Difference between revisions of "Log:Rainbow meets Mist and Thunder"

13 March, 2017

The trio meets, and converses, in the main room of Stoneheart.

Stoneheart H06

*thupt* An arrow imbeds itself into a bale of hay.

*thupt* And then another.

The archer -- archress? -- stands around 40 yards away. She seems no stranger to the bow, but she's also not doing anything fancy. There's a reason why bows became the game-breakers before firearms: they aren't particularly difficult to use. Point and shoot, right? Everything else does the work.

Sam is a non-descript sort of changeling -- literally. Hazy, gauzy, foggy -- her features are obscured by her very nature, save for cobalt-blue eyes of wispy fire that bob where they should on what should be her face. She could be bored; she could be intensely interested in what she's doing. It's hard to tell, what with her ephemeral appearance.

*thupt* One more. After which, she slings the bow over an arm, and walks slowly to retrieve the arrows.

Point and shoot, yes; even if the most successful archers tended to rely more on having enough bowmen to darken the sky rather than focus on precision shots. Basically, the use of arrows in warfare was best as an area of effect weapon.

That said, though, one could wax on and on about the mathematical computations, the foibles of an improper grip, or the peculiarity of the archers paradox - but, fortunately, one is not around to do so. Or somejunk. And then, there's Ridley.

'A Levinquick walks into a cave' should probably be the start of some joke or another - especially when said Levinquick seems to be more attuned to thunderstorms than more terrestrial modes of electricity. Still he soldiers on; moving in a fluid, almost drifting sort of gait along the edge of the perimeter, gaze flicking this way and that - and, occasionally, darting back to the strange, high-contrast raven which sits upon his shoulder. A raven that, himself, seems to be looking around the room in a considerably more patient gaze. Patient, and judging.

All the judging.

      Unlike Sam, November is plenty easy to describe: AHHHH FREAKY RAINBOW FAE THING AAHHHH!!!

      Ahem.

      While the Ancient is, as always, a strong source of that very particular, hindbrain-tingling sense of Oh God Gentry Here!, today she is .. well, not quite as impressive as she could be. It looks like she has half a toga on, made of a tied up bedsheet with pins in it, and she has a hand splayed to her chest to keep it all from falling off while sprinting out of the Dawn Court's side cavern in pursuit of a rather large white bird. Crow, to be exact.

      "Yrrh! You bring that back!" The voice has odd resonances, but it's mostly human. Ish. The TONE sure is, exasperated and amused.

      Yrrh, said crow, flies right up to perch on the roof of the broken hearth, spits out the pouf of ribbons in his beak, and caws down, "Fuck no! You're gonna make me WEAR 'em!"

      Slowing at the sight of other changelings in the cavern, most especially with arrows, the faerie popsicle pauses to study Sam, then Ridley, in silent interest.

Ut-oh. There are two birds here. No doubt, there's trouble brewing.

On her way back from the bale of hay that she has mercilessly killed, Sam murmurs in Ridley's direction. "Hello." The ghostly silhouette roils for a second, and then resumes its semi-solid appearance. And that's all she says to him. Absolutely all. Not the talkative sort, it seems.

And then, November's path crosses in front of Sam. The spook seems to hiccup when the near-Goddess passes by, blue eyes following her. She remains motionless while Yrrh argues with her. And then, remains where she is -- like a deer in headlights -- while observed.

Bow in one hand; arrows in the other.

The dull, lifeless, greyness that is Sam sighs. "Hello." Then, she returns to her mark. Attention shifts from November to Ridley, just before she asks a question of the Stormcloud. "Care to try your hand?" The weapon and ammunition are offered.

Two birds; one considerably less ... bird-like than the other. The raven-like being perched on Ridley's shoulder might not appear to be entirely _real_. It's stark white, with very little shadow or detail - that all in all ends up giving it a mostly two dimentional appearance no matter what angle it might be viewed at. The edges, though, seem peculiarly _heavier_; darker black and somewhat rustic in imperfection. All in all, it might more bear the resemblance of some living sume-i brush painting than anything else.

The creature turns a silvery eye upwards - tracking the progress of the other bird. Over, then upwards, before turning back his attention to Ridley and blurting out a rapidfire string of ... Gaelic, it sounds like.

To which Ridley gives the thing a rather long-suffering look, then a deep indraw of breath that follows suit in a rasping sigh. "You do know I've no idea what you're saying, right?"

That, to the bird; and in such a tone as if he had repeated the line often enough to have it down by rote memorization.

All that aside, though, the Levinquick's attention slips to November there; pausing, then doubletaking over her as he approaches Sam - one hand extending. "No one told me it was naked time." The tone is ... even, neutral and conversational; and carries with it a most definite Scots accent undercut by a reedy whisper akin to wind through stone. "And sure, I'll give it a go - it's been an age since I've put hand to bow, though."

      November sighs as well, though in her case it is directed at the stubborn crow who can, in the nature of stubborn things, stubbornly stay too high to reach because he can flipping -fly-.

      That said, Yrrh does not seem pleased to see Ridley's companion. No siree. The snowy-feathered crow's beak clacks, neck-ruff lifting, and he -- after leaving the ribbons right where they are -- springs off the roof to glide down and land on November's shoulder, even if that does mean his feathers end up stained a veritable tie-dyer's dream of colours from the queerly liquid reactions of her long hair, the air of his wingbeats enough to set its usual slow, weightless drift at speed.

      On her part, the rainbow Ancient stands patiently while the crow's landing is executed, and, once he has a good grip on the fabric of the sheet, the icy creature moves toward the other two. She isn't naked, thankfully. Turning as she is to face the others, it's clear that at least the leg visible while moving is clad in snug leather trousers. "Yrrh, behave." The crisp, cold scent of a winter sunrise mingles with a near-electric sense of potential, though she doesn't step close enough for much of Sam's lovely Autumn-ness to be affected, and is on the wrong side to overlap Ridley in the slightest. "Would you shoot a star, if it were near enough to earth?" It's not entirely clear which of them she is asking.

That's okay. It could be the colors; it could be the spry; but Sam seems to shy away from the Ancient of Light. As the fog ought to properly do, even where it grows thick, like in the moors of Scotland. Funny how everything seems to intersect.

The weapon is turned over, as are the arrows. Then, properly-perhaps, the fog creature takes a few steps backwards, to let the Rainbow and the Storm interact. They are more akin to each other.

That does not mean Sam disengages, mind. No, she remains, watching November in particular. Fog and rain are partners, but the light? The light is more interesting. Like a flame to a moth. And the Autumnal shroud's form seems to unconsciously mimic what she sees; patterns of faint light mottle her grey appearance here and there, ecah beating with its own life and moving freely like the shadows of hidden predators.

His is less rain and more... thunder. Not the sound of it, perchance, but the way lightning tends to illuminate the landscape in a harsh, actintic flare; or the none too subtle manner of it playing across the clouds behind a haze, limning the outlines without actually becoming visible. It's even seen under his skin - faint, vaguely perceptable lines of blue-white light, almost veins, might be caught here and there under the paler white.

If Ridley's companion is in any way preturbed by the presence of the other, it doesn't show it. In fact, the creature's features remain minimalistically blank - without even a seam for the beak unless he happens to have it open. The only real note of outstanding detail would be the mercury-drop eyes.

All that aside, though, the little beast hops over to Ridley's other shoulder as he takes up the bow; peering down intently all throughout. Ridley himself bites down on the right index and middle fingertips of his gloves and pulls it off - perhaps offering the barest glance of a thin, old scar razor-lining it's way across his palm - before he settles back to test the draw of the bow once or twice prior to nocking the arrow.

A quick glance is shot towards Sam; then followed along to November at her question. "Mn. About the only thing worth shooting at a star is another star - not much else's gonna have much of an effect, is it? And if you've the power to go lobbing heavenly bodies around in the first place - you're probably just better off movin' the first offendin' star to a point where it's not so offensive. Seein' as how I don't have that ability - probably wouldn't."

And with that, he looses; the shot landing a bit off center. Good, but by no means perfect.

      Reflected light, divided light, but no illumination. Say 'stained glass' and the appearance will be closest, though stained glasses are not alive, and certainly don't bear the shifting aurora of ever-shifting colours the Ancient does. November's colours, it may be noted, seem deliberately chosen to echo the sapphire and gold, rose and scarlet, emerald and ice of the cavern itself, inanimate made animate.

      Mostly animate.

      She remains quite still, quite, quite still, beyond the aimless drifting of thigh-length, too-liquid hair, until one of the pair answers the question. Ridley's words prompt a faint, near-imperceptible downturn of transparent lips, smooth brow rippling in the barest beginning of a furrow such solid-seeming ice should not be capable of forming. Pfft. Laws of reality. Who needs 'em.

      "What is worth killing for?" The question is asked with a certain weight, inhuman eyes measuring the pale man and his bird while she awaits his answer, though she could just as well be watching Sam. The colours in those eyes show no easy clues in either direction.

For a moment, Sam's eyes widen. And then, slowly, her face changes. It solidifies, becoming a pale blue color, with eyes that burn red. In a voice, grating and mechanical, she mutters:

"Think of it, Batman. To never again walk on a summer's day with the hot wind in your face and a warm hand to hold. Oh yes. I'd kill for that."

And then, the hardened face of ice melts away into a mist of grey again. Eyes become blue once more.

"To remember these things. Not as others' memories." Her voice is quiet and mousy. Sad, in a way.

The Autumn shroud steps to the side, once, and then turns to look at where Ridley's shot went.

"Nothing."

Ridley's reponse is crisp and stacatto; a single word spoken with that same neutral detachment. As he speaks, the Elemental draws another arrow and, checking his aim a touch, looses again. It's... better; certainly better than average, but he probably wasn't joking about not having done it in a while.

"And everything. Things go as they will; or stop as they will. People live and die when and where they're supposed to. Sometimes it's my hand that ends them; sometimes it's the witholding of my hand that allows them on. I've no illusions about any single action or inaction on my part making any great difference - at best, I am a ripple in a pond; a stone cast into a river. I may affect it, or I might knock some hapless fish loopy - but I'll not change it's course."

Another nock, and another loose. "What has happened cannot be changed; and where the path leads cannot be forseen. We are who we are."

      November's colours warm as she listens to Sam, sharp edges softening, as a slow upwelling of lime, shades dark to light, rises along the left side of her oh so snazzy sheet-toga attire. It's tough to tell the exact colour of the 'toga,' really, given how many colours it -seems- to be, seen through the rainbow's aurora.

      "Whom would you kill?" The question is outwardly simple, but tonally complex, with implications, unspoken, of acceptance, acknowledgement, real interest, and multiple layers of expectation, of potential responses the faerie popsicle anticipates receiving.

      Head turning, then tilting in a gesture reminiscent of her crow companion, albeit in less sullenly glaring moods, the androgynous Ancient inquires of Ridley, "And life? What is the power of fate on that?"

Again, Sam responds. This time, she remains as she is: ghostly.

"Depends." Beat. "Depends on what needs to be done." Another beat. "Some can be saved. Some, not so much." Shrug. "Situational. No one and anyone."

She flits to the side, and then takes a step closer. Her eye-fires seem to be fixed on November. Curious? Still. Tentative, it is more probable that her temerity is based on respect rather than fear. After all, the Autumn Courtiers aren't known for /suffering/ through the throes of paranoia. Often. Usually.

And then, her attention moves sharply to Ridley. Perhaps so that she, like November, can listen to his response.

"Life ends." Ridley's initial response is simple enough as he draws back from the archery stance - shoulders rolling back, then squaring as a long breath releases. "It's the nature of life to be finite; just like it's the nature of all cycles. People can try to put off or divert that end all they want - but for all they know they're just playing in to whatever script has been written for them - because it all ends the same. Eventually, even endings will end."

Considering the grouping of his shots - mostly to the left of center but, more or less, tight the Elemental allows a single nod to crack through before turning back to the others. "As to who? That implies I have a list; I don't. Most people don't need killing - but some do. Usually you recognize those when you meet them."

      November doesn't move. Beyond the slight rise and fall of her breathing, however something that -looks- totally transparent and solid CAN be breathing, she simply waits, an inquisitive presence.

      Yrrh, muttering into his feathers, hunches down and stares at Sam with beady black eyes, seeing as Sam is the one getting closer.

      "When a self is broken, when a mind, a soul lies bleeding, what is most important to save?" There's a deeper interest at work than surface curiosity, a vague sense of intent, of intellect, absent anything remotely like judgement. Her own manycoloured focus appears to be fixed on the ghostly maybe-a-woman, colours paling to be a nearer match of hers.

      Briefly.

      The thunder-fellow's words of recognition prompt a small half-smile and another shifting of colours, twilight blues, blue-violets and greys sliding slowly into black, with motes of white. "So I have been told." The calm reply is amused, knowing, self-aware. She is what she is.

"Relative to what?"

Sam's attention remains unpreturbed by the avian examination. Undeterred. One hand moves up to rub the opposite's upper arm gently, soothingly, for a moment. And then, she is silent again.

Nothing else to say on that, apparently. Nor to Ridley. Just a humanoid mist, its opacity shifting here and there.

She then blows lightly at November, as if the latter were a candle to be blown out.

"Dignity."

That, perhaps more than anything else he's said thus far, might seem definitive; a stentorian crack with no further exposition or elaboration. The answer seems largely directed to November - who, likewise, gets a fractional tilt of his head to one side and an almost imperceptable shift of those clear, blue eyes before Ridely shifts, once more, to regard Sam.

There's a moment, perhaps, a brief heartbeat in which the Levinquick glances between the two women - thoughtful, almost to the point of analytical; as if he might be tracing some indeterminate lines of code cascading about the two before he, idly, reaches up to poke at the raven-like thing - which seems to have fallen asleep - on his shoulder. The little beast squalks once as it flails upright, then fixes the Elemental with a baleful, sideways glare - even as Ridley, without another word, runs his fingers through his hair and turns back towards the egress.

      "Your values," the rainbow answers, watching Sam and ignoring Yrrh's sulk. As usual. Poor, poor birdy. "Is identity worth more than ability?" She follows Ridley's departure with a slow turn of her head, neutrally curious, the star-spangled black of her colours brightening from the feet up, a slow lightening, a silent dawn.

      "Does changing a name change the person who bears it?" Again, she seems more interested in Sam's opinion.

No kidding, saw the word 'egress', and thought: female egret.

Sam, meanwhile, ponders over the question. Her response comes after a moment of consideration, careful and deliberate. "Identity: it has many faces, not always the same. Ability: you have it, or you do not." A vague gesture is made with her hand. "Identity is for another; ability is for oneself."

She turns so that she can retrieve the bow and arrows. Presumably, Ridley is leaving them behind; otherwise, the Autumn Courtier will look after him with a touch of confusion. "A name is but a name unless it is true, and then it is something else -- not quite a name."

And why not? They're regal enough birds.

But yes, the bow and arrow have been left leaning against the point where he had been standing; but by and large Ridley does not offer much in the way of farewell or otherwise parting. If anything, he might seem to have forgotten that there were other people in the area as a whole. He simply shifts his weight forwards and makes his way out in that steady, long-legged lope of his.

      "Names can alter self-perception," the Ancient offers, quietly laying the concept on the metaphorical table for Sam to touch. And, too, "Names can reinforce one's position in a social stratum, can change the predispositions of those one has never met." Eyes still dark, but lightening with the gradually shifting sky she mimics, watch Sam with the bow and arrows, as one watches something in one's vicinity, but don't appear to be paying the actions overmuch attention. "I wonder, often," she admits, "what makes any -name- true. The semantics seem terribly imprecise."

      A very serious worry, for those who live by the definitions and connotations of the words by which they bind themselves to others.

Shrug. Sam goes about putting the weaponry away as if it were her job. And everything that the Ancient muses upon doesn't seem to bother her or cause her to pause. "I picked my name. It suits me fine for now. It may not tonight or tomorrow, but it works fine for now. Permanency does not suit my nature. It's not in my temper."

The silvery mist-cloud moves slowly around the Stoneheart -- around November. If followed by Yrrh, so be it. "What is your name? I'm Sam."

      "I picked this name," she agrees, though it's unclear what she is agreeing -with-. I was rather a bit too young for others, I expect." Moving, finally, the rainbow suddenly smiles, warm golds and roses bright in the reflected light of the cavern's crystalline illumination. "Call me November, and bid me fare well. I intend we meet again."

      Because that is what matters.

      With a pleasant nod, she pivots on the ball of one transparent foot and strides back toward the Dawn hollow, sending Yrrh into a squawk and hasty flight when she decides to whoop and, laughing, turn a cartwheel on the way.