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Post by Wit on Dec 26, 2022 13:55:00 GMT -5
It makes sense that the strange fox-eared man would hail from far away. He's nothing like anything, anyone, that Wit has ever come across in this small corner of the woods. Then again, 'far away' could be anywhere from a thousand miles beyond the stars, or just beyond the bend where the trees give way to the bank of a small, glittering stream, given Wit's diminutive size and life experience.
The way Kvasir speaks of the world-- even just listing a few simple, ordinary locations-- catches Wit's curiosity like a leaf in the breeze. What are all of these places? He knows forest, and sky... He's heard mention of 'villages', perhaps also 'town', whispered on the wind by passing hunters with a hushed but resolute reverence. The way the word forms on their tongues matches the way Kvasir mentions the desert, his desert. Something warm and familiar, unmistakable in the way it stands out from the other words.
'Home'.
Wit wriggles a little bit closer, gazing up with the same wide, yearning eyes that still hold a lingering sense of forlorn solitude but shine with a longing to learn of the world unknown nonetheless. He roots himself into a more comfortable position, ready to drink in any stories Kvasir is willing to share.
"Yes p'ease," he peeps. "What am de-zerr..? I come see?"
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Post by Kvasir Sigurrós on Dec 26, 2022 14:36:58 GMT -5
A small, bittersweet smile plays at Kvasir's lips at the way Wit asks about the desert-- there's nostalgia there, swirling in his eye like honey spirals through tea, sad and sweet and peppered with the sugary grains of yearning. For all he loves about the low-lit woods and starlit skies of the Moonglade, no place within Charon puts his soul at ease the way the gold-lit waters and sandy valleys and oasis greenery of his beloved Zeinav does. There's an irony in that, really-- the one place that hosts something that could unravel all he is is still the place he considers home above all.
He sighs, wistfully, gently patting Wit's head, fingertips slowly brushing over those twitching leaves as he searches for a starting point, wondering how to condense a world of stories into something he can understand.
"I could take you to see the desert one day," Kvasir begins, already contemplating the logistics of a trip out to Zeinav with Wit-- the journey would doubtlessly be long, and he'd have to be careful about resources, but it wouldn't be impossible. "Oh, imagine a place with... endless sand. There aren't too many trees, except in specific places... but the plantlife that is there is beautiful. There's all kinds of fruit, and--"
He pauses for a moment before moving to unlatch his satchel, sifting through the contents and pulling out a tiny vial, removing the stopper so he can produce a tiny, pale pink flower, pressing it into Wit's hands.
"...This is a sprig of a Khet Lotus," he says softly, the nostalgia in his eyes only deepening. "They're... a cousin to another flower that only grows in the water. But these can flourish in the sand, with ash and dust. Aren't they pretty?"
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Post by Wit on Jan 14, 2023 0:43:03 GMT -5
Wit watches with quiet awe as Kvasir pulls out the tiny pink flower, cradling it ever so gently, almost reverently in his hands-- a stark contrast to the manner in which he devoured the other blossoms just a few moments ago. He touches the silky petals with careful fingers, lovingly stroking them as he listens to the colourful descriptions of lands far away. To say that he is enchanted would be an understatement, with the way his attention dutifully follows in the same way a dandelion follows the breeze, light and unhurried, but loyal to the last wisp.
His leaves lay softer under Kvasir's touch, barely twitching as if to convey the relaxation felt in the quiet moment under the forest canopy. Their gentle glow slowly ebbs and flows along with his breathing, barely perceptible if it weren't for the darkness that came along with the night.
"Y'otus..." he tries, his voice hushed. The word bears a novel sensation in his mouth, as foreign as the bloom itself but no less lovely in his mind. "Is so p'etty,"
Is everything that comes from the desert so beautiful? Everything about Kvasir is so colourful, from his clothing to the contents of his bag. Just how many strange little friends does he carry with him? Perhaps this is the secret to never being lonely, he wonders, trying to imagine what a land blanketed in sand could look like.
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Post by Kvasir Sigurrós on Jan 14, 2023 23:42:11 GMT -5
That bittersweetness lingers in the shadows of Kvasir's face as Wit cradles the Khet Lotus sprig between his hands, cloying as the scent of a still-steaming herbal tea; it is comforting to see the gentility with which Wit handles something so sacred, even if he doubts the plant child has a concept of sanctity to begin with. He has no way of knowing what these represent, what these are born from, what must be lost so they may flourish; to him, they are merely a symbol of a land he cannot fathom, merely a bundle of pretty pink and gold petals, shimmering beneath the glow of a more familiar world.
Even so, despite that old yearning, that sorrow that touches his gaze as he watches Wit pet at the small, pale petals, he cannot help but smile. Despite all Wit does not know about the world, his curiosity is gentle and understated, his approach to these new and foreign things standing in stark contrast to how eagerly he'd chomped away at the purple wildflowers of earlier. It only makes Kvasir want to tell him more, show him more.
"They're very pretty," he echoes, letting Wit pet away at the flower for a moment longer before he takes it back. Ordinarily, he would be happy to let him keep it, but this... this is not so easy to find, and not so easy to cultivate. He tucks it in its vial and slips it back in the bag, searching through the contents for something else. "There's all sorts of plants out there... flowers... fruit. They have something called Dust Melons out there-- you might like them. They're quite good."
He pets at Wit's leaves again, sighing wistfully.
"What else do you want to know about the desert?"
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Post by Wit on Feb 5, 2023 21:09:52 GMT -5
Wit waves goodbye to the Khet Lotus with one little hand, easily relinquishing it back into Kvasir's care. It's evident to him that Kvasir must deeply cherish this particular friend, with how delicately he slips it back into its home. Perhaps the blossom is a wise, beloved old companion in his travels. He thinks of how its petals are already dry and brittle... It must be very old and wise indeed.
As for dust melons... They sound delightfully contradictory. Fruit is oh so full of juice, but the desert sounds so dry... Wit nuzzles in closer, blinking slowly as Kvasir rummages through his bag, drinking in the words like a cool summer rain. His jagged mouth sits in a contented smile, the questions in his mind pushing through much more slowly, each thought carefully considered before blooming into inquiry.
If he thinks especially hard, he can almost parse the why and the how things here in his luminous home grow. When the rain comes, everything comes rustling to life, basking in the mist and the damp. When the sun comes out, they sprawl out, drinking in the warmth, some just coming to wakefulness while others fall into sleep. Sun, shade, water, dirt... This is how life is made. This much, Wit is certain of, resonating somewhere deep within his roots. Without sun, leaves grow pale, and without rain, blossoms wither away.
He wonders... How then, do the friends of the desert grow?
Wit hums to himself, mimicking Kvasir's wistful sigh. "What am sand? Am... Like dirt?"
"How y'otus grow? If no rain... How do?"
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Post by Kvasir Sigurrós on Feb 28, 2023 14:36:29 GMT -5
Explaining concepts as foreign and strange as sand and rain-less skies to a creature who only knows the lushness of the woods, only knows the vibrance of leaves and chromatic flowers and the gentle kiss of rain against soil, only knows viridian horizons is... difficult. It's difficult for Kvasir to try and venture back to a time when he himself knew nothing of the world beyond the starlit forests of the Moonglade, back before he'd first read of Zeinav in books, well before he'd first been led out to a land of white sand and the burning sun-- he barely remembers that far back, and trying to piece together an explanation that will make sense is... its own struggle.
But he manages a nod at Wit's question, figuring that likening sand to dirt may be the easiest explanation for the plant child to wrap his roots around-- they do have their similarities, after all, even if they're not quite the same.
"Ah, yes, effectively," he says with a nod. "Sand is... very similar to dirt, but it's more like... little, tiny pieces of rock that all gather together. It's not as easy for plants to grow in."
A tiny chuckle falls from his lips as Wit asks about the lack of rain, about how things in a place so dry can grow when water does not naturally fall upon them-- Kvasir doubts Wit will process a botanical lecture well, doubts he'll fully understand the nuances of the different conditions different plants thrive in and why, and so he'll have to simplify it.
"Most lotuses do grow on the water," he begins. "Khet Lotuses are... special. Some magic helps them grow."
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