Golden Consortium
IS OFFLINE
17
Renown
Zeinav Desert
Scam? I’ve never pulled a scam in my life! I don’t even know what a scam is!
712 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Morrigan Moonweaver on Apr 21, 2023 8:43:04 GMT -5
Much to Morrigan’s surprise, they did recognize the name that Austri gave them - the Pariyan. It was a distant memory, a fleeting impression. In stories spoken to them by Elka Hridyanshu, in the back of their wagon on the rare occasions she felt sentimental enough to share stories. Oh, she tried, Morrigan supposed. On their weak days when Kaivalya was sequestered to the wagon, unable to leave, to see the sun, Elka would at least take pity on her mute child and fill their mind with ancient stories of grandiosity and adventure that they would never be able to have themselves. Of ancient kings and warriors plundering tombs and monsters and treasure. Perhaps she thought it would ease their curiosities.
It only served to make a caged bird yearn for freedom more.
“I… have vaguely heard of them.” Morrigan hummed. “I thought they were extinct.”
Austri and Sindri were quick to quickly correct this misconception. They painted a tale of a powerful woman, a wild, free spirit. Full of life and love, who had clearly touched her family. Loved by her husband. Her daughter.
… Her son.
Up until the moment she was claimed by illness.
The room was heavy with grief, undiluted by time. Perhaps Morrigan ought to have been sad. And a small part of them was sympathetic for this loss. But another part of them was endlessly curious, presented with a new puzzle. A piece of the story. They weren’t sure how they knew, but there was a part of them suddenly surer than they’d been before. Ever since Kvasir told them the story of how he came to have an unwelcome parasite in his brain, Morrigan had been suspicious there was more to Kasra’s presence, but never been able to inquire more. Not when asking Kvasir would only bring up a painful reminder of what happened to them in the World’s Crown.
How sensitive Morrigan’s medic was. They’d never met someone with those sentiments before. It was new. Different. Even more different was learning to be considerate of those feelings. Morrigan could not ask about Kasra, no matter how the curiosity burned.
But now they knew.
Sahra Sigurros was the key.
An illness that Austri could not place. But what if it was not an illness at all? What if it was something magical in origin, as untraceable as it was inevitable? What if -
Kvasir had grabbed their hand.
They broke out of their thoughts, returning the touch reassuringly. Austri was quick to reassure him with verbal comfort - it did little to ease the pain on Kvasir’s face.
Morrigan waved a hand, the one not still holding tight to Kvasir. “There is no need to apologize. I was the one who opened the floodgates by asking. I am sorry for your loss, truly. But it is obvious to see, looking at you all - she still lives with you. Her memory… that will never be taken away.” Their tone was casual, but their mind was reeling with questions. This was a rare opportunity to learn as much as they could for their manuscript.
… But they didn’t think that Austri could keep talking about this, either.
Not when it caused Austri so much pain to speak about.
Not when it caused Kvasir so much pain to hear.
“I have more questions, but… perhaps another time. This is meant to be a celebration of life and love and reunions, no? There is no need to bog it down with talk of the past.” Their smile tightened momentarily, pinched at the eyes with frustration at not being able to dig for more. “Let us talk of lighter things. Tell me, what have the two of you been up to as of late? I want to learn more about Kvasir’s dearest family.”
|
|
Golden Consortium
IS OFFLINE
7
Renown
Zeinav Desert
World, forget me.
331 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Kvasir Sigurrós on Aug 29, 2023 22:03:59 GMT -5
Despite his father’s assurance that he has no reason to feel guilty, Kvasir cannot help the way it festers in his heart all the same– where even the faintest vestiges of his mother’s face should linger in his memory, flashes of color, echoes of a voice, something, anything, there is simply an empty, shapeless void, a paradoxical knowledge that something should be there when there is nothing at all. He knows there should be the ghost of old love still making a home in his ribcage, a yearning for someone he can’t see anymore; there should be longing for the time he once spent with her, the place Shahrazad Sigurros once had in his life. There should be something there. There should be.
There isn’t.
His father and sister’s faces are both shadowed by grief, blue eyes dark with yearning for a woman they clearly both treasured– his sister’s jewelry-adorned ears are flattened back against her head, his father’s jaw set tight, and yet, Kvasir’s expression remains painfully blank outside of the pain of not knowing, not understanding, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, as captivating as his father’s medical journals, as the early botanical field research he’d amended and expanded on in his travels. If he stares at the patterned tablecloth for long enough, perhaps he’ll become a part of it, melding into filigree and embroidered swirls until he no longer has to sit in the heavy shadow of grief for someone his heart no longer remembers.
He’d known that he had a mother, once– he’d known that she was one of the countless things the Archivist King had ripped from his mind like a patch from a quilt, casting her memory to the wind without a concern as to what it would do to him. He knew she had been gone for some time, that he’d been extremely young when she had passed on. He had not known how much he had loved her– how much power she had once had, the Zeinavian blood that ran through her veins and his in turn, how wild and wondrous and free she’d been when she still called those gilded sands home.
He never imagined she could have died of an ailment his father couldn’t cure.
He never imagined he now walked where she once did.
Any other time, he knows something like this would send him drifting away, make his tenuous grasp on reality slip from his fingers for a while like sand, but the feeling of Morrigan’s hand in his is enough to tether him to the moment. He gives it another squeeze, rubbing his thumb across the back of their hand in a sweeping motion, his tail swishing over to sweep over them, curling around their side in a quiet gesture of gratitude.
He’s never seen them quite like this before, but Gods above and below know that he owes them for this.
“To tell you the truth, Morrigan, I don’t mind you asking one bit,” Austri says, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. It’s a somber one, to be sure, but it is… genuine, a bit of a twinkle returning to his eyes. “You’re rather kind to say such things. I’m sure all of us appreciate it.”
There’s still an edge of somberness that clings to the air even as the mood lightens, but it falls to the background as Morrigan shifts the subject, quick to ask different questions, steering the conversation in a new, more contemporary direction: just what have Sindri and Austri been up to in their lives? The question is simple, but not at all unwelcome– Kvasir finds that it’s a good excuse to keep quiet a little longer, and… a good way of finding out what his family has been doing while he’s been gone, a good way of… piecing together any faint memories he can of his older sister and the kind of person she was and is.
They don’t seem to find it unwelcome, either– Sindri immediately perks back up, her turquoise eyes shining like the gems they match, tail swishing in delight as she taps her painted nails against the tabletop.
“Oh! Well, let’s see…” she begins, humming to herself in faux-contemplation. “I mostly travel, nowadays, doing whatever work they’re willing to give me; y’know, some tavern work, performance things, etcetera, etcetera. I’m actually only in the Moonglade for a little while to visit Dad. I’ve been working with a theatre troupe in the Frost Gale lately– we’ve dispersed for Hearth Day for a little while, but we had a few showings in the weeks leading up to it. I should be heading back sometime in the next week, and then it’s right back to work, and right back to my male lead.”
Sindri lets out a coquettish chuckle at that, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, and it’s difficult to miss the way Austri, albeit politely, rolls his eyes.
Ah. So Kvasir’s sister is a flirt and a thespian. That’s good to know.
“Mmhm, I’m sure he’s looking forward to seeing you again,” Austri says, and it’s difficult to tell if he’s being sincere or sarcastic or what. “Ah… I hardly lead an eventful life, Morrigan. I run a small clinic by the Moonveil Forest… I sell handmade pharmaceuticals and other remedies… and that’s about it. It’s just me and the cat nowadays– it’s not especially common for our kind to seek a second marriage, so I… I’m as content as can be.”
He gives a little smile at that, once again, but curiosity flashes in his eyes as he looks between both Kvasir and Morrigan.
“Ah, so… I must ask. What is it that you do, Morrigan? You obviously both work in the Consortium, but… what about your spare time? What brings you joy?”
|
|
Golden Consortium
IS OFFLINE
17
Renown
Zeinav Desert
Scam? I’ve never pulled a scam in my life! I don’t even know what a scam is!
712 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Morrigan Moonweaver on Aug 31, 2023 9:43:26 GMT -5
Morrigan nodded in thanks, unsure how to really react. They didn’t think they’d been especially kind. They’d only said what they thought the others needed to hear. But evidently, those placating reassurances had helped ease the ache of reopening old wounds, somewhat. There was pain here, pain that Morrigan had no means to comprehend. Family, love, marriage; those had never been dictated in the cards for Kaivalya, and Morrigan Moonweaver had never sought them out.
It was easy for Morrigan to cling to mortal pleasures in the form of material objects. They enjoyed their clothes and their rugs and their things, all little curios and pieces of themselves crammed into the back of a wagon. If they broke, it was no skin off of Morrigan’s bones to replace them. In their mind, humans were the same way. Equated to little trinkets that one could simply use and discard. What did one do when there were things that they were not so easily able to get rid of? What did one do then? They supposed one became like Austri Sigurros - always lamenting that finery, left with nothing but the remnants, left to see glimpses of her in the eyes of her children and their bright smiles. Why did it hurt so much to think about? Was this how other people felt when they loved and lost? Was it even worth it? All this pain and heartbreak and agony? Why bother with the effort stitching something together if it was just going to fall apart at the seams?
Morrigan glanced at Kvasir, who was still pouring through his fractured mind for answers that had slipped into the cracks.
Yes.
Perhaps Morrigan did not quite have the right metaphor. Perhaps it was less a quilt and more a garden. You cultivated the seeds and tended to it the best you could, until it flourished into something beautiful. It did not last forever, but it was worth enjoying while it lasted.
It was horrible. And beautiful.
It was written in the stars.
The comprehension of love and empathy and hurt was beginning to give Morrigan a headache. They had feelings, of course they did; but Morrigan had always been acutely aware that their sense of emotion was not the same as those around them. Perhaps this was another part of them that was broken.
(Or, not broken- but dormant.)
Regardless, Morrigan did not understand the struggles and emotions of others as easily as they ought to. In part, that was why it was so easy for them to take advantage of others. It did not matter so long as they weren’t the one struggling. But sitting around this table, they felt like they were a child learning a language for the first time. With cate and practice, perhaps they’d learn more.
The conversation, thankfully, strayed to lighter topics, and Morrigan no longer had to examine these growing pains. Sindri Sigurros was all too eager to share what she had been up to - and Ginma, it was quite a lot.
Morrigan’s lips curled into a conspiratorial smile. “Oft do sparks fly on the stage between talented thespians. Do tell more about this mysterious beau of yours, Miss Heartstealer!”
Oh, yes. A traveler, an actress, a dramatic, and a manhunter. Morrigan and Moonweaver and Sindri Sigurros were going to be as thick as thieves in no time.
“And that sounds a perfectly suitable life to me, Master Austri Sigurros.” Morrigan replied. “There is always this sort of expectation to live as the powers that be dictate. To accomplish what others expect of you. But there is no greater strength than to life in defiance of that. A life of your own will, and your own happiness, is more than enough.” That was how Morrigan had always wanted to live. For them, it meant not being content with mediocrity. But for some, that was what they wanted, and who was Morrigan to meddle with that contentment?
“Myself?” They blinked, stealing away another glance at their beloved medic. What to say? It should have come as no surprise that neither of Kvasir’s family members seemed especially interested in Morrigan’s work and accomplishments. That was just the way the Sigurros family was. Enchanted by the simplest, kindest things that Morrigan had once seen as useless.
“What to say? I’m a traveler, bound to my own whims. I go wherever my interests and my horse take me - though I’ve a particular fondness for mixology, and nothing interests me more than a good story. I collect them, write them, cover them. Why, just right now, I’m working on one for-“
Well.
They couldn’t say anything about that particular project when Kvasir’s family knew nothing of his affliction, could they?
Morrigan settled their hand on the table, eyes lingering on Kvasir, enthusiasm dimming just a touch as they remembered what that story was for. They forced an easy smile on their face.
“… Let’s just say something top-secret is in the works by yours truly.”
|
|
Golden Consortium
IS OFFLINE
7
Renown
Zeinav Desert
World, forget me.
331 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Kvasir Sigurrós on Sept 4, 2023 17:32:20 GMT -5
As jarring as it is to try and settle into an ordinary dinner with one piece of family he cannot remember, one piece of family he’s avoided for the sake of sparing any pain, and one person he holds closer in his heart than any other, Kvasir can’t help the way he starts to… relax as the conversation starts to shift. There’s still that hollowness taking root in his chest, a swirling void swallowing his heart and making a nest within his ribcage, content to roost there and feast upon all the scraps of feelings that should be thriving there instead, but its influence is lessening, the feeling growing easier to ignore as the seconds trickle by and lighter words fill the air. There is still an ache, still the knowledge that he’d forgotten a sister, a mother, every memory of and with them having slipped away from him without him even realizing, but with every second he spends sitting and listening to Sindri chatter away about her travels and occupation, listening to the warmth and amusement in his father’s comments about her life and the humility in his tone when he speaks of his own, some of the lightness they seem to be feeling passes over to him. It is not immediate; it is hardly the grand, sweeping relief that comes with the magic he can conjure up to heal grave wounds, to turn back time on flesh and bone. It is more like the gradual repose of sweating out a fever, of pressing a dislocated limb back into place– it stings like nothing else, aches and hurts and offers no comfort in the moment, but it is… a road to something. A road to… some form of recovery. “Oh! So you’re familiar with the workings of the stage?” Sindri perks up immediately as Morrigan immediately asks more about the mysterious male lead that’s caught her eye, her ears perking and her tail swishing back and forth even faster, sharp teeth poking out over the bottom row of her teeth as she smiles their way. Her smile only glints more impishly as she looks to Kvasir, a short, mischievous laugh spilling from her lips. “Ooh, Kvasir, I think I like this one. You should keep them.” “Huh?”“So,” she continues immediately, paying her brother no mind. “He’s this handsome half-elf, half-orc, I think– lived in the Frost Gale his whole life, has this divine accent, I could listen to him read law codices, I swear– and he’s charming as can be! Tall as hell. You should see him on stage, too– he plays this smooth, brooding sort, some mysterious ghost haunting an old theater house. Oooh, I almost got in trouble for giggling during a dress rehearsal during this scene where he kisses my hand…”She trails off, continuing to twirl her hair around a bejeweled finger, her smile so wide it almost looks uncomfortable. It’s fairly clear she could babble on for Gods knows how long if she wanted to– but she relents, if only so her father can say his own piece. “I would agree,” Austri says, his smile soft at the edges after Morrigan talks. “Ah… I quite like a more mundane life. I had my wilder years in my heyday, and now I’ve laid them to rest. I’m perfectly happy just to stay where I am. You’re very wise to know what you want from your life so young, Morrigan.”All three foxfolk at the table fall silent in respect as Morrigan talks about themself, happy to listen to what they have to say– Kvasir can’t help but notice the stark difference between this and how they’d presented themself to Zarius just a few days before. There’s something… gentler about this, humbler; it possesses their usual bit of glamour and flair, but it’s hardly the verbal essay they presented to the other fellblood before. It’s… endearing, to see how differently they act for Kvasir’s family– he tries not to think too hard on it. He does, however, raise an eyebrow at the piece of writing they mention.
Something top-secret? Well, this isn't something he's heard of before.
“Oh?” he says, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Even keeping a secret from me? Why, it must be something truly interesting to lock up tight like that, my dear enchanter.”
|
|
Golden Consortium
IS OFFLINE
17
Renown
Zeinav Desert
Scam? I’ve never pulled a scam in my life! I don’t even know what a scam is!
712 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Morrigan Moonweaver on Sept 7, 2023 21:21:57 GMT -5
“I’ve never set foot on a formal stage, though I do consider myself an avid fan of the arts.” They replied airily before staring down Sindri Sigurros with a wink. “Unless you consider a flair for the dramatic acting - then Kvasir can attest that I am quite the accomplished actor, indeed.”
Their tail twitched behind them at the offhand comment. It was little more than a joke, and yet, the implication that they were little more than a thing to be owned and kept, it grated. Their pleasant expression slipped, replaced with something nasty. A brief moment where the mask cracked before they slipped everything back together, happy and flippant. What was wrong with them today? Perhaps it had something to do with that crackhead enchantress who sold them a bunk ring. Or maybe there was something in Moonglade’s water.
Yes, that was it.
“Good luck getting rid of me once I’m here. Kvasir can attest to that, too. I’m a bit of a leech.”
They closed their eyes, taking a sip of their wine. Memories of the biting cold and the piercing gold of a god’s eyes came to mind.
Morrigan pushed those thoughts aside, too. Kasra, worm that he was, had not been invited to this conversation. Instead, they listened to Sindri gush about her man, some faceless muscular hunk taking shape and form in their mind. It was so utterly mundane, this little slice of life. A daughter who sought the grandiosity of the theater yet found herself in the mortal trappings of love, and a homebody father who tended to his business with the carefulness of a gardener. Morrigan could see why Kvasir adored them. He, too, seemed to want the simple life. Favored hearth and home, taking care of the apothecary like he was afraid it would disappear if he looked away.
A stray thought occurred to Morrigan, one that stopped their blood cold in their veins.
Did he want to come back?
He’d avoided his old haunts, as far as Morrigan could tell, from any number of things. Nostalgia for a home that was not quite his anymore, the fear of what he might discover he’d lost, or the futility of forming attachments when they might dissolve like sand. But he’d been doing good, as of late. Stable. What if he decided he wanted to return to his old life, now that he’d established a connection with them once more? What did that mean for the Desert Rose? What did that mean for Morrigan?
An unpleasant feeling coiled in their gut, reminiscent of food poisoning. A sensation that they did not have the wherewithal or vocabulary to identify. It should have been… good that he was reconnecting with his blood, right? Such a happy reunion between kin, Morrigan ought to have been happy. But there was still something hesitant in Kvasir, he was still so quiet - with dread, or perhaps consideration? For once, Morrigan could not tell what emotions flitted across his gaze, and that scared them.
They were just an outsider looking in, watching roots replanted in a garden while their own plot of land was bereft, incapable of growing anything at all.
It was only natural one might want to discard the dead land for the place that flourished with life.
“Oh, I have always wanted to know what I wanted to do with myself.” Morrigan asserted, confident. “It was only a matter of obtaining that.” Even if that dream had not been such a coherent, tangent thing at first. They’d wanted life, in all its purest essence. They’d wanted freedom, and all the mortal trappings and pleasures that came with it. Eventually that solidified, hardened like a diamond in the rough until it shone.
Though that goal had… changed over the last few months.
Morrigan did not necessarily fancy themselves a dreamer. They were a doer. They accomplished things, always moving, taking advantage of the idle thoughts and wishes of others. And they’d always been so sure of their course in life. To garner fame, break the curse on themselves, because when that was gone, surely everything would be right, yeah? They just had to fix what was broken. Their life was great, but it could have been perfect. Then they’d joined the consortium, started… doing things on the basis of their own merits and gaining fame from their skill in potioncraft and their own charisma. Hell, they’d paralyzed a god, which not many could say. It had become less about building the brand of the Wizard of the Wastes and more about building Morrigan Moonweaver. The two ought to have been interchangeable. But there was a distinct line between them now - a fissure in the mask.
Hm. They hadn’t even noticed when that schism happened. It merely… had.
Morrigan continued on, spinning tales about themselves while Austri and Sindri listened with rapt attention, both genuinely interested in what Morrigan had to say. They only stopped as Morrigan trailed off, remembering what they couldn’t say to Kvasir.
Oh, hell. Now they’d gone and spoiled the surprise for their dearest medic.
Morrigan’s smile tightened, a brief twitch, the only betrayal of their worry. An odd, almost sour feeling, because Morrigan was not the kind of person to be worried in the first place. They moved to the beat of their own drum, uncaring for others, uncaring for risks to their life when they were having fun. So why now?
Because someone’s life was involved in this game other than themselves.
It was not just Morrigan’s life on the line right now. It was Kvasir’s, a life Morrigan was vehemently trying to protect for reasons that even Morrigan could not acutely piece together, for all their experience with honeyed words and silver-tongued diatribes. They were doing all of this - this story collection, this ballad, this love letter - so that Kvasir would not forget who he was. Nor would Morrigan allow others to forget. It was not their own life on the line, but that of Kvasir Sigurros’s.
And what a bright life that was.
Not blazing hot and fast like Morrigan’s, but as warm and gentle and ever-present as the sun. It would be a damn shame to see that snuffed out, in Morrigan’s opinion.
Their smile returned, genuine, and - a word that no one had used to describe Morrigan, but - warm. They tapped Kvasir on the nose with a clawed finger.
“Interesting enough that inquiring medics cannot yet know. All in due time, dearest Kvasir Sigurros. We wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise now, would we?”
They cast a sideways glance at Austri and Sindri. It truly would be a good time to get some more information out of them for the memoir. Morrigan knew parts of Kvasir, but those were only the pieces that the healer himself was aware of. Too much had been buried under the surface.
Well, Morrigan was willing to dig for treasure.
|
|