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Post by Sylva (RETIRED) on Nov 9, 2022 1:37:46 GMT -5
The night is still young in the Hauntwood. The last rays of a sunset dies in a brilliant blaze far beyond the bare, gnarled trees reaching to the heavens; and as the chill of night sets in, the light of the day has long faded far below, in the wetlands of the haunt. Under the branches, a marsh wren coasts as the darkness settles; it weaves around twigs and bramble until it reaches its destination. The wren reaches out with tiny talons and curls them around its perch; tiny twitters leave its beak as the branches sway and bounce. Something is off today; the way that the magic flows beneath the marsh is humdrum— hushed— as though in hiding. The gnarled trees of the Hauntwood whisper, their branches gossiping in wind-blown cackles. The fauna and wetland beasts of the Hauntwood skitter, hiding beneath the mud and sheltering behind brambles. The birds peep curiously from their high perches. Even the bugs seem to buzz about something new— something unusual. A hand, tangled by bark and moss, reaches upwards; and as slender fingers brush against the wren’s talons, it naturally steps forwards to adjust its perch. Sylva lowers her arm, shoulders falling with an echoing sigh. “ A visitor?” Her voice rings hollow— gentle yet eerie in the hushed anticipation of the flats. The marsh wren taps its little talons, head twitching and jittering at strange angles. “ ... More than one?” The branches above rattle and creak, agreeing with the wren. The dryad lifts her eyes to the sky for a moment, quietly noting their contribution, before lowering her gaze once more. “ I see; thank you.” A gentle hand reaches out, brushing against the wren’s feathers tenderly. It closes its eyes, body bobbing with each stroke. “ Will you take me to them?” The wren opens its eyes, gaze falling on her face for but a moment before it stretches its wings; the tiny bird rises, sweeping through the leaves, up into the branches of a nearby oak. It turns to face her, twittering its anticipation. Sylva lifts herself gradually from where she had sat upon the old, twisted roots of a coiled willow. Her moss-like drapings skirt across the muddy banks as she moves forwards, her tall physique not terribly unlike the trees and flora surrounding her domain; she brushes long tendrils of willow leaves aside like curtains, pushing past to join the wren in open marsh. The curtains drift back into places as she passes, but a few strands tangle in antler-like branches twisting from beneath wisping vines like hair. They drag quietly through notches and joints in her branches, falling back into place; and as they do, Sylva reaches out and opens her palm in silence. Three flickering lights drift from the air, hovering over her palm; a closer look would reveal a trio of odd fireflies. Glowing a strange blue, and far too bright to be any natural creature, they circle amongst one another to create a soft blue glow to illuminate her path. (1)And so, the wren takes her farther and farther into the flats, in search of something she cannot name— not yet.
(1) Spirit Lantern
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Post by Veliky on Nov 9, 2022 16:35:50 GMT -5
The sun is gone again. Like a father and soldier, its visit was brief. And, now, it's left with the only the promise of return.
The moon offers only a pittance of light. Where its silver rays pierce the canopy, the illumination offers sight at the cost of being seen. Elsewhere, the shadows of the under and overgrowth offer a hiding place, but who can know with what they might share it?
On the gnarled branch of a waterlogged bog-tree, a minuscule fly is perched, rubbing its legs together like a person washes their hands. Its black carapace is tinged with a jade-like green that bleeds into its gossamer wings. It finishes its washing; a hygienic creature, in spite of what its image suggests.
Then, it takes flight. To a creature its size, its wingbeats would be deafening; for a man, it's audible only as a harsh buzzing.
Its erratic flight takes it on a descent, down to the marsh's mudded banks and onto the violet bell of a night flower. Even on the dainty petals, its landing is barely felt.
Meticulously treading violet fabric, down to the flower's bloom, dips its head toward the nectar, and it begins to drink...
Splash Splash Splash
Drowned footfalls draw closer. The fly is quick to abandon its host as a strange, otherworldly glow of creeps from periphery. And its source? Something that is, as a matter of quintessence, unnatural.
Its four legs trot through ankle-high water: a canine made of polished tin, blemished by splatters of mud. Its teeth and claws are of molded iron, like tiny daggers. And, in its steel jaw, it clutches a lantern, containing a mote of sky-blue fire: the source of the otherworldly glow. It stops and scans the trees with a single eye, crimson and shaped like a knight's visor. With every movement, its joints produce a high-pitched hisss.
Meanwhile, it's joined by a similarly artificial and similarly bestial companion: a bat. It clings, upside-down, from a branch with its tiny, tin claws. It has two eyes instead of one: each a blank, red lens.
The bat makes the sound of a click, followed by a whirr, and then a buzz, and continues with a series of other strange, mechanical noises. When the bat has finished whatever foreign proclamation it was forming, the canine turns its head and responds with a similar set of indecipherable code.
If there is a word to be prescribed to these artificial beings, it is 'machine.' And they are as contrasting against the swamp as the night against the day.
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Post by Sylva (RETIRED) on Nov 10, 2022 11:38:10 GMT -5
Through the marsh, she travels with the haunt as her guide; the flow of magic beneath the roots of her feet recoils as something foreign treads in its waters. The branches whisper directions overhead; and her wren guide weaves between them, each twitter of its beak a question for the Hauntwood of the strangers’ locations. The moon, chasing the sun as it does, peeks over the horizon far from her sight— but its silver rays glisten through barren branches and notched twigs, shimmering on the surface of a bog that most people would consider dismal, maybe even dirty. To her, the glittering of tiny stars in its murky depths is forever a thing of beauty. Long, moss drapings ripple the water as she moves forwards, each step as purposeful as it is silent in the haunt. She moves like this for a time, listening, until her wren stops suddenly, tiny wings beating with momentary hesitance, before it swoops to land upon her antler-like branches. She rests her open palm on a waterlogged bog-tree, feeling its rough bark beneath; she hears the erratic buzz of a fleeing insect, the splash of clumsy footsteps, and an alien hiss. If it were not for the noise, she might be fooled into believing they were creatures she knew by name in silhouette; but they are not hers. They are not of the Haunt.
They whirr, click, and buzz in ways unlike any creature she has heard in her... many years of wandering the woods... yet, they appear like distorted mimicries of creatures that she knows so well. Their presence makes the wren atop her head uncomfortable; she feels it twitching and shuffling its thin talons as she steps forwards; her stride is slow, but cautious; and before she gets too close, she stops. She does not hide in her approach, however; after all, this is her home and it is her doorstep they have come across. Illuminated by lights, they are… stranger, still, than they were at a distance. Glistening beasts with polished surfaces and glinting eyes; with each tread, the biggest one; similar to a fox or wolf, but she is unsure; frightens tadpoles and minnows deep beneath the surface; and the magic of the haunt recoils, twisting around its stone-like paws like a wave waiting to collapse in on itself. The beast is a void of the Haunt’s natural lifeforce… but it seems to have one of its own. Something given to it… in a different way? She does not understand what she feels from them. “ Curious beasts,” she regards them, the lilt of her voice sounds distant despite her presence being so near. Gradually, Sylva bends her knees; wood creaks and groans as she does so, a snapping of vines somewhere on her person; but she tries to level herself with them. She releases her fireflies from her open hand; they disperse in flickering embers into the darkness; and she rests her palms against her knees. “ What is it that has brought you to my haunt, so far from your home?”
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Post by Veliky on Nov 11, 2022 13:51:50 GMT -5
The moment Sylva's presence is made known through groaning bark and the mind-bending movement of roots, there's a shift in the machines' demeanour. They buzz at one-another in warning, with the bat fluttering incessantly about and the canine lowering its stance. Their behaviour is quite similar to that of their flesh-and-blood counterparts, yet somehow more stiff, less natural, as if by calculation rather than instinct. It also becomes clear that there's a precise distance they prefer to remain from her; any advance, however slight, is mirrored by a retreat.
But, while hostile, they do not attack and they don't seem terribly offput. Rather, their demeanour is that of a very humanlike suspicion meshed with a very unhumanlike coldness.
With a slight hiss and grinding of cog-like joints, the canine cranes its neck to peer upward, at Sylva's wooded visage. It meets Sylva's eyes with a cyclopic lens of crimson glass. Then its antithetical nature is made ever more clear as it speaks in the Common tongue, with a voice that does not waver, but creaks like the planks of an old house. Its jaw and tongue remain motionless; the source of its voice lies somewhere within.
"Floral entity, report: we do not have a home. We are here on a Priority Copper command from Mistress Veliky. Our mission is to locate 'unusual plant specimens' and return them to Mistress Veliky."
The bat-machine continues to flutter over and under branches. Its movements are as erratic as the buzzing fly's from earlier. But Sylva, who knows the thoughts and instincts of animals as well as one knows their own child, can see the strangeness of these beings even in their simplest motions. Its darting is intentionally random; whenever there is a choice of where to fly, it chooses heedless of danger and concern. They are unmotivated, bereft of any intent to make it predictable. And it repeats the same sound over and over: a bzzZZ that crescendoes before an abrupt halt.
Meanwhile, outside of its responses to Sylva's own movements, the canine is utterly still. Its chest does not rise and fall with breathing, as a dog's should, nor does its thin tail express any modicum of emotion. Its clawed feet are slowly sinking into the mud, but not to any dangerous depth.
"Query: Identify yourself. Additional query: your species has not been catalogued. What are you?" Its voice is irreverent, but is such disposition liable for a being that knows no such thing as respect or politeness?
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Post by Sylva (RETIRED) on Nov 14, 2022 20:19:45 GMT -5
The beasts before her are a mimicry of creatures that she knows well; it is strange to see them, to hear them, and to take them in their entirety. The marsh wren, who she had followed, has already spooked from them; it retreated far before she stepped forwards, and sits anxiously on the branch of a gnarled tree behind her.
Still, Sylva waits patiently for the beasts to adjust to her: she treats them, regardless, as though they were of flesh and blood.
Her gaze slowly shifts between both creatures— they are so close to what she understands, and yet so far from it. One even begins to speak in what she understands is the Common tongue. Her eyes fall upon the hound-like golem, watching the way it does not move an inch despite a voice resonating from deep inside of its hull.
She does not understand where it comes from, nor how it can speak. It is not telepathy, nor is it a genuine voice, but something else: a false tone?
“There are so many unusual plants within the haunt, but what does your mistress require with the plants of the Hauntwood?” she asks, crossing her arms over her thighs; the hound is responsive to some degree to her motions. She watches the way it expresses its caution; and she listens to the incessant buzzing of the sporadic bat up above… how does it keep itself lifted without the lightweight bones of its predecessors?
“I have many names, dear one. Arwen en' i' laara'. Fea. Uuvanimo. Cora.” (Lady of the Flats. Ghost. Monster. Guide.) The dryad’s chest rises and falls gently, unlike the creatures she crouches in front of. Her eyelashes flutter as she slowly rises; vines pop and wood creaks as she stands to her full height; she moves slowly, even though the beasts still respond in kind with their own aspirations of an animal’s skittishness. It is surreal. “I am the fea en' i' tathar— the spirit of the willow— but you may call me Sylva.”
She looks down at the creatures before her, folding her hands together against her lap, and growing still once more.
“As for what I am…” Her eyes grow half-lidded as she speaks, considering the words which have been shared so far: they are searching for unusual plant life to bring back to their mistress. “...I am an unusual plant; the only of my kind in this marsh. Y' livien orn.” (A living tree.) She flutters her eyes open; pupil-less, illuminated a twinkling green in the shade of the Marsh Flats as she looks down upon the strange creatures before her.
“Will you take me to your mistress, little ones?”
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Post by Veliky on Nov 19, 2022 14:49:56 GMT -5
In spite of their obvious caution and defensive postures, it is difficult to imagine true hostility, nor true friendliness of the machines. They are, rather, plainly indifferent in the way that only the simplest of creatures can fathom - fish, insects, grass. If nothing else, they are good listeners, a trait they inherit from their inorganic parentage (those are, the metals they were made from). Even the fluttering machine-bat quiets itself to hear Sylva when she speaks. And the canine moves only once as it listens - to pull its legs from the mud and readjust itself.
There is a pause after Sylva's request. It is a strange silence, devoid of the awkwardness that might be entailed by such a lull in conversation, yet suffused with a similarly uncomfortable air of uncertainty; these beings' every action is deliberate, and so the silence, too, must be.
Piercing the silence as rudely and illogically as it permitted it, the machine-canine emits an unpleasant buzz, followed by another set of mechanical jargon. The bat is quick to halt in place, its attention undecidedly upon its... friend? Sibling? What manner of relation unites these beings?
The dog's droning concludes, and the bat reciprocates with a chirp, incidentally similar to twin notes from a birdsong. Wings still beating, its attention darts to Sylva. The erraticness of its flight makes eye contact a difficult prospect, but it attempts nevertheless. Then, it draws close, suddenly jolting into movement and stopping as easily, like a hummingbird. The proximity is rather obtrusive.
The tiny machine flutters about the livien orn. Its impolite investigation spares no square foot of her; its only show of etiquette is that it never gazes her bark. All the while, the canine does almost nothing, only shifting its feet once more, so that it does not become trapped in the mud.
Then, suddenly again - sudden actions seem a standard for these machines - the bat pulls back to the canine's ear. And it reports its findings through clicks and whirrs before finally landing on the dog's back.
After a long disclusion, comprehensible speech crackles from the dog-machine's body, gracing Sylva with conversation.
"PoI Sylva, command: your retrieval will satisfy the parameters of the mission. Come with us."
After such a long stillness, the unnatural hiss of its joints might've been forgotten. But it is recollected, now, as the canine lifts its muddied claws from the muck, turns, and begins a casual trot down a semi-dry path in the bog. Only at the crest of a minor incline - a tiny step, by Sylva's standard - does it stop and crane its neck to the dryad. The caution it had demonstrated previously has utterly vanished; now, its demeanour is far more reminiscent of the protectiveness that a dog displays toward its master. The bat remains dormant on its back.
"Report: the underlying purpose of our mission does not exist within my info banks. Additional queries can only be accurately answered by Mistress Veliky. Request: please, follow us as quickly as is comfortable."
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Post by Sylva (RETIRED) on Dec 6, 2022 21:17:56 GMT -5
Patiently, she waits; her olive eyes half-lidded as she gazes upon the alien creatures standing before her. Her request seems to fall upon deaf ears, and yet they do not: after the pause has finished, the canine-entity buzzes.
It’s an unpleasant noise, she decides, as she closes her eyes and rises slowly to her full height.
They are nothing like their kind of flesh and bone; not the sounds, nor the motion, nor the soul; yet they mimic them all the same. They make sense, but they do not; and in some strange way, she finds this… sad. As she stands before them, she feels a desire to touch their shimmering carapaces— to see if any warmth runs through these beings at all.
She is, however, not an impulsive entity.
She opens her eyes. The smallest of them, its wings drumming, erratically flutters to her without an ounce of hesitation in it. Yes… she finds them sad, but fascinating; her eyes travel with the erratic motions of the small creature.
They observe her, but she observes them, too: she cannot understand how they stand before her, a void of life, and yet… they have life.
They are alive, aren’t they?
They must be…
She feels wind displaced by tiny wings; and she listens to the hiss of air while it flutters sporadically around her. Never once does it touch her; it only looks. The finch who had long since fled from the situation sits on a branch behind her, its chubby, round head twitching and tilting while it watches the scene unfold.
Sylva turns her head only slightly as she watches the bat rush back to the canine imposter; and still, she waits quietly. The lady of the willow entwines her hands together in front of her, listening to the clicks, and the whirrs, and the… buzzes… and then she hears the canine creature speak.
She does not understand every word from the creature’s mouth— but it asks her to follow, and she will do just that. She twists just enough to raise her hand; a silent, but understood gesture to the finch lingering nearby. Though she knows its hesitance, it still comes to her: a small, but loyal companion. Its thin talons rest on the extension of her index finger; and as she withdraws her arm, she turns and moves across the bog after the canine.
But it is strange, isn’t it?
So cautious as they were before, the creature has found its courage: neither the creak of her branches, nor the ripple of the bog from her motion, startles it. The fluttering bat, too, sits quietly. No longer is it poised to flee, but poised to guide: no different than any of the creatures of the Hauntwood might do for her, if she were to ask politely.
What has changed?
A tiny smile graces Sylva’s lips when it speaks; its voice is so…
“Rest assured, I will follow where you go; I am eager to meet your mistress.”
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Post by Veliky on Dec 12, 2022 0:54:20 GMT -5
An arrangement, it would seem, has been reached. The doggish construct turns away and begins its prowl. If it perceived any subtle change in Sylva's demeanour, it doesn't express such. But, then, how could it understand emotions that it doesn't, itself, seem to possess?
Hale bogs and mudded trenches: the trek leads, straight as an arrow, through the land that Sylva has known for centuries. If she knew the destination, she could lead them just as easily; instead, she is the guided, by the artificial beings whom she towers over. Well, only one of them is the true guide; the bat-like machine meanders obsessively, like a restless child that's following their mother, scanning every plant and every creature that doesn't flee in their presence. But not once does it touch, much less eat its finds; would such an entity subsist on such things at all?
After an hour of travel, the path sidles down the side of a stone spire on the left; to the right, a twilit tributary between thickets of marshland flora. At the spire's base, they can already be seen: tarps hung on long posts, forming makeshift shelters on a patch of semi-dry land. Marching between and beneath them are beings whose nature is familiarly unfamiliar: some walk on two legs, some on four, but they are all of the same breathless make as Sylva's acquainted guides, with spindly limbs and eyes of blood-red crystal (though menacing in demeanour, the tallest ones yet stand an entire foot shorter than Sylva). The camp is abuzz with their activity, all bathed in pale-yellow light. Sylva knows this light; it comes from patches of hearthmoss, which radiate both light and heat. It's clever; to make camp in its presence obviates the need for fire. Of course, this would only be a boon to a creature that desires warmth.
As the trio near the bottom of the path and the outskirts of the camp, the canine offers some foreboding words.
"PoI Sylva, warning: while inside the camp, do not take hostile actions, or we will be forced to reciprocate. If you wish to take an action that might be falsely interpreted as hostile, please warn nearby units so as to not incur a hostile response. Additional warning: while speaking to Mistress Veliky, please maintain a distance of at least two meters from her, at all times. Failure to comply with this warning will be considered a hostile action."
While this threat is obviously physical in nature, the monotonous delivery makes it sound more like a legal one.
In less than a minute, the trio stand at spire's base. They now see the camp from below rather than above; and the tarps that had seemed so minuscule now loom like rolling clouds. The camp's residents have begun to take notice of Sylva. Two by two, piercing eyes fall upon her. As a collective, the way they respond to her presence is bizarre: not predatory, not reminiscent of prey yet not even comparable to that of humans or other things that walk on two legs. In fact, the most similar analogue that might be found in nature are ants, bees and termites.
As Sylva and her guides enter the camp's light, there is a lull in the activity that might be compared to unease. It lingers for a moment, only to suddenly vanish, and the beings go back to their work. One machine, carrying a three-pronged spear, marches so close to her that it almost heedlessly bumps her arm. They avoid her like a river around a stone, all the while communicating with one-another in that same, indescribable tongue that the dog and bat share. It's like another world - one of tin and painstaking organization.
And then barely audible over the the mechanical cacophony, the sound rings out: words in the Common tongue. "Right. Send the Bishop and a small crew if they don't show up in the next thirty." The voice that breaths them is feminine and mature, yet subtly weary. It comes from beneath the largest tarp - what a coincidence that Sylva's guides are already leading her there.
Were the sun in the sky, the tarp might harbour shade. Instead, the only shadows cast are those by the wooden posts. Beneath... well, the voice's source is difficult, at first, to spy. It seems the only being within is another one of those machines, facing away. But, then, it turns to the side and walks off; behind where it once stood is a creature whose meekness rivals a raven. She's dressed in a tidy, buttoned uniform of the colour of darkened grass, yet she's so tiny that even some marsh flowers could meet her pale-blue eyes. Among the machines, she's a shrub; beside Sylva, she's a sapling; yet, in this place, she holds the presence of a great oak.
She's holding a tiny bottle of some liquid, grey and bubbling, and sipping from it with modest frequency. As there was in her voice, there's a tiredness in her eyes, so much so that she almost doesn't notice Sylva's approach. Instead, she first looks to the canine machine, regarding it with... not much.
"Good, you're back. Was almost ready to start a search for you. What did.... you..."
Her eyes - pale and blue - meet with Sylva's, and something shifts. It's the strangest of sensations, like a sudden change in the wind, only... deeper. It feels somehow fulfilling, like the praise of a loving parent. The little woman's eyes are wide in bewilderment. Did she feel it, too?
Perhaps, perhaps not. Either way, she tries to maintain her composure. Her expression shifts back to neutrality and she clears her throat to speak, though not taking her eyes from the wooden woman before her.
"BF. What is this?"
The hound doesn't reflect an ounce of its mistress' amazement; its tone doesn't change, as it hasn't changed from the moment Sylva first heard it.
"Mistress Veliky, report: this is an unusual plant specimen, as you requested. It is a y' livien orn. Its name is Sylva. It requested to speak with you."
After a pause, the woman takes a deep breath and stares at the contents of her bottle, as if they might offer her some counsel.
"Right. Well... Sylva... is there some reason you wanted to speak with me?"
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Post by Sylva (RETIRED) on Dec 15, 2022 18:50:50 GMT -5
This land is her home.
There is no step that Sylva takes within it that is uncertain; over fallen logs and through the muddied brush she follows her guides. She knows this path; she has walked it for hundreds of years; and with each step she recognizes the disturbance. The buzz of fear and the looming uncertainty of its new inhabitants lies heavy in the absence of the Hauntwood’s natural wildlife.
But still, she follows with a polite obedience; taking in all there is to know. Listening to the absence of sound; feeling for the change; and studying her mimic guides.
Those beings big and small who are brave enough to linger are swiftly chased down by the one which flies — but not for food, nor play.
They which guide her seem neither predator nor prey; they do not seem to fear, and they do not seem to care if they instill it. The little one hounds and harasses all those it can find; and the big one does not stray once from its path, as though all it knows is to lead her to where its mistress resides.
It’s strange. She does not understand it, but she tries; yet, every one of her guesses are proved false in some subtle way or another. The time passes quickly with these guessing games; and in the silence of a marsh muddled by its new occupants, Sylva steps past a stone spire which once housed the nest of a beautiful crane several years ago, but now houses new strangers not unlike her guides.
As she follows them into their makeshift camp, Sylva’s steps begin to slow for the first time.
She takes them all in.
Sylva meets the crimson, burning eyes of the beings; she understands she’s been acknowledged, but all the same, they heed her no mind. Strangely enough, seeing them together… She believes she understands them a little more.
Like a hive of bees, or a nest of ants, each of them seem to have their own place and their own purpose. They return to their work, uninterrupted by her arrival. Diligent, dutiful, lest the collective of the hive collapse beneath the weight of their ineptitude; their mistress, their queen, speaks from somewhere.
The cycle of life can be cruel for insects: and it is always the workers who hold the shortest lifespan; and yet, they are the backbone— the crutch— of the collective. Perhaps, that is why they hold no fear for her, nor anything else?
Yes… they’re a little like a hive, aren’t they?
Purposeful. Dutiful. Busy.
As her steps slow to almost a stop, she turns her body to avoid the three-pronged carrier; she blinks slowly at her guides, considering their warning. “How far is a meter?” she asks simply; her voice rolls, something else hidden in her tone echoes as though she is speaking through a cavern. She turns back to them, following them beneath the shade of flapping textiles, to where yet another one of those bots stands…
Except, the bot turns and treads off: revealing the queen of this false hive behind it.
Sylva does not know exactly what she expected: but she does know that she does not expect the way the wind shifts the moment she meets the gaze of their mistress.
The feeling rustles through her as gentle as the hush of a breeze against autumn leaves; the halfling’s eyes feel like remnants of a dream she has long since forgotten; once seen through a reflection, but distorted by the drop of a pebble; something nearly grasped, but lost.
It’s a soft nostalgia that she can’t explain; a tender feeling that some part of her mourns the loss of. She knows only that something deep within her chest aches; the same part of her that so fervently desires to protect her home, to protect those creatures beneath her branches, also wishes…
Sylva blinks; her facial expression has not changed since she first approached Veliky, but as she drifts away from this feeling that can’t be named, she… feels tired suddenly; and as the sudden thrum of the earth beneath her roots seizes at her veins, the brows of the dryad twitch in acknowledgement of a subtle pain that only she, and the Haunt, can feel.
One which worsens slowly by the day.
Sylva closes her eyes; her chest rises and falls in a slow, calming breath before she opens them again. “Mistress Veliky,” she regards the woman; the repetition of her name from the Blixtbot™’s fall from her lips like the distant echo of rain. “May I sit?” It is a strange request to start a conversation with, but she follows the request up by looking towards her canine-like guide. “They tell me that I should ask.”
Vines and moss layers fold against gravity as Sylva lowers herself to the ground; they pool in an elegant waterfall around her silhouette when she gently comes to rest on her knees before the little halfling woman.
Yet even at rest, Sylva still towers over her.
She looks at Veliky then; and her shoulders relax. The smile she offers the halfling is genuine and gentle as she fully introduces her reasoning, “Yes,” she speaks softly, her voice carrying beneath the buzz and whirr of the Blixtbot™s. “I came across your workers in the marsh. They told me they were seeking unusual plants for you, but could not tell me why…” She looks at them, her voice pitching quizzically as she finishes; then, she looks back at Veliky.
“I know every plant in this haunt by name, and they know me. There are plants in this place that should not be disturbed; and those which are not safe to; and those who would never grow again were they picked. I simply wish to ask: what do you wish to do with them when you find them?”
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Post by Veliky on Dec 17, 2022 17:31:49 GMT -5
Have you ever met someone truly tall? Not merely intimidating, but truly monumental? If you have, you may've sensed how their very presence carries greater weight; even their slighter movements are far more noticeable, far more powerful. This same presence can be felt as Sylva lowers to a sit; the air changes, pressure builds, like the feeling in one's ears when they dive underwater. She lowers herself, and it's as if the world lowers with her.
And yet the tiny woman's eyes don't break from the dryad - not for a heartbeat, barely sparing the time to blink. She observes her every fleeting whim, calculating them. There's no feeling in her eyes, but a million secrets. Her aura is as cold and uncompromising as the northern mounts, taking up a space a hundredfold larger than her meagre form. She hears, she listens, she learns as she wills, yet shares nothing for free.
But surely she feels, doesn't she? She isn't so lifeless as the artificial beings she commands; she is real, and 'real' is not perfect, no matter how feverishly it tries. Yes - behind those pale, blue eyes, there are many thoughts that war and hide. Namely...
'What the hell?! This tree's hot!' Perhaps some feelings are better left unspoken. 'It - she, I guess - seems intelligent too, but I've seen weirder crap. But that hair, those eyes, that skin, those... um... This might be a bit difficult. Gotta focus! Tree or no tree, hot or not, this is professional.'
Unlike her thoughts, her voice is so confident that even the soil listens. "We appreciate the warning. I can assure you that we're being as delicate as possible in our study. As for what we're doing..."
Yes, why is she looking for strange plants in the dampest, trudgiest and most mosquito-infested place in Charon? A strange place for such a strange person. But, then, perhaps not; after all, her organization is dedicated, at least partially, to science and ecology. In fact, this sort of scientific research is both common and crucial. It's just that 'scientific research' doesn't normally entail a fully-armed squad of military constructs. But the Marsh Flats is a strange and complicated territory, both politically and ecologically. Mercenaries wouldn't cut it; she'd need to directly oversee this expedition.
Or maybe that's just an excuse. Part of her just wanted to see the Marsh Flats, again. She can't say why, exactly: it's damp, trudgy and mosquito-infested. But something about it felt strangely nostalgic. Oddly, it was a similar feeling to that which she felt when she first saw Sylva. Yes, she felt it, too - and it's vexing her, to no end, that she can't place the feeling.
She paces toward the edge of the tarp-shelter, looking out to where the land slumps and sinks into the tributary. The woods are thick, almost impassably so. In fact, it's so dense that Veliky could tread there, easier than even Sylva. In fact, she might fit into a rabbit's warren, if she deigned.
...Something says that she wouldn't.
"We're here to research the unusual properties of flora in the Marsh Flats. We take samples, bring them to a secure facility, and study them. Learning more about them, could reveal new innovations in medicine, both civilian and military."
After a pause, she crosses her arms. "We haven't found much." She peers over her shoulder, and a cold breeze brushes her locks. "Until you came."
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Post by Sylva (RETIRED) on Dec 26, 2022 10:50:53 GMT -5
Sylva’s expression remains neutral while the quarterling speaks; the woman assures her that they’re being delicate in their studies— but are they? Delicate by whose standards? The dryad blinks slowly, raising one hand slightly to create a perch for the marsh wren, which rests on her shoulder; it reaches out with thin talons, hopping onto the smooth bark of her hand.
While Veliky speaks, she looks down at the bird; round, fluffy, and warm. Unlike the creatures beside her. Its black eyes shine back at her, illuminated by the green glow of her own; but they are lively and gentle and worried. It cannot feel the pain of the Haunt, but it knows that the corruption in the flow of the mother’s mana is root-deep.
She closes her eyes and tips her chin down; Veliky’s voice rings confidently— yet coldly— in the darkness behind her eyelids.
Talk of study… and of innovation in medicine…
Sylva opens her eyes, lifting her chin to study the quarterling as she finishes her explanation. Loose golden locks brush over Veliky’s shoulder as the woman looks back at her; her calculating expression dappled by silver splotches of light filtered between copper leaves far above.
Just how many times has she heard this same sort before, over each and every century? Dreams of healers, cures, and miracles; potentials of poultice, pill, and syrup. Sometimes those claims were true; sometimes those claims were false. It has been so long, and so many, that each and every aspiring merchant, healer, and herbalist blends together in her mind.
If she really tried, she might be able to remember their faces and names. She would know which ones she helped, and which ones she chased from her haunt when their greedy underbellies were finally overturned.
But right now, she is here with Mistress Veliky, watching the light glint across her cold expression while she waits; and there lies not an ounce of warmth in the depths of her blue eyes. Almost completely off topic to the conversation at hand, Sylva looks up. “Do you hear that, Mistress Veliky?” she asks suddenly, her voice carries on a breeze that passes through beneath the tarp, further displacing the quarterling’s golden hair.
If Veliky were to stop and listen, she would hear… nothing unusual. The typical whirr and clicks of her own hive in motion; the beeps of a language unspoken, the hiss of joints; the stomp of metal feet on partially solid ground. Perhaps, if she listens even closer, she will hear the rustle of the leaves in the trees up above— obscured by the presence of the natural commotion of her workers.
In this place, with what little starlight peeks through the trees shaded by tarps, there is no birdsong; no signs of life outside of those she has brought into fruition of her own accord.
“The Hauntwood is a living thing; through its roots, it breathes; through the wind, it speaks—” Sylva raises the marsh wren on her finger, poising the small, fluffy bird to look at Veliky. It does, head twitching to the side. “—and through its inhabitants, it sees.” Sylva lifts her hand just enough to place the wren on her shoulder. “You have not found much because the Hauntwood knows you are here. Delicacy takes one only so far when you are walking through the gullet of a beast, itself. In this place, the Haunt is mute. She is hiding.”
She blinks, lifting her eyes back to Veliky.
“The silence is enough of a warning to have led me to your...” she starts to trail off; the dryad is an open book for the most part, her eyes quizzical as her head tilts just enough to look at the canine-bot beside her. She’s trying to piece together a word for it; but she does not know enough to do so. Sylva blinks slowly, her eyes turning back to Veliky without finishing her sentence.
“... they are unlike anything I have ever seen— unlike anything the Hauntwood has seen. So full of life, and yet void of it. Similar to the children she knows so well, yet cold and indifferent to their brothers and sisters; she simply does not know how to welcome them under her branches, and so, she retreats from them and warns the rest of what she does not know.”
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Post by Veliky on Dec 27, 2022 3:17:08 GMT -5
The Hauntwood, a living thing? A 'she?' If anyone else were to suggest such a thing to Veliky, she'd make it her priority to end the conversation as quickly and decisively as possible; a belief so absurd could, assuredly, only come from a disturbed or influenced mind. And perhaps she should be doing just that. She's got a schedule to keep; she can't be sitting around and listening to the wind, or whatever it is this Sylva wants her to do.
Only... Veliky doesn't feel that doubt, that unshakeable offputedness that she normally experiences when faced with someone truly worthy of avoidance. Maybe it's that strange feeling from before; maybe it's that little finch and its childlike innocence; maybe it's the livien orn's voice, and the zephyr that is its every syllable. It fills her with an odd, heavy, but not altogether unpleasant feeling that she can't quite name, neither in Common nor Halfling. Maybe she can indulge this Sylva's eccentricity, if only for a moment.
Leaving Sylva under the unerring watch of the dog-construct, she takes a few long strides toward the edge of the near-black thicket. The hearthmoss' light reaches only the nearest trees before fading at the threshold of the blanket of night. It's intimidating, really; were she to step beyond that threshold, she wouldn't even see her own hands. Fortunately, Sylva only needs her to listen, and that she can do in the penumbra. And she does; trying to ignore the hustle and bustle of the camp, she turns a better ear to the darkness and listens...
...
She doesn't know what she was expecting. As Sylva said, it's silent: no birds, no rodents, no crunching of forlorn leaves, just the sounds of wind-rustled branches and the gently flowing waters nearby. But she's implying that the silence is somehow... intentional? That the Hauntwood, itself, is deterring Veliky from the samples she's looking for? She can't help but feel annoyed by the thought that her mission's been sabotaged from the very start. But there's also a feeling more nebulous as she looks between the looming alders. The thought that the trees are truly alive - that they might be watching her - is an unsettling revelation if true.
Still, she wears a certain skepticism as she returns to her guest - or is Sylva the host? It's difficult to tell.
"So. Sylva." There's an unexpected, yet oddly refreshing awkwardness in her tone - the first falteration, however faint, in her icy exterior. In many senses, she's akin to a drop of oil in a lake, clashing so severely with her environment; and this, she's beginning to realize. "If the Haunt is keeping us away from what we're looking for, then how do we convince her to help us?"
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Post by Sylva (RETIRED) on Dec 31, 2022 12:10:24 GMT -5
Silence. Sylva listens too; but she knows what to expect. Even as the quarterling turns her back on her to gaze into the dreary darkness creeping from the Hauntwood, her eyes never truly leave the small woman. She waits and listens quietly to the hustle and bustle emanating from Veliky’s hive; the cool, evening wind breathes beneath the tarp. Finally, Veliky turns to her; the look of skepticism on her face is not one she is unfamiliar with, but it is one she has not seen in a long time. Her expression overlaps in her memories with that of the others she has met in the Hauntwood; the merchants, thieves, and healers who came across a wandering Dryad drifting between the angled corpses of the Haunt. The quarterling’s voice holds the subtle caution of a doe startled by the crack of a twig in the darkness when she speaks again. Despite the look of skepticism, she relays a question that Sylva had not expected so soon: how does she convince the Haunt to help her? Sylva tilts her head, green eyes focused unwaveringly on the quarterling’s icy gaze. Sylva closes her eyes; the creak of wood and jostle of leaves rise briefly over the sound of the camp as the dryad rises to her full height. She breathes out as she straightens her shoulders; the marsh wren on her horns flutters its wings, fluffing up its feathers to give itself an even rounder shape. “ You do not convince; you prove yourself.” she responds, “ I can bring you to the mother; you will meet her, and she will see for herself if you truly mean her and her inhabitants no harm.” The way she describes it, it certainly sounds like a test; and if what she had said before sounded absurd, this perhaps is testing the waters of a skeptic’s patience. “ You may bring some of your workers so that she will know they are under your leadership.” She looks far above Veliky’s head into the darkness that threatens to swallow her camp if the hearthmoss around them were to lose its luster. “ ...or you may stay here.” Sylva blinks slowly; vines twist and fall over her shoulders as she turns her head down to gaze at Veliky. “ It will take time for the Haunt to grow at ease with your presence, but it may over time if you have enough to spare. Her reach is…” The livien orn’s voice trails off, dying on the gale of a soft breeze. Her expression does not change, but there’s something somber about her continuation. “... hindered, so far from her heart. The choice is yours. I will leave alone, should you wish it.”
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Post by Veliky on Jan 1, 2023 1:18:38 GMT -5
An offer: by an oh-so-subtle shift in her body language, it's something that the little mistress is all-too familiar with. It's like seeing a deer ready to graze, a spider constructing a web or a pigeon ready to take flight: it's something so practiced as to be subconscious, natural. She paces around the seated Liaison of 'The Haunt.' The light of the hearth moss washes across her phase like the phases of the moon, until she stops and only one half is illuminated - stoic and uncompromising at the ethereal sound of Sylva's voice.
Of course, as has been said, hers is a face that belies much.
'Alright, that's it. Prove myself? To someone called 'mother?' In a forest that's apparently alive? This is starting to sound real culty. I'll bet on twenty minutes before she hands me a pamphlet and an event planner. Then again, she probably thinks the use of paper is a sin or something like that. Either way, I'm not sticking around to find out.'
All that outwardly registers is a blink. Then again, it could just as easily be a wink, her other half enshrouded as it is.
'Why are the hot ones always crazy? Kamille's a pyromaniac, Abigail's a nihilist, Mariana's... just weird. I'm starting to think there's a correlation. Whatever; this is a bad idea, and a pair of pretty eyes doesn't change that.'
Veliky's's startled by a fluttering of the little bird of Sylva's horns, and her emotionless façade falters for just a moment's grace. 'Damn thing.' she thinks. She harbours a hatred for birds and, indeed, most animals. It would be easy to think this discrimination strange and somewhat cruel; but, in her defense, she is at a disadvantage. The little marsh wren, which would stand barely higher than a person's ankle, stands at her knee-height. Indeed, many creatures are far more intimidating toward her: cats, small dogs, and her nemesis: ravens.
She shakes off the disturbance and distraction, returning her focus to those shimmering orbs of verdant-green.
...
'Why do they look so... sad?'
It'd be difficult for someone else to discern, but Veliky is one quite attuned to others' emotions (even when she lacks sympathy for them). To her, it's unmistakable: there's a dolor in the livien orn's tone - one that feels... nostalgic. It isn't a pleasant nostalgia; not a youthful reminiscence of the rising sun, but an unwelcome revival of childish dread at falling night. She can't place its source in either time, but she wishes it gone.
...
The little intrudress is silent, and her eyes grow as distant as the horizon.. Though she betrays none of the thoughts that must be streaming through her head, it's easy to tell that she's tuned away from the world, retreating into a place both more and less complex.
After some seconds if this silence, the hound-construct takes a step forward. It seems disquieted by her sudden passivity; but it's difficult to tell if it's out of concern, impatience or something more alien and with no echo in a mind of flesh. "Mistress Veliky, query: will we honour Sylva's request? Positive subquery: should we make preparations for departure?"
...And another brevity of silence pass before, though her face doesn't shift, that frigid iris seems to focus again.
"Yes and yes." Plain as a tunic. She still doesn't remove her gaze from Sylva. "Alright. It'll take a few minutes to get the bots prepped. But, we'll follow you to... the mother." She doesn't hide a reluctance in uttering that phrase. If she did, she'd be terribly dishonest.
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Post by Sylva (RETIRED) on Jan 2, 2023 23:31:25 GMT -5
The quarterling paces like a restless fawn in light of her offer; and illuminated by the warmth of the hearth moss, but shadowed in the blue hues of the night, Mistress Veliky finally stops. She’s quiet; her expression closed off like a flower bud waiting for the warmth of the sun to bloom; and so, it comes as a surprise when her expression flickers. The change is so brief, so subtle, that Sylva almost misses it— —but she doesn’t. Sylva blinks slowly, considering the look on her face: was it fear, surprise, or shock? She had felt the flutter of the wren on her horns in the moment that the queen’s face had twisted; and in all fairness, Mistress Veliky stands quite small… even to a marsh wren. … but the last thing she wants to do is cause Mistress Veliky distress. Mistress Veliky seems to fade from this plane of thought; her eyes, in pools of blue, grow hazy and distant as if experiencing a dream. Sylva, meanwhile, continues to wait patiently; without removing her gaze from the little Mistress, she shifts a hand only to offer perch to the marsh wren on her horns. She waits until she feels the touch of tiny talons to pull away, bringing the bird around to her front. It’s that moment which Mistress Veliky’s worker speaks; and Sylva turns her attention only briefly to it, before looking back to the quarterling when she confirms that she will be visiting the Mother— albeit, reluctantly. That is okay. Mistress Veliky is honest. “Bots…” The word comes off Sylva’s tongue like she’s testing it; it’s an experimental sound. “...Bots…” She’s looking over Mistress Veliky’s head when she speaks it once more; the dryad blinks, lowering her eyes to the small woman, then to the hound-worker beside her. There’s something childish about the way that she studies the hound; as if she hasn’t spent several hours walking beside it; and as if she has never seen it before this moment.
In a way, her expression is almost one of curious awe.
“ Is that what you are?” (1) she regards it after a moment, as if the hound might respond to her— and it could if it understands her, with that drone of a voice monotone like the steady buzz of a mosquito. She turns her eyes up with a blink, then turns her eyes to their queen. “Mistress Veliky, if I may be so bold; what are the ‘bots’? They are... your workers?”
(1) Spoken in Elvish
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