Blade Bubbles
Tenebrae - Tuesday, October 01, 2019, 7:01 PM
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=<* A10: Temple District *>=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
The air of solemn, heavy divinity in the area is often broken by laughter. The dual presence of the deities Althea and Daeus, man and wife, stand towards the center, with their children and their children's temples positioned around them. The presence of the divine is felt not only by their temples, but also by the actions of their worshipers. The great plaza is as a social center, paved in brilliant, white flagstones and covered in benches and sitting areas. Priests, acolytes, and servicefolk of all stripes roam the plaza, going from one task to the other.
At the front of the temples of Daeus and Althea, at the Plaza's centermost point, rests a great fountain, the cheerful waters reflecting the Sun during the day, and the Moon and Stars at night. The fountain is strategically centered, and is oft a place for wisdom and lesson-giving. It is not uncommon for a priest of some stripe or the other to stand there, surrounded by the curious and faithful, delivering messages of hope or contemplation. At other times, it and the plaza become a landscape of celebration of the holy holidays.
Few vendors are seen in the plaza--the nearby temples provide most food or services. Towards the west, the great Bridge stretches across the river, and towards the east, the Redridge mountains. The plaza rests in the midst of it all, the temples massive and grand on the Alexandrian scale.
Mikilos sits near the edge of the plaza fountain, reading. Pretty normal for the wizard. The long halbred sitting next to him is a bit odd. Not the weapon itself, it looks pretty normal, but not the sort of thing one typically finds a wizard weilding. Not that he's weilding it just at the moment, see the aformentioned bit about reading. He might multi-task, but reading and weilding would be a bit much.
There are many measures for bravery and courage. Climbing tall montains, clinging to perilous chasms, swimming deep waters--
and for some, entering cities filled with more people than have ever been seen in one place.
Tenoc grasps his greatspear tightly as he enters, tail lashing with barely suppressed quivering. Even at 'off hours', the Temple environs are still so *busy*...
"....they are like termites," the green-scaled Makar growls, eyes roaming quickly from one person-- one structure to another. "There are too many. How do their huntersss feed them all?"
Svarshan lopes down the steps of the Temple of Althea. The Hearth Dragon. He carries a set of weights on his back--in the form of a youngling, roughly two years in age. The youngling grasps the adult's shoulders, its eyes wide at the speed and the city sights. It clutches something fuzzy in its claws.
Together, they make it down the steps, and into the plaza. As Svarshan spots the other sith-makar, he slows--and then looks to the youngling, and murmurs quietly, hissing.
Mikilos glances up from his book as the green one passes, frowning mildly. "Often they don't, unfortunately. Though the occasional magic feast helps. You're wlecome to join us in the market at moonrise." Looking farther on, the wizard spies a familiar form, smiles and stands, raising a hand in greeting. "BrightBlade Svarshan, greetings and welcome! If you've a moment, I would have words with you."
Tenoc jerks his head at the softsca-- at the clothyfrail--at the elf-soft-thing. Jittery and quick-eyed, he glances around the District before glancing back with a cautious nod, practically curving in on himself. "...this one greetsss," he rumbles, glancing over at -- Makar! He jerks again, upright as Svarshan enters. Then a glance. Headtilt. "...sssk. Brightblade caste?"
The youngling clutches the ...fuzzy thing? in its claws. Tenoc would recognize it as a young female, her claws wrapped around the whatever-it-is, as she sets on the adult's shoulders. Much too young for caste. Usually too young for a city, but--here? With a warrior? That is more expected. The firm, protective grip on the leg? Also expected.
"Peasse to your nessts," Svarshan says then. He looks to the both of them, and comes to a stop. The small one kicks at his shoulders with her feet. "Brightblade of the. Warrior-casste, and honor to our Empress." Follower of the Silver Empress, he means.
Mikilos quickly puts his book away before nodding politely to all three Sith. "Peace unto your nests. I am wizard Mikilos Mithralla of no caste, and sometimes FeastMaster." He nods to Tenoc, switching fluently back to the Tradetongue. 'I am serious about the feast. I intend to have one for the poor of the market, come moonrise, but you are most welcome if you wish to attend.' Turning attention to Svar, he nods again. 'Good to see you again, DemonChomper. I had hoped to ak before, but hadn't oppertunity, are you familiar with Salamander?' <draconic>
Tenoc tips his head down at the Empress' name-- adding a soft rumble as he bows from the waist to Svar. "Thisss one knows you," he returns slowly, "Dark-blood Silver. The Biter of Suneaters. Demonchomper. Cham-pi-on." Tassels rattle along leather legging as he calms, somewhat; his eyes trace to the young female, focusing on the Odd Fuzzy Thing she grips tightly. "It is good to greet you. And not good--sssscircumstance." He pauses, running the word over in his head.
His head jerks again to Mikilos, eyes widening in sharp surprise. < "You speak the Tongue?" > he asks in Draconic, breath a puff of steam on the cool air. < "One-- this one did not bring meat to provide. This one is Tenoc, of Hunter Caste." > He turns back to Svarshan, rumbling as he hangs his head. < "One did not know..." >
"One has not heard of the. Ssalamander," Svarshan returns, warmly. He crouches then, setting the youngling on the ground. She holds the fuzzy-thing in her claws. Gently, he reaches out to take it from her. It's comprised of a mixture of textures: woven, yarn-gripped warmth. And...treated, darkened leather, the color of the jungle.
At Tenoc's words, he stills, going quiet and thoughtful. "Peasse to your nesst," is all he can think to say--for one is not sure. One does not know the words which may come next. But, 'not good?' One braces.
Mikilos nods to Tenoc. "I am a master of most tongues. And I ask only that you bring yourself." he nods to Svar and the little one, including them in the invation. "It is a feast conjured by magic, to be shared with many. A gift I have recently aqquired, and wish to share with those who have not, but also those who would serve, that both may sit beside each other in unity." Turning focus back to Svar, he nods, mildly disappointed. "Lizard men of the Fire Plane, not demons, but sometimes linked to them. I had heard they are mastercraftsmiths, and wished to learn why." He nods to the halbred by his side. "I convinced one for forge a blade for me. I have learned much, and think I understand, but hoped for insight from another."
The Greenscale tilts his head, glancing at Mikilos-- the halberd itself, slowly. "...Shaman caste?" he asks, confusion marked behind the question. He glances at teh gleaming blade again before he rumbles, nodding as he turns back to the two. "Thiss one... Welcomes. Welcomesss?" He pauses, head curved as he frowns. "...ssk. Thanksss. But isss learning from the Land. It providesss."
He glances to either side, somewhat less jerkily than before. Kneeling down, he sketches a simple, rough symbol in the dust on the cobblestones. "The Nest is gone," he remarks softly, "The gathering placcce.... Village. Taken." The sketch is simple-- a skull with simple, blazing eyes. "The Hunters had gone out, and came back to--" He trails off, rumblling quietly. "...ssssk. The Elder did not let them have the Fire. The Heart at the village center. So-- we came here. Away from wicked things. To Mictlan."
He pauses, shivering once. "The tales did not say how cold!"
"...ssa. Those. One hass heard of them, though not met them," Svarshan returns, his expression warm and thoughtful. He reaches out, and takes up the fuzzy thing from the youngling. Then flicks it open. A...a coat. A coat! with a warm, inner lining, and a fuzzy hood. An exterior of jungle green.
"...more may need your feasst than. You know," in undertones, to Mikilos, as Tenoc shares the tale. "..." then, quiet and dwelling. Troubled. "...where, hunter?" he asks. "When?"
Olek has arrived.
Mikilos nods to the BrightBlade, eyeing the coat with mild intrest. "The Salamander are... like the mul'niessa, the dark elves. As a race, they are evil. But as individuals, some are good, most are just... people. Odd people of a warrior culture, who live in fire and molten rock, but still, people." He considers a moment. "A people known to be great weaponsmiths. A fact known across the planes, but known mostly to themselves. Every salamander child grows up hearing they, as salamander, are great weaponsmiths. before they can crawl, they learn of the forge, of anvils and tongs and ore and ingots. They take pride in mastery, and strive towards greatness, even those who are not craftsmen learn the basics of the trade. And so all who deal with them treat them as masters, offering only the finest ore, the greatest materials. So of course the results are superior. And so the tales feed themselves."
"Many suns ago," Tenoc replies. "From fullness of Moondragon's Eye to Sleep, and to openness again." He coils down to his knees, sitting on his haunches as he rumbles softly. "Do not know if... Bloodthieves were all caught by Elder's Final Word. But mussst have gotten mosst. Sssome?" He glances to the youngling, sighing heavily. "No bodies. No eggs. But Chieftan'sss word was final. Gather what we could. Flee village. Deeper jungle--ssk." He pauses, shrugging helplessly. "Chief was gone. Chiefson now Chief. Led us to the Great Glowing Eye, and in-- said, 'we were safe on other side'. Far from Bloodthieves. In Cold-Soft Lands. Ssssk." He glances towards Mikilos with rising interest, curiosity-- paused. Headtilt. "...ssk. Forgescales?" he asks hesitantly, glancing between Svarshan and the elf for confirmation. "Metalmakersss?"
"Crafter-casste. Forgesscales of planar fire," Svarshan affirms after Mikilos speaks, even as he is quiet, otherwise, to digest this new information. Then, "Warrior-casste is here, hunter. /Thiss/ plasse, thiss /here/, iss ssafe," he says, the words having the way of ritual to them. Things a warrior may say: this is safe. This area is safe. I make it safe.
He gives the coat another shake, and plops it on the youngling's head. She squirms, fighting to put her arms through the floofy tubes. The exterior is the treated leather--water proof'd, by the look of it. It smells of warm bread and Hearth--things of the Hearth Dragon. Which, well, is where the pair had just come from.
Olek has come outside the Temple at the behest of one of the mid-level clergy, who felt this was somehow related to him. It seems a fellow has brought some crates in a cart marked for the Temple of Althea. His name isn't mentioned specifically, but it's from his father, so they thought he should be involved. So, here he is, involved. He winds up unloading it himself and carrying it into the Temple.
Olek has left.
<OOC> Svarshan says, "Huh. XD"
Mikilos nods in agreement. "Makers." The elf kneels down, looking to the youngling, and murmurs a moment before blowing softly though his hands. A trio of soap bubbles drift out, bobbing and shimmering, glowing faintly with inner light, unaffected by real air current, but drifitng on their own whim. Falling slowly, one touches the ground, and 'pops' into a slightly smaller trio, which in turn drift a few moment before swerving towards each other like magnets, joining again into a large bubble once more.
A pretty magical toy illusion, harmless, but fun to grab at for young hunters.
Tenoc chuffs a breath, nodding to Svarshan. "Sssafe," he rumbles in return, eyes glancing from side to side. Caution, wariness-- though far from it, the jungle practically oozes from scale and pore. He watches Olek's appearance, tensing-- watching him take various crates, unloading before moving from the plaza into one of the temples proper. He finds his eyes tugged by the magic bubbles, caught up-- staring! Turning away with a slow grunt, tail curving quietly behind.
"Makerssss," he adds as the Greenscale digest the new knowledge. Pausing, ssssk-- "Will Planar-Fire-notForgescale come here?" he asks, head tilting in curiosity. "Sssk. To Mictlan?"
The hand pops through. One hand. The other struggles, inside the coat--and there comes the nose! A nose! A nose! And then the snout! as Svarshan tugs the coat over the youngling. Tugs it into place. When the soap bubbles float overhead, the eyes go wide. She reaches, forgetting for a moment her other arm is still 'stuck' inside the coat. Reaaaaaach. Hurry up, arm! Find the hole! Gimmie both hands! Both claaawws!
Svarshan continues the tugs--working now to both free her arm, and keep her from tipping over. "...one will ssuggest they. Greet warrior-caste firsst," the warrior says, lowered tones. Just lowered--not wanting to alarm the youth, whose tiny claws even now close over a soap bubble.
- =POP!=*
"But individualss," he says, and looks to Mikilos. Really looks towards Mikilos. Measuring, thinking. "One might assk. If they are not..."
Mikilos glances to Tenoc. "To Mictlan? No." He considers a moment, glancing to Svar. "Certainly not without invatation. They do not normally come here. Too cold. Much to cold. They like when metal glows. Fire upon fire." He glances to the bubbles with a small smile, fingers tracing lightly by his side, subtle, maintaining the spell.
Tenoc nods evenly. Fire is good. Fire is proper. Fire is life. Skies raining coldraincoldsleetwhitestuffCOLDCOLDCOLD? Not good. At all!
"...could stay in Dragon-Mountain-Breath?" he hazards, glancing between the others.....eyes stealing back to bubbles again. BUBBLES. ".....sssk. Mictlan-fire not fire enough?"
A look. A narrow-eyed look. And then a warm, "Ah. ...one might enjoy vissiting then, Mikilos," come the words. Then, at Tenoc's statement, "/We/ might enjoy vissiting. Their landss." Svarshan is quick to refocus on the small one--he settles the coat in place. Gives it a tug here, then there. Making sure it fits. And by now? She's forgotten all about it. This new, snug gift from the Altheans--and reaches shamelessly for the bubbles. "Mine!" she chirps. "Mine!"
Mikilos frowns mildly, considering a few moments, and shrugs. "Perhaps. Their lands are fire and rock. Nothing else. No sky, no water, no plants, just fire, and rock." He considers. "Nice to visit, maybe, but not someplace I'd want to live."
He grins at the youngling, the magic bubbles popping when touched into smaller versions, which in turn grow smaller still, unless left alone a moment, when they join again, growing large once more.
Garak has arrived.
Tenoc finds his eyes staring back at the bubbles. Staaaaring. But-- hers. Youngling's! He hisses softly, shaking his head as he glances away, up-- anywhere but at bubbles! "Will watch for them," he rumbles, glancing back. "If. They come?" He turns towrads the temples again, dipping his head before he steals a glance to either side, stepping back. "..sssk. This one hunts again," he says, rumbling with a nod. "Must learn. New place. Shall-- come to feast another day?"
Tenoc has left.
"Nothing. Wrong with Fire," Svarshan says after a time. He sits back on his haunches as the youngling reaches--then watches as the bubbles snrink and grow. When one pops when doing this NEW thing, she cautiously steps back, closer to warrior-caste. And stares. Stares with INTEREST at these THINGS.
"Nothing," Svarshan echoes. He thumps his tail as Tenoc leaves--goes quiet until the hunter-caste has paced away, and then returns his attention to Mikilos.
Garak emerges from the Temple of Serriel. For his first few strides he takes odd steps while shaking his feet and raising his knees much higher than he has to, only to push them down with his hands. He rolls his arms and twists a bit at the waist. Then he raises a hand in greeting to those he sees in the square. "Good evening."
Mikilos smiles, and nods. "Nothing wrong with fire," he agress "but too much of anything is too much. What have you been up to, Svarshan, beyond taking little ones to see the city?" A small cloud of magical shimmering bubbles floats nearby the wizard, popping into smaller bubbles, only to join again into alrge, given half a chance. A wonderful little illusion toy for the sith youngling to play with.
"...hunting," comes the quiet words. Then, in more normal tones. "Protecting. Alessandria has too much sshadow, thesse days. And with the rumorss...ssome of the ssick come to the People to be healed. ...they plasse us in danger," he says. And something--something dangerous in his tone, as he looks down to the small one, and her wide eyes. The cautious reach for the shifting bubbles.
Then, the tail flicks, and he looks over. "Peasse to you, priesst Garak," he says.
Garak purses his lips when Svarshan mentions the sick going to the Sith. "Too much shadow," he nods in agreement. Then he looks at Mikilos. Or more specifically the halberd. "Mikilos...is that yours?" he quirks an eyebrow.
Mikilos nods, and sighs. "Part of why I didn't visit. Fell sick myself. Got cured, but... it's not a very good cure." He frowns thoughfully, looking to the DemonChomper. "Posession, when a demon takes over the body of an innocent... how do you cure them?" Glancing up, he nods to Garak. "It is now. Another forged it for me, to demonstrate his own techniques."
"Hrmmmum. ...one loaned a Mind Sentinel Medallion. Yet...one suspects a greater disspel did much. Of the work," Svarshan says, lowered tones. "The Medallion iss sstill functional." The tail flickers, along the muscle-line, as though it might move. But it does not. It stays in place as he crouches, and watches the youngling.
"A demon...demonic possession. A sstrong dispel. Of magic, of evil. Of chaos. ...they often detesst the presence of cold iron, sslaked in holy water and. Emblazoned with the Symbols of the Faithful. There is magic to forsse them to other realmss--but if they are anchored, thesse may not. Work. ...and if you know the nature of the. Demon, there are. Sspecific tactics one may. Employ."
Garak tears himself away from his examination of the halberd to listen to the minor treatise on dealing with demonkind. "Fascinating," he murmurs. He turns now to Mikilos to see how the arcanist responds to the information.
Mikilos nods, and sighs. "The plague, it's more like a demonic possesion. Not actually demonic, not even technically evil. But the ooze eats magic. Dispells make it grow stronger. The Inquisitors have a spell to cast out demons. It works, sometimes, but the spell itself.... hurts. Most of the plague victims wouldn't survive a casting."
The tail flicks. "One has heard. ...and were it evil. ...the Grasse of the Dragonfather would have. Driven it outwards. One ssuspects it iss only needful, mage. One heard--of your ssummoning." Caste-rumors. Sith-makar, gossiping like old men. "And itss reaction--the dessperation to. Return to a ssource." The tower. "Disscover itss attraction and it. May essorcisse itself--and leave the. Victimss behind. All at. Onsse." Svarshan reaches out then, and scoops up the youngling--who attaches to him with claws and tail.
Garak nods in what could only be approval. He might never have thought of such an idea, but the words seem well spoken and full of wisdom. Garak's attention drifts back to the polearm, eyeing it with professional interest.
Mikilos nods. "We've been searching for the Tower. It moves, though space and time. I'm still not sure if it was the Tower that atracted the ooze or the powerful magics. I dare not take a victim to the Tower, we still don't know what the Plague is supposed to accomplish. If it somehow stores the magical power it eats, gathering it all for some purpose... I'm pretty sure we're not going to like it if that purpose comes to pass."
"When the warrior ssaw the tower. The ooze leapt from him. Wass that true?" Svarshan asks. The small one is held against him, now. Her claws clutch at his shoulder. He falls quiet, a while. "Perhapss ssomething to. Conssider. ...whatever draws them to the tower may be. Your tool, magus. ...peasse to your nest," he says to Garak, then. And then, thumps his tail--apparently intending to head out.
Garak inclines his head in a respectful nod. Then he seems to remember something. His gaze shifts back to Mikilos. "Is there any additional news of the Sildinyari capitol? Did you spend time there to learn more about what had happened? And how the troubles of your homeland are linked with those of Alexandria?"
Mikilos nods to Svar. "I will think on it." Turning focus to Garak, he shakes his head. "No real details. She, the one currently controling the Tower, seems to hate SilerMoon. Why, I don't know. Much of the population is infected, but it seems contained. For now, at least."
Garak strides a few steps, then turns and walks in the opposite direction. Finally he nods. "It seemed like a clue at the time...but perhaps not." He glances at the moon in the sky and then turns towards the great bridge. "I had best be on my way. Good luck in your endeavors."
Mikilos nods. "There's been much of that. Fare well."