Rebma's Archives.. Where Sexy Meets Smart
CONTENT WARNING: Suggestive Posing and Innuendo abound!
The green-hued tones of the stateroom have deepened enough to cast some of its ovular, dimensions into indistinct shadow, so gradual and natural a process that it might not even register that the light cycle is already well on its way to a brighter state, indicating a Rebman morning is not long in coming. The functional pieces here are sculpted out of marbled rock, scalloping and scrolling in judicious quantities to demarcate the perimeters, around the gilt reliefs of historic significance or idyllic landscape, and copious accents with gold and coral. There is not a square foot of wall, floor, or ceiling space that doesn't have some manner of pearly shell or crystalline stone embedded. When the round concave window in the southeastern wall gleams with concentrated light in half an hour or so, one can be sure that every shiny node, bead, and accent in this 'well-appointed' guest room will sparkle and shine. A spiralling pedestal leads upwards to access the hammocks of the room, two alabaster coloured webbings a short distance apart, each being the equivalent of a queen or king bed in topside terms, but the similarities end there. Nebulous in form, they can each comfortably encapsulate between one and three occupants like precious cargo in a cozy net, though tangle-free. Even so, it does take practice to get it just right and experience the immeasurable peace of floating safe and serene within the breathable cushion of mystical waters.
However long it took to 'practice' climbing into and anchoring themselves within those wondrously intriguing beds, there was doubtless much rolling, clinging, and fetching into, to be had. Arduous but amusing, and it must be admitted, arousing, in turns. Though it would have been moreso if he hadn't been at the same time struggling to cope with the mental pressure of a lurking recall, another waking leviathan slouching its way up from the depths. On the positive side, the element of trauma had also meant that Merrisol's proper-o-meter would be rather off-kilter, and he hadn't even attempted protest when it turned out they would be sharing the same hammock. Other factors.. like wanting security in a strange place, needing help to negotiate the peculiarities of the webbing, and desire, yes, the desire to prolong each fumble and caress and limb entanglement ..these factors did indeed all contribute to the fact that, hours later a wandering school of sea horse-like critters finds two sleepers bundled close into a single hammock when two separate were available.
Unfamiliar with the workings of a hanging net dubiously named a 'bed', but unwilling to leave Merrisol to suffer the impending crash of memory's return alone, Maggie did follow the hapless Captain into the web. Had there been protest, she would have tried to softly insist, but there was none to speak of which was worrisome in its own right. No doubt once things were sorted, sleep would be comfortable and long, for the net would sway with the ocean's currents and keep them safe from jolt or mishap. Getting to the point of relative stability or stasis took a while. The twisting and turning and trying to get comfortable that might have been comparatively simple in a normal bed suffered a sea change, turning each movement into intimate closeness and every adjustment into a caress. Were the situation different, it would have been an arousing evening of unintended or intentional foreplay. But, concern for the man beside her and a growing exhaustion causes Maggie's libido to trickle out of her like sand in an hourglass. Thus, when sleep finally claims her, she sinks into its embrace with relief. The wandering school of critters flits by unseen, unmarked, lost to dreams.
What does snoring sound like in Rebma.. gargling? Well, he gargles. Them's the breaks. The cocoon of resilience expands gently with each deep inhale, blending into the perpetual motion effect of the hammock's to and fro sway. At rest, Kerf's lines fade, his lips part, his eyelids shiver occasionally with fleeting dreams. Due to superior mass and intent both, he claims the lower portion of the wrap, the gauzy lining of the mesh embraces his form, while he embraces hers. One leg slightly bent upwards and nudged between her knees, it flexes first, a precursor to his regaining a conscious state. The gurgling burr ceases stirring up the water and errant clouds of red hair. Then a shoulder twitches, and his hold on Maggie tightens a moment. Then his eyes drift open and blink in a few false starts, and eyes which had been resolutely shut for hours whether conscious or not, sneak to the left and right, and upwards, to take in the fantastic details of the stateroom for the first time. He spots a series of wrought bronze cages keeping articles of clothing locked in suspension. Here, his coat, boots, doublet. There, the unknown glittering strips and straps which compose a Rebman-style item of clothing for one or the other of them. Finally, he drops his gaze to the woman in his arms, mostly concealed by a softly waving curtain of russet, the ends lit by motes of light into auburn. For the long moments of returning wakefulness, he remains quiet, pensive, and only tracing a light swirl on a smoothed bit of cloth over her waist with a restless fingertip. Waiting for her to come back to him, from her dreams.
As the green of the sea turns slowly, softly from a color closer to Maggie's eyes to the lighter green of Merrisol's, every bit of cut glass, every pearl and gem begins to glow with reflected light. Sparkles and spangles start to pick up that reflection and, albeit gradually, the room takes on the inner fire of a geode. There is no escaping that sparkle, try as one might. Even the shroud of Maggie's hair, left free to float about the pair as sleep finally came, cannot dull the shimmers that grow in the room. Still, sleep after so long awake is deep, senses stolen by that comforting darkness. There is the prick of curiosity within Maggie's sleep ensorcelled brain for comfort has been missing of late, even in sleep. Her consciousness struggles to rise through the cloying hold of oblivion and she wonders for a time what lends this sleep that healing quality. It is a wonder that will, alas, be forgotten for as her awareness floats closer to wakefulness, she realizes that what pillows her head is not her arm, but the shoulder of another and her hand rests curled not on a cover but on someone's chest. After a moment more, she recognizes that the pressure about her comes not only from the webbing but from his arms about her and that it is his bent leg that has parted her legs. Her reactions are sluggish and slow though her lips twitch toward a softening smile, even in near sleep. Her eyes flutter once, closing tightly against the growing brightness of the stateroom. When she can open them in truth, she looks up to see that he is looking down at her. Unconsciously, her fingers ease against the cloth covering his chest, the touch a light echo of that at her waist. A part of her suspects this reality and she is loathe to break the spell or dream with words.
When emerald eyes peep up at him from under the billowing mass of hair, his smile rises like his new solar-themed name and the surging ka-bump of his heart might even be felt through his chest. It's no dream. He lifts an arm away from her experimentally, feeling the give in the weaving before proceeding to reach over and smooth back the voluminous reds, exposing the rest of her brow. He mouths some words to the effect of a morning salutation, or perhaps more like "we have to stop meeting like this", 'air' rippling around his face, and his hand floats down to brush over the contour of her temple down her cheek to the point where her chin nestles into the fabric on the crook of his shoulder. Reflecting light plays over the sun-bleached sheaf of hair waving above his own forehead, dipping occasionally to lighten his gaze as it searches her features. Finally, he notes, "Suppose we ought to... start today." Because today is.. The Day.
Once her eyes have met his, emerald to sea-green, she does not look away. The thump of his heart beneath his chest is carried to her through the caressing fingertips of her hand resting there. Hers answers that rhythm with a sudden thump as sleep is utterly vanquished. Her eyes finally drop to watch that silent greeting or caution formed and laughter sparks within them when they lift once more. She replies with a salutation for her mind is not in the right place to come up with a clever rejoinder. She feels his arm move, the shifting of position necessary in seeming to test the resilience of their web, perhaps to find egress but it leaves her with an odd pang of loss or regret. The ripples caused by his motion above send echoes through the cloud of her hair, tamed when his hand returns to float a touch from her temple to her cheek, then to her chin. The inhalation she claims then is deep enough to shift her form against his and is edged around by a tremble. The hand at his chest lifts then, lifting to brush fingertips lightly along his throat then up again to graze the contours of his jaw, then up again until her palm can softly lie against one cheek while her long fingers rest amid those sun-bleached strands. Rather than acknowledge the logic of his words verbally, she slowly nods asking instead, "How are you feeling?"
The question floats appropriately enough in the space between them, while he tries out a few more stretches and twists, the hammock slowly bumping and rollicking as a whole. Every movement is a ripple of muscle up or down his long, broad frame, pushing hardness into her softness here or undulating her corresponding parts upwards there. At one point, his knee bends to flex his leg higher and farther between her thighs, then stops abruptly as realization hits, and withdraws carefully thereafter. Another rolling stretch moves his pelvis away from hers, because of reasons which would be rather hard to explain away. "Mmmh, well, good," he replies finally, voice dipped into the low register and vibrating through his chest. "Haven't slept like that in some time.." Or ever, perhaps? Well.. yes, and no. "As for the headache.. it is there still, but.. manageable now." He smiles again at her, easing back since it's really on her to unwind and escape the hammock first, before he can. "And yourself? Are you well, Maggie?"
The question is almost forgotten as he moves beneath and beside her, pressing softness to hardness and retreating again. Each undulation or ripple of muscle is felt and her heart's rhythm grows more rapid. A stretch begins, tries to take hold and is halted by the feeling of his leg moving up between her thighs. She shifts, the upper leg bending and lifting though whether to give his more room or to ease out of the way is impossible to say. A blush begins and her hand leaves his cheek, easing back down again. She too turns her pelvis away a heartbeat or two after his leg eases back down and he twists. Laughter dances in her eyes but does not escape her lips. Lifting her hand to run it along the hammock's encircling web, she seeks the parting of ways that will free them from this pleasant, if apparently too intimate space. Though her gaze has lifted to follow the questing of her hand, she speaks softly, "I am glad to hear that you slept well, though am sorry that the headache remains. If yours are like mine, it will hover until you remember." She does not add that hers would crash over her, feeling as though her brain was being squeezed between the jaws of a vise until it took on some shape that the memory wanted then vanish to leave her gasping and shaken. No, that might dim the bright delight of the morning too much and won't change what is to come. Besides, maybe his experiences will be different. Finally, her hand finds the beginning of the opening and pulls the net open. Shifting to slither out of the hammock is accomplished by rolling to one side, her body pressing more firmly here and there as she gains purchase and momentum. A murmured 'Sorry' is followed by an embarrassed, 'Oh, excuse me' when hips or hands land where they probably should not. Finally she manages to slither up far enough to glide between the opening of the hammock. Her eye is drawn briefly to the stores of clothing and she studies them for a long moment, the silence speculative. Turning, she looks down at him from above, hair a spreading cloud of rust, auburn and flame about her head, "Like you, I have not slept that well in... a very long time." Extending a hand she offers to help you up and out of the web, "I am well, thank you."
He catches that withheld amusement, of course, his gaze flying to her mouth where the laughter ought to emerge but doesn't. For a second, his eyes are bright with betrayal. You vixen, there is nothing funny about trouser crisis! Fortunately, she is busy seeking egress from the mesh pocket, and his sense of humour returns soon enough, mellowing his sea-greens with arch mirth. Fine, so it is fun-.. Oof! Nope, uh uh, not funny. Vixen. Kerf takes a deep breath and holds it, suffering in relative silence, but for the low groans in response to her 'excuse me's when he is rubbed the wrong way by various Maggieparts.... though not -wrong-, precisely. The repeated 'Sorry's that may have been the triggers for last night's brain hurt don't seem to have the same effect this morning. He closes his eyes plaintively when moulded shirt front arches past his face, then peeks lopsidedly when the coast should be clear. "Oh excellent," he finally offers as she alights to the pedestal and faces him, all dream-like with the ripples and the reverse-cascades of ruddy mane. "Myself.. I believe I figured out why I still have that headache," he claims, with a mock-glare and fleeting smirk. Rolling onto his hip and attempting to gather his legs into the meshwork, he considers the woman's hand a little dubiously, but ends up taking it. The old habits do die hard. "Easy does it."
She does catch the betrayal in his eyes before she tries to leave that caccoon. How could she not? However, she does not try to explain that trouser crises are funny when they are mutual. Women are just luckier where that is concerned. Things like that don't show as readily. What she forgets or can do exactly nothing about is the fact that a similar trouble is just as visible when shirts mold to ones form. Especially when highlighted by close proximity.
Looking down from above, Maggie watches his efforts to clambor out of the web and her eyes glimmer once more. When her hand is accepted, she holds to the pillar and lifts, aiding more than hindering or so she hopes. "You did better than I." Her hand is warm, the skin soft in this watery realm. There is the touch of rose at her cheeks where her exersions or embarassment reside. When he is free from the mesh she should release his hand straight away, yet doesn't. The touch lingers a bit longer than it should, her eyes seeking his for an instant. Finally, the increasing brightness in the room tugs at a recent memory and she blinks, "Oh. right. Martin." Turning, she swims over to where the perilous Rebman clothing waits. There are two piles, one more substantial than the other. This is passed to him.
That pile holds a pair of trunks or shorts made of some shimmery, scaled material. They are much like Martin's white and gold set, though of a different color. A cloak of the same color is included with cross-braces over the chest. Folded neatly on top is a belt ornamented with sea shells.
Looking at her pile in slight dismay, Maggie glances at you, then swims a bit awkwardly to a privacy screen. Ducking behind it, she mutters some soft imprecation under her breath.
Her fingers tug away out of his grasp, and he's left on the pedestal to hop down to the floor. Once there, he coils down a little, and springs back up to level out and hover several inches from the ground. Even with shirt and trousers still on, the sensation of being unhampered by coat, tunic, and boots makes all the difference. He turns to tell Maggie so, and into his arms is dumped a bunch of azure blue shimmering scales, each edged with a crust of gold. The Rebman royal costumers who chose their garments of course haven't seen Kerf in his red finery, or they might have gone with that striking colour, even if it might tend to stand out amongst the blues and greens of the palace.
"Really..." he mutters, gingerly seeking the right way up on the cape and holding it up by the straps to gaze upon it critically, as the trunks float free from the bundle. He can't wear this: just a cape and a neck warmer? It's -scandalous-. Wait. It's... not a neck warmer. Ahh, not just scandalous, but ~fabulously~ scandalous. He cuts a quick glance towards Maggie to see if she's just as reluctant to play dress-up as him, but she's already kicking towards the screen with her... handful. "Ahh, right then." He realizes he has to decide quickly now, and act within the window of opportunity presented, and with an annoyed exhale of rippling water, he turns his back on the screen and strips.
Oh, what have you got to be worried about, Kerf? Look at that stalwart figure, now with flickering blue capeness! The costumers took their visual measurements well, and the braces fasten the mantle in place over broadly muscled shoulders and chest with no excess strap to be seen. Even the trunks have proven themselves accurate, as long as they were meant to stretch over and hug every inch of flesh from mid-hip to upper thigh, with nothing but a distracting shimmer of gold scale to promote any mystery. The scallop belt hangs out of the nearest hammock with his topside clothing, however; its functionality is redundant as far as keeping his pants up goes.
When Maggie comes back out from behind the privacy screen, she is transformed. Her hair is still unbound and floats about her form in that stain of auburn and fire. She either wears a skin-tight body suit that matches her skin tone exactly, or she isn't. She, too wears a pair of trunks or shorts. Hers are made of a dark green scaled fabric. About her hips she wears a gauzy, filmy fabric that floats with her and gives her movement an emerald haze. Above, she wears two strategically placed sea shells. These have been provided, no doubt, because she is not Rebman and her sensibilities are more prudish than they should be. And she is Martin's cousin so such concessions happen.
He's just snapping resignedly at the low waist when movement by the privacy screen has him looking up to find Maggie before him, and then it doesn't even matter if he looks ridiculous. As soon as his eyes register seeing more of her body exposed than ever before - even in that green evening gown with that neckline - his gaze darts and skips downwards and to the side for a moment... but then returns to rest upon her. No words are spoken for a few moments, none from a man who makes it a point to tell an acquaintance she is a vision of delight after a single glance, none for all the good long look he gives her whole glimmering presence. Only the deepening of his breaths and a particular downward tilt his head gently takes, and all the sea's weight of his gaze, do the speaking for him.
Drifting to her from a measured push-off from the shell-studded floor, Kerf slows with an easy turn of his whole frame, and half-circles her, holding out his hands in an uncharacteristic forwardness.
-----
The purple-blue shadows of night cling as morning stirs. Silvery green light filters downward from above, driving the shadows before it as slowly and by degrees, color returns to Rebma. Graceful spires sparkle with shimmering reflections of that light, brightening the waters around the jeweled city. Shimmers waken in ripples outward from that rising glow until the city glitters beneath the pulsing ocean above. Finally, the door to one of the guest suites opens and the two who shared it the night before exit side by side.
The court tailors provided clothing for the pair, two small piles of folded cloth left to wait the night on shelving within the room. Maggie wears a pair of Rebman shorts, the cut similar to the lower half of a bikini. The cut rises high here and dips a bit there, though still manages to offer at least the illusion of modesty though it leaves her long legs bare. A filmy half skirt of gauzey material floats from the upper hem of the garment. This runs from her right hip around back to her left, the fabric only a little less etherial than a haze in the water. Both items of clothing are made of shimmering scales in emerald green. As a concession to her foreign sensibilities, Maggie was also left two sea shells. These have been placed carefully, strategically here and there. Although they do cover what they are affixed to, that is about all they cover. Her hair has been left unbound and floats after her in a cloud of auburn and Autumn flame. Now that she has been in the environment a while, Maggie moves with fair grace through the water. Yet less than half of her attention is on where she is going. The rest is settled decidedly on the man beside her. The man whose arm her hand rests on.
What Martin calls a Library, is really only a pretty building with some recent historical archives of court documents. It seems like a pet project of his. Rumors of what it is isn't exactly the truth of things. The documents are etched on stones and tablets and not paper. It's Martin's attempt at an orderly way of keeping track of history. It is an archive of modern work, poetry, court decisions, and the like. In Rebma, the mirrors keep track of history but are not always reliable. He seems proud of his work though, as he should be. THe architecture is fabulous! The building is very peaceful and pretty.
And.. Martin came to get them for a tour.
When a man strolls, or rather drifts, out of a posh bedroom suite with a woman like Maggie on his arm, who could blame him for looking rather smug? Why, Merrisol could, and Merrisol would! Nevermind that he is that man, and a proud specimen indeed he proves whilst arrayed only in azure blue briefs and matching cape. The trunks are accented in gold-encrusted scale and stretch comfortably over his strapping physique from lower waist to upper thigh. The light, snapping cape bears a half-mantle and anchors over the solid breadth of his shoulders and chest with golden bracers which criss-cross over his sternum. There was a scalloped belt in the outfit, but it's been left behind, perhaps in sympathetic protest for Maggie's sparse coverage. He won't be seen with more shellage than her! In any case, the costumers are certainly to be congratulated for transforming overdressed top-siders into nearly-nudes who might even pass for natural Rebman, if in appearance only.
Kerf-Merrisol has gotten the hang of moving along inches above the floor via the occasional propelled launch. The looks he gives Maggie are quiet and private, his demeanor as respectful as if they had stepped from the Throne Room rather than the private quarters. He greets Martin with a more comfortable bow from the shoulders, unhampered by cotton or wool this time. The effect would be more striking now for the youthful but forgetful prince who yet claims to know that face from... somewhere.
As they enter the library, Merrisol releases Maggie to wander free if she would, while he pauses to scan a long tablet, chiseled gravely with names of ancient significance.
"I know people thought this was going to be different, but I decided that constant magic protecting paper would be a drain on resources." Martin explains to maggie. "This way we can show off some of our scribes talents and keep a better record of things. Also, it allows the people a quiet place of beauty to contemplate words and create great works." He seems quite pleased at the building with it's vaulted ceilings open to the sea above.
Maggie answers those looks from Kerf-Merrisol in kind, moving with him along the route Martin has chosen for the tour. Each step begins with a push and ends with a slightly flexed knee. Progress could be guaged by the gathering, then extending of both hair and half skirt should one care to. When the library has been reached and her hand disengaged, Maggie offers her escourt a warm smile and inclination of her head, the look in her gaze as private as before. Turning, she surveys the library in all of its potential and actual glory. Nodding to Martin's explaination, she drifts away from the long tablet Kerf-Merrisol examines. Looking up, she begins to swim toward the high roof. A few feet up, she turns to 'lie' on her stomach, head pillowed on crossed arms. Musingly, she offers, "You are going to have exhibits and displays that take advantage of this environment, right? Where up and down are at the discretion of the viewer?"
Merrisol slips backwards from the etched stone and at first looks around slowly on his own level plane, finding Maggie vanished. But her voice floats hauntingly within the grand vertical hall, and he presently leans and tips on an angle to stare upwards at her topsy-turvy antics. "We cannot take you anywhere, can we.." he observes drolly. But he drifts closer to Martin's position rather than attempting to winnow up all those levels after her. "Lord Marshal.. would it be much of a bother if you could explain what exactly happened to necessitate all this restoration?"
Maggie rests her chin in her hands, elbows resting on water that is on roughly the same plane as her body. Laughter ripples on the water, born by a heavier medium than air. "Not at all, Kerf." Turning then, she curls around in a swoop that is no where near as graceful as the Siren's of the day before but does the job. Nearing, she rests against the wall somewhat above their heads where she can listen but not disturb the two below.
Martin smiles at Maggie, "We'll do our best." His smile drifts into a smirk then a slight frown as Kerf requests explanation of bad memories. He gestures about and gives the cliff notes version. "A few years ago there was a great cataclysm. Thousands died, buidlings crumbled to nothing. The very foundations of the realm shook. The Rebman pattern as it was was destroyed, Then sometime later it was recreated by Princess Fiona more shaking of the realm. Things are stable now and it's my duty to keep it that way."
Merrisol looks unsatisfied by the abbreviated history, which is as much as he already knew, but with a glance towards the archives, subsides. Private research would, of course, supply him with more events from history without needling anyone's sore spots. He does, after some consideration, give a more pointed remark: "Yesterday I chanced to hear a noble woman claim that Amber is.. 'fading'.. due to upheavals and insecure thrones and scattered Houses.. something like that. If that's true, is the ruin felt here thought to be causally related, my Lord?
Martin is silent for several minutes, mulling over Merrisol's question and appreciating the veering from other subject matter that he does not wish to discuss in detail at the present time. Maybe another night when he's had a lot more to drink. "Everyone has a theory on the state of things and even though they might seem to think they do, most of them haven't got a clue of what they are talking about because the information highway lately hasn't been a straight road convenient branches off here and there. It's more like a neverending maze. Amber is not fading at all. As long as the pattern is there, it won't. Rebma's pattern has been changed, and therefore it is no longer a perfect reflection of Amber. We feel some things here that are felt there but it is not the same as it once was though they are still linked."
Lurking above, Maggie listens to both the cliff notes version of the disaster under the sea and the explaination of the results of upheaval and mayhem. Drifting down again at last, she whispers closer to Martin and places one hand comfortingly on his shoulder. If he allows the touch, of course. She does not speak, for no words are necessary or particularly wanted. The silent offer is one of comfort, companionable support and sympathy. Langing, first one foot and then the other, she lifts her hand and turns to take a look at the long tablets nearby. One hand drifts as though to trace a bit of carving but steals about to lock with the other behind her back. "I wonder if being an imperfect reflection of Amber is like being an adolescent, socio-politically."
Nodding slowly as he absorbs Martin's insight, Merrisol glances over for a moment to observe the Rebman royal's expression, for this is about as serious and statesman-like as he's ever seen him.. that Merri remembers, anyway. Spying Maggie's descent, he watches her for a moment instead. "I see.. very well. If they are only personal notions and probably incorrect, then there's no shame in enjoying festivities in the face of theoretical grimness," he concludes, as much for himself as anyone present. He quiets again as Maggie segues into the related subject, and turns to roam the nearby stacks, familiarizing himself with the archiving system without searching out anything specific.
Glancing over her shoulder, Maggie studies the two men sharing the library with her each in turn. Martin is given the first long look and it is unclear whether Maggie looks in vain for the care-free youthful rock-star cousin she spent so much time with or finds him there withing the complexities of expression and manner presented to her. A light flickers in her gaze once that long look completes and she offers him a smile in case he took notice of her attention. Kerf's quiet observation pulls her attention toward him and she considers the man before her. Where her inner musings take her is more guarded, though the light in her eyes brightens for a moment. Drawing in a watery breath, she replies to what might have been a rhetorical comment, "I wonder if it is entirely theoretical grimness, though. The damage to the pattern and redrawing of it with Aunt Fiona's spin means the death and rebirth of Rebma in a pretty significant way. So, for some people, these festivities may mark the end of something that they held dear. That does not make the festivities less important or less valid. But the old ways should be celebrated too." She lets one hand sort of float up and tap her head just above her temple, "As long as my understanding is close. Which it easily might not be."