay: even if that feeling only lasts a second before reality hits and has her questioning about, the physical reaction is practically palatable.

Relief. Wonder. Astonishment. And what's this? For a second - a real ''second'' - there's this... Hope. This idealism. This niggling, idyllic suggestion that floods Franklyn's feelings: like maybe everything isn't awful.

As soon as Franky's hazy eyes refocus up on November, she is met with this: the rainbow haired woman talking about daggers in eye sockets.

Franklyn blinks and raises her eyebrows; a little alarmed, hand pressed to her chest as she listens, tries to catch up. Huh-and-the-what-now? Focus up, Miss Garreau... "I, uh, I cannot argue with you there -- uh..." A shadow of discontent flickers over her face. "...I wish more people would think about that. What's right, beyond their might to make it so. Maybe I'm guilty of that too -- but... But..."

Franky's lips screw up, and she wrinkles her nose -- irritated by something, but she must let it go quick, because by the time she's looking back down at November, she seems more... Cautious. "November, can I ask you a personal question?" Briefest of pauses - she rambles on; "What was the first step, directly, that led you down the path that had you like you are today? I'm not trying to pry," Lies. "It's just, people say 'be careful', but they never really... You know." A brief pause, and Franky clears her throat and adds, so quietly.

"I don't want to slip."


November squeezes Franklyn's foot in reassurance when that lovely second's worth of hope occurs, then drops her hand to point out, "We were all human, once. We've all your flaws, and more to spare."

The rainbow nods, permitting the personal question, listening in silence afterward for a long and pensive, oh, twenty seconds or so. "Mmmm. I'd tell you pretty lies, but they'd be worse than useless." Meeting Franklyn's eyes with stark honesty, she admits, "I don't -know- the first step. I never have. Was it my parents? I've always been persuasive, believed in the fantastic, been a storyteller. Oral, mind. I don't forget. Mum was an illustrator, watercolours, faerie books." She may look relaxed, but her vigilance assures that, short of high tech listening devices, nothing untoward will be heard by those who shouldn't hear it. Well. Or magic. Someone could cheat with that.

Regardless, the rainbow's thoughtful gaze drifts aside, off toward the fluttering drift of a bright leaf on the wind. "Personal inclination, I suppose, is what attracted Her to me. Kidnapped on the walk back to my dormitory, dragged off through the Hedge, the usual trauma. No rape." A pause, then, judiciously truthful, "No sexual rape." 

She shakes her head to dismiss the thought, hair rippling with its customary beauty in echo of the movement, then lifts her eyes toward Franklyn's again. "We dream of it nearly every night, you know." Sober, but with an odd, distinctly fey delight and mischief glinting in red-orange eyes, she demurs, "Oh, not all of us remember much, not the most human, but those as far gone as I am..." The sentence trails off into a quiet breath of a laugh, expression a fleeting, complex thing eloquent of remembered joy, and pain, and grief, and pride. "I'm there, again. Suborned. Reliving the razor's edge of bliss and blood and severed souls, the Lady's silver tongue. I was a favourite."


Squeeze! Franklyn seems a touch flabbergasted at the gesture of reassurance -- why from November?! What about those words of reminder about all fae being human once!? But whatever paranoid thought she could have, well, it's just sort of... Brushed away, under the afterglow of Spring's warm breath. It's hard to cling to ones vices when one feels so contented already. Maybe everything -will- be okay... 

As the rainbow is silent and contemplative, Franklyn stares off at the surrounding foliage -- her attention caught up in the riot of colour, the rustle of change. Maybe it's fine... It doesn't matter of November doesn't answer; at least for a moment she can feel good in the garden and--

Oh.

Franklyn's attention goes back to her as -soon- as November starts her tale; those big green eyes of hers going wide, her focus all on the story as it unfolds. What is on Franky's top four favourite things? Stories. Franklyn loves a story -- and more than that, she loves people ''telling'' stories; the art, the emotion, the drama, the cadence of their words... Occasionally she nods or makes a small noise of acknowledgement, but mostly Franklyn listens. This is not her time to chatter.

It's only when November stops to pause, that Franky interjects; "What does it mean, to be a favourite? I have, that is to say I ''suspect'' that is is not... All it's cracked up to be, to have that much attention?" She blinks doeishly, then chatters on - as if she was afraid November would suddenly run off if Franky didn't have to chance to ask questions.

"What were they like? Why were you held between bliss and blood? How did you navigate that? Where did it take you, that razor's edge? When did you get back? How? How do you '''deal''' with it all? How did you '''survive''' so far?"

No wonder she got wrapped up in knowing about all this mess. Franklyn is... Extra.


November idly loops a thin section of hair about her fingers, twisting it into a spiral as the drama-lover babbles out her spree of inquiries. She smiles, though it carries little warmth, a hint of irony in her gaze while she addresses the queries with a lift of the hair-twirled hand. "For me, being a favourite meant, in short, being hated by everyone clever enough to discover what I had done to them, and loved by those who never knew." 

Thoughtful she may be, but there can be no doubt that every word is deliberate; her eyes demand reciprocity of attention, intent, focused, sharp. "I am a storyteller, sweeting. What do we do, but shape the world of our listeners to fit the tale..?" She moves on with an example without pause, her voice a measured cadence, trained, experienced, never too quick or too slow.

"Let us say that a girl has killed her father in anger at a dinner party, but we cannot have the guests disturbed. 'They had an argument,' we might say. The guests won't know the difference, and neither did the myriad I kept from fleeing Her Domain. Control the information, control the knowledge, control the boundaries of imagination." Fact. Simple fact, to her, spoken without emotional context.

Drawing a slow breath, then exhaling it on a quiet sigh, she tilts her head in the equivalent of a shrug. "Nocte te ipsum: know thyself. Remember. Never, never let go of your memories. It is impossible, of course, to withstand everything. Minds are so easily broken." Aaaand that would be the voice of experience there. Ahem. Go November. So reassuring. Still, she muses, "The worst of it, for me, was in returning to a world where no one understood that almost nothing is immutable. Everything is a promise, an agreement. Gravity affects the world because we all agree it should. How can others so carelessly break their word?"
 

The loop-de-loop of November's implausibly perfect hair has Franklyn momentarily distracted - like the Mortal girl was trying to figure out what conditioner she could possibly use, before realising that it's probably an illusion, then her brain reverting to banal questions before the craftier part reminds her that, ''hey'', faerie. The whole process leaves her looking gently drained, or dazed at least.

It's easier to focus on the physicality of something like weird hair, then the depth of the story November is trying to tell. To her credit, Franklyn makes a good attempt to refocus. Got to get all those deets...

"...Was it always a dinner party?" O', the naivety -- but what can Franky do, but take things at face value? She's trying her best to follow, but the Mortal girl just isn't quite equipped with the Arcadian-twisted imagination. What does she know about the truly Wyrd? Hardly anything. She's trying her best, bless her.

The bit about controlling information... That she can follow - Franky's brow knits, and she leans in a bit closer - a hand going to absently bring the wrapped package - frame? - closer to her, as if checking it still exists. "What happens when one is not able to control? Do you default back to misinformation, to over-seeding of options to cause confusion?"

...Hmm.

Franklyn smiles - it's a bit grim - and her hair is pushed up behind an ear. "...Know thyself. Hmmm. But if the world is as immutable as you say, what's to say that -we- ourselves aren't as flexible as the reality around us? How -can- we really know ourselves, if the words we use to describe the reality we shape can shift as easily as sand? It is not as if we have agreements with ourselves - people change; our tastes, wishes, wants, fears, loves, everything. How can we know essentially what we are?"

Right. So. Franklyn doesn't like easy questions... And people say she's a vapid, socialite bore - hah! 


"That's the rub, isn't it," she agrees, smiling up at Franklyn in...not quite pride, but a certain shade of pleasure for the mortal's perception of the matter, to be sure. Also, not answering the earlier questions. "The Kindly Ones, the Gentry, they have it easy. They are incapable of self-doubt by the very nature of the roles in Fate they play. We? We, their prey, their sustenance, their playthings, their salvation, don't have that luxury."

Statue-like, she balances in her crouch with perfect stillness below the waist, and, largely, above it. There's very little motion wasted, her grace an efficient member of the breed. "We are all broken, Franklyn. All of us. If we weren't, we wouldn't -be- 'us' -- we would have died, or never left. Leaving -hurts-. The pain...it isn't solely physical, lovely, and it leaves scars. I don't know how the others cope. I can't speak for their methods; only my own. It's rather simple, really: define your boundaries. Don't cross them. Expand them to include a new datum or twelve, but never breach your core integrity."

Pushing herself up with a surge of colourful strands and the quiet jangle of cheerful jewellery, she doesn't at all mention that Franklyn's super secret package's brown paper is no longer brown (it is now a soft, warm, muted rose which looks like it should be swaddling a wee bairn in a crib). No, what she -does- say is, "Count isn't doing well by you. Stop by the paintball range some time, hmm? I'll show you a secret."


"...I suppose it is, yes. For you, and for me - in each our own different ways..." Franklyn concedes with a nod, looking neither pleased nor particularly sad about the fact: no, there's a certain level of stubborn determination on her face. The task they face to know thy-selves is monumental, almost impossible. Take real Ambition to face it straight on, right? Right. Good thing Franky's got that. "We don't need luxury -- we have something better: humanity. Soul..."

So. Count might not being doing ''right'' right by her, but Franky's picked up some things regardless.

They may not be one hundred percent correct... But hell - the girl tries. She's got true grit.

Look at the way Franky deals with November's statuesque pose -- oh, oh she's for sure unnerved by it, but she makes a good show of merely looking gently concerned, rather than out-and-out discontent or gawking. It means she frees up precious mental space to -listen- to what November has to say, leaning in, head tilted, attention fully on her.

Subsequently, the ol' colour switch-a-roo is missed. Hey. Franky's not infallible.

"Define boundaries. Don't cross. Don't let other people cross..." Maybe she's just added that last one in, but Franky's tone is serious enough - there's an earnestness there, like she really, really, '''really''' wants to not only know, but ''understand''. When Count is mentioned, Franklyn actually -blushes-. It's not doe-eyed embarrassment of a paramour or anything -- it's a student who's teacher is potentially embarrassing them by proxy. She's ashamed, almost like Franky thinks she's done something wrong herself.

It takes her a few moments to gather her thoughts, but Franklyn nods to November when she does. "I will come by, see how things are..." Her mouth opens, as if Franky wanted to add something - a polite word, an offer of support, some kind of pleasantry? Whatever it was going to be, it doesn't manifest. Instead, Franklyn merely nods her head once and lifts a hand in a hazy sort of wave in front of her face, giving a brief OK with her fingers. "...I'll be seeing you, November."


Trickster's gotta trick, even if it's small! Really, it's more impressive that she restrained herself that long. 

Now that she is standing, her motions are far less inhuman, the mask of No-really-I'm-just-like-one-of-you! sliding more fully into place. Sure, she's still, well, -still-, but it's the regular approximation of stillness, and not the uncanny perfection of the sculpture she WOULD so closely resemble if she weren't, you know, pretending to humanity.

"Wear something you won't mind getting wet. I can't divorce you from reality enough to keep you dry." Aww. She even sounds apologetic. Also, promptly determined. Pale digits twinkle a farewell as she turns to head back out into the street.


''Wear something you won't mind getting wet.''

As Franklyn mouth moves in silent echo of those words, she watches the not-quite-uncanny figure of November wander off -- her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, like she's rather dubious over what that could possibly mean. Dubious - but not unwilling. Like a fairy tale or intoxicating song echoing out across a marine lagoon, Franklyn is drawn to the narrative November has woven for her.

Trickster or not, Franky is ensnared.

No wave or final goodbye, Franklyn just ''watches'' the Masked Fairest's departure -- and when she's gone from the garden? Franky stares at the gate for a good long while to, for good measure.

...So when she does finally turn to look down at her bag, at her package, Franklyn hops with alarm from where she sits. Rose! Rose coloured paper! Franky should be delighted, but instead she looks '''alarmed''', moving swiftly to pick up the package and unwrap it, hands frantically moving -- anxious and speedy and desperate to check what's inside is still inside and oh gods what if it's gone what if she took it what if--

When Franky does get the package open, it is with a huge sigh of relief, as she leans all the way forward -- elbows on her knees, holding the painting up in front of her face as she stares at it, sweat on her brow. Funny that, really -- it's no masterpiece, although the picture is probably old, and in a traditional figurative style. Probably European, and definitely a real oil painting: but all it depicts are two goldfinches, sharp and yellow, sitting on a thin drab branch of some green leafy tree.

Nobody's around, so when Franky starts to cry? It's probably not for show. Some things are real, always.
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