Difference between revisions of "Log:Ancients in the Wild"

29 March, 2017

Two Ancients meet by happenstance, and have a 'polite' conversation in the wilderness.

Thousand-Corners Trail

The thousand corners is quiet, but seldom silent, narrow crevices between its upthrust stone channeling the winter wind in soft susurration. The broadest path, most traveled, shows signs of hoofprints in the drifts left over from the previous week's storms, but nothing recent, and certainly no sign of the prints four inch high heels would have made walking in it, but, indeed, there is a November standing on a boulder in said red-soled heels, stretching up to reach the short cliff's top with icy fingertips in search of a disreputable canvas messenger bag's dangling strap.

'Disreputable' describes nothing else about the woman.

Dressed in monochrome today, the all-too-Faerie Trickster wears a butterfly-sleeved tunic with an asymmetrical hem, double-layered black chiffon on the sleeves protecting nonexistent modesty, while a slash of solid black cuts down from right shoulder to just below her left hip over a white base and white leggings. Because this is what one wears when walking in the wilderness. A stark white crow with black eyes is fluffed up nearby, muttering to himself. He's easily the size of a mortal raven.

Jonah's there, and it's an odd moment. He's heard before he's seen, a rarity for the overlarge Ogre. It doesn't look too different from turning an arch into a gate, but its abnormal nonetheless. Rock and earth are shoved aside as that door from the otherside opens, and from it steps Jonah although he has to duck down on the way out. The horned giant isn't dressed well, both for the weather and any sense of fashion. A drab, grey t-shirt with crimson stains at the sides, and jeans with their flecks of red. Despite how it may appear there's nary a wound to be seen, nor a hole in his clothing.

Jonah lifts his head when he's fully within the confines of the skin world, and takes a long, deep breath. For a moment it appears to be happiness, but it's quickly gone when he catches sight of that white corvid. He looks to and fro for its owner until his achromatic gaze falls upon November, and then they fall to her shoes. "What are you even doing?" asks the man without shoes.

Not everyone can be this fabulous. It's a rough life, but she lives it well.

November tilts her head at almost the same moment as her crow, inquisitive and suddenly more alert when the grinding of rock and icy soil occurs, and when -Jonah- of all things steps out, hoary brows lift in amused bemusement. For all the good transparent eyelids even do her, they do, nevertheless, lower, then lift, the frosty lashes the only visible indication of the down-up once-over she gives him.

"Proving that even tall women aren't always tall enough," comes the reply a moment later. With a brief tilt of her head again, she considers for a half second, then adds an honest, "And irritating Yrrh."

A graceful gesture toward the gate precedes the lifting of one eloquent eyebrow, her own inquiry wordless, and, given that she is colourless today to match her attire, rather transparent.

Jonah briefly looks back to the bird, gaze narrowing on it until he looks back to November. He's judging her, as he always seems wont to do. "There's no such thing as tall enough," he huffs. "If people don't put things up too high there's never a problem for them. But!" There's always a but with this one. "There is such a thing as too tall. Do you know how many thresholds are seemingly built just to stop my ilk?" He crosses his arms against his chest while waiting for an answer, mantle growing greater in brilliance due to the presence of the bloody rose.

Wordless and, it seems, unanswered, though the icier Ancient doesn't seem too terribly put out about his silence regarding the gate. Her gaze lingers there only a moment more before she lifts bright eyes to study the top of his head, their momentary swirl of sun-gold, amber and deep rose quite visible against the snowy stone nearby.

Naturally, his greater brilliance only picks out more of the Fairest's subtler features, striking tiny glints of refracted rainbow light from the fine tracery of fern- and feather-like frost over her skin.

"They build to suit the average. Efficiency over consideration, or," she posits, "you are just freakishly tall for a small town. We're in -Vermont-. It's old." At six feet and four-inches, thanks to the 4" heels, she's no shorty, but Jonah, yes, he could beat that height barefoot. And, ah, is. November crouches atop the boulder, some three feet above the path, then extends one leg down to test the snowy stones below it, seemingly satisfied with the lack of imprint left when she lifts her foot. A light hop follows, sleeves fluttering in the breeze of her movement, and she adjusts the strap of her bag to keep it on her shoulder.

Yrrh, for his part, simply looks cold, and mutters to himself again.

> Wed Mar 29 12:03:24 2017 <

<Watch> Hannah has connected.

> Jonah (#1328) (J) < He's been here for five years, but still appears indiginant about the matter. "Yes, small town. I know. That doesn't meant I wouldn't be averse to a few doorways being smashed open for the good of the world." Jonah pauses to shake his head, brow furrowed as he turns to give the gate a brief moment of attention. For whatever reason he appears intent to stand in front of it, and plays the part of a large, grey doorway. "These doors are no different, and I'd pay in blood for them to be made taller. However, the Wyrd or the world doesn't care about such problems."

A few tendrils of queerly liquid hair wisp, ignored, over November's cheek in a brief gust of snow-laden wind, wet flakes broad and fluffy, and unmelting, where they land on head and shoulders. Displaying no inclination to attempt the gate herself, she gestures toward his shirt to suggest, "You've paid in blood for -some-thing already, surely. Unless it isn't yours..?" The question trails off, curiosity and a wisp of teal-lime-green drifting through slanted eyes. Concern for his well-being is nowhere in evidence, and nor is empathy for any potential pain; clearly, answers are more important than people who don't appear to be in any great hurry.

Jonah looks down at his shirt, and then at his hands. He's unperturbed by the question, but still wipes them at his sides. He lifts a palm for November to see, and reveals several jagged lines cut into barely healing flesh. "There was Work. Work requires will. Will requires payment." He brings the hand back in, and goes back to crossing his arms across his chest. A shrug follows, along with a faint quirk of his brow. "Are you another that's going to tell me to stop, Azeban?"

November studies the palm while it is visible, interest prompting a faint tracery of lines in absent mimicry, pattern-matching, greys and blood on her own icy flesh. A hint of genuine puzzlement enters her tone, brows momentarily drawn ever so slightly nearer together as she asks, "Why would I seek to stop you? Sacrifice is necessary."

A hand moves, slender and unmarred, to indicate the crow nearby a few heartbeats later, along with a distracted, "He is your Azeban. Give him food, and he is happy."

Yrrh emits a noise rather similar to a cat horking up a hairball, disdain in his tone when he caws, "Give him -heat-, snowglobe. Not everyone's a fucking popsicle," and hunches his fluffy-feathered head farther into his breastfeathers, attempting to stay warm.

It's there. At least for a second, and can't be denied short of lying. There's a faint tug at the corners of Jonah's lips, but that ghost of a smile is gone as quickly as it came. Jonah's gaze flits to the bird, an remains there each and every eye of that mantle focuses on the Yrrh. After a sigh, he lazily addresses the bird, "I don't need heat, Woebigen. I've suffered worse, and still I live. Your master has the right of it. Sacrifice is a necessary tool in this life, and one I use as I see fit. What harm will the cold do me?"

Yrrh, being a crow, and crows being practical creatures, cocks his snow-white head to the side, one beady black eye angled down toward Jonah's feet, then clacks his dark beak. "Can I eat your toes when you freeze them off?"

November ignores the bird's coarse voice, a feat no doubt well-practiced, to muse aloud, "The Rainbow should know better, if it was she who spoke against self-sacrifice." Having been watching the snow beyond the man, a brief flicker of near-invisible grey and more-visible sanguine echoes the return of her attention to Jonah himself, and a look of inquiry. Just who DID yell at him for cutting himself open?

The crow only draws more of Jonah's ire and a brief snarl. "I'll sooner eat you, feathers and all, before you pretend to go at my toes." He growls, "Insufferable birds," under his breath, but it's loud enough for the corvid to easily hear. "You should have gotten a dog like Singer." Because clearly faerie creatures are easy to train and maintan. Obviously.

Clearly. Yrrh is marvelous evidence of a well-'trained' faerie creature, given the things he caws under his breath, grumbling to himself and pointedly putting his back to Jonah, claws scratching quietly on the cold stone of his perch.

"Yrrh," November interrupts, before he can complete his sulk. The bird, who -had- been starting to twist his head back to at least feign going to sleep, pauses, one eye canting up her way. The icy rainbow lifts a finger toward the sky, stating simply, "Home."

Without waiting for him to oblige, she starts moving, herself, heading east along the trail with steady steps and a blithe indifference to the laws of physics which -should- be ruining those shiny heels and tripping her in snow. She walks on top, thank you much, mother nature. "That is our cue to depart, though I assure you, you aren't the first to threaten him, and you won't be the last." With a brief smile, mischief evident, she wishes him, "Pleasant evening," and continues down the trail, colours brightening to dance about in merry defiance of the forest's wintry greys.