sayest ye nay to my boon; then wilt thou from bloodshed swoonshiningdownOctober 30 2009, 07:46:41 UTC
The star has gone between wakefulness and that limbo between sleep and wakefulness on and off throughout the day she is not accustomed to seeing whether through canopy of tree leaves or openly beneath the blaze or clouds or what-have-you. To say she stirs with annoyance would be accurate but it would be just as applicable to say she moves as one stiff from hiding and seems thus more agitated than she actually is. Pale gold strands lift away and wisp when she exhales with a sigh the shape caught between a scowl and a pout.
Rearranging herself on the chosen branch, it only occurs to her upon hearing a mild command laced with the air of someone accustomed to being obeyed that she is not alone. Brow knitting in what can only be defined as reluctance, perhaps hinted with fractional insult, she braces herself so as not to fall in the midst of lowering herself. She makes no haste to hurry, but to reply from the tree is to raise her voice, and that is to attract attention, possibly of those who were hunting her before, and that is something she prefers not to risk. This pale stranger with some level of dislike built into his posture that seems to span a minimum of a three-foot radius in relation to him does not move or sound like those who sought her earlier. Likely, most would tell her that isn't enough to make a judgment on, but Yvaine has never been told these kinds of things, not taught the gradations of earth-rooted interaction. So lowering herself the rest of the stretch to the forest floor, palm slipping against bark along the way a few times, the creature who appears as a woman and has lived her many centuries as something not quite that at all turns to fully face the speaker.
A moment passes and when he makes no remark about her heart that assumption turns nerves to relief even if her own posture does not show this, still as tall and proud as anything, enough to be called stiff even if that isn't the reality of it. Anxiety or not, she still has nothing to say to him, so she just stands there, watching with all due caution, which is a fair amount, considering the day's tendency toward even those who would mean no harm at all on any other day, meaning every harm imaginable and then some.
What she does not expect is for two of three unrevealed until now make for her seemingly out of nowhere. Apparently midnight has yet to come after all, and the rasping and predatory tones concerning a heart coveted have her stepping back toward the tree again in spite of her pride.
sayest ye nay to my boon; then wilt thou from bloodshed swoonunseenprinceOctober 30 2009, 08:05:49 UTC
"Don't move."
Nuada's words are casual, the first to offer words when she will not, but she moves anyway and this hardly makes things any more difficult for the prince. The spear strikes in a wide arc, lengthened in full in order catch the third party in the stomach. The blood that spills here is fresh but doesn't stain her. He is quick to judge distance and force to make it so. Strike to the leg follows to get this wretched being on its back then it's the creature's heart that is sacrificed to the night when Nuada drives his weapon through chest cavity to the pulsing organ. Death is quick in its case which can't be said for all the other things he's run into today. The timing however is not as off from midnight as Yvaine thinks for when Nuada stands, spear shortening to arm's length again, the body seems to decay.
But flesh doesn't rot to bone and bone does not return to earth. The attacker breaks apart, transfiguring into nothing more than a bed of leaves that have littered the forest floor in honor of the fall season.
"Curses play us for fools," he says to her, unfazed by the sight of the body no longer corporeal. Yellow eyes turn to Yvaine fully. His stare is a stern one, enough to rival even those of the highest kings. "But you, you are no fool," remarks the elf prince, glancing to the canopy before he focuses on her again.
sayest ye nay to my boon; then wilt thou from bloodshed swoonshiningdownOctober 30 2009, 08:21:11 UTC
"No, but what we are," she pauses, lips pursing before echoing words, "played for, is not necessarily what we are anyway," and she then nods at him, as if to simply say, as I wouldn't first classify you as one either.. "Tricks, illusions," she waves a dismissive hand to draw attention to something inelegant and casual, to draw her own attention away from the pulse still heavy and too quick beneath her skin. Unsettling, she once or twice has heard of stars who fell to the land below only to disappear at death's forced hands so that those doing the forcing might extend their own existences. It never occurred to her that it could be something she would experience firsthand, but falling to begin with never seemed likely as well and seeing as how that presumption has brought her there with a dark humor, she tries to reassess the possible beneath an averted gaze.
Her hands fold and twist in front of her, thoughtless.
"Thank you," she adds, managing that inexplicable nature of being believable without putting much effort into it. Lying through gratitude seems downright silly to her and that may be a big part of why though rare, thank-yous carry their weight in how much she means them even if she spares no time to affirm that the thanked actually take her word for it. Focus turning to newly made bed of leaves, as if she half expects it to string itself back together and have another go at immortality.
sayest ye nay to my boon; then wilt thou from bloodshed swoonunseenprinceOctober 30 2009, 08:33:36 UTC
"Glamour of a different breed," he says in agreement with her regarding illusions. To Nuada glamour is an everyday occurrence, one their kind should never have had to don in the first place save for the work of the puckish sort. He wears none for himself, unafraid to show the world his chalk white skin, yellow eyes, and the lines that etch into his face depicting his ancient heritage.
Her on the other hand...something about her is different, as if the face she wears now is not so much her glamour as it is a side of her appearance rarely revealed by choice. Is his intuition correct? Nuada will not give it voice. Neither does he reach for her hand in any sort of manner resembling cordial after he tucks his weapon away.
"For your show of gratitude I ask for your name."
Ask isn't the right word to use because the way he says it more or less sounds as if he is expecting her to give it to him. "We may look alike," like the humans, "but we are not them." The first step to power is knowing the true name over nature.
sayest ye nay to my boon; then wilt thou from bloodshed swoonshiningdownOctober 30 2009, 08:58:41 UTC
To some, this being's appearance would be anything from vaguely eerie to an outright version of fear inducing, but the star only sees someone else who is not human, someone else who both does not fit and chooses not to fit in amongst them because it simply isn't what he is.
"Yvaine," she replies, seeing no reason to withhold it, but she raises her chin a nearly imperceptible degree as she adds, "And yours?" Qualifying it as civility or something else feels altogether unnecessary and something of a lie, so she leaves the query as it is--basic and unassuming. Even the air around them seems to have changed, the crisp fluctuations of autumn tinged by winter attuning themselves to a night without the cursed. Standing as they are in a thicker part of the wood, light is scarce, closer to none, and her own glow is something to perceive in a blink rather than steady vision, too faint to go by, still muted from earlier paranoia and the urgent need to remain lost rather than found.
Part of her cannot help but wonder if anything similar to this day's troubles awaits her outside of this apex of worlds, her death sought not because she has done anything wrong, but because she may serve as a means to an end, or rather, a lack thereof. The thought alone is enough to make her colder, but no longer facing such people face to face or pursuit to escape, fright dissipates in favor of the preference of irritation and offense. None of this directed so far at present company however, these things remain internal, as often they do, whether or not they are meant to be.
Whether or not his name has been given, the words he too tosses in are worth acknowledging.
"No, we aren't."
A simple agreement, but the scope of it spans more than the words.
sayest ye nay to my boon; then wilt thou from bloodshed swoonunseenprinceOctober 30 2009, 09:15:23 UTC
"Prince Nuada," he says to her without humility, "of the elves." The pale man only nods his head instead of bowing. He has no reason to be humble or modest about his title, even if it is worth next to nothing in the world from which he hails. It will always mean something to him, son of the one armed warrior King Balor, his executioner, guilty of patricide though he knew his father saw it coming. They both have reason to be proud, in life or in death. He is not boastful or shameless in announcing his royal lineage either, but he will not be shy of it either like boys who feel they aren't ready.
Were the elf prince ot know of what makes Yvaine's heart so special to some human's pitiful dietary concern it would only boost his disgust for them. They are always turning the most beautiful and sacred things about their world into a means to an end, tools, opportunistic like wolves but with the predatory grace in their nature. Wolves use their bare teeth and their bare claws. When has a human ever done such a thing? Yet they roam the woods, declaring the land theirs by right of kings while sheltering themselves behind city walls. It is good she does not make these facts known aloud, even better that he does not touch her lest he learn these things for himself without her knowledge.
"I'll escort you to where you need to be," he offers without saying in doing so he might learn who and what she is, thereby gaining more knowledge, perhaps even an ally. It makes him a hypocrite to do that which he hates as a habit of men, it makes him mad some would say, but as Nuada has already said before, perhaps they made me so.
sayest ye nay to my boon; then wilt thou from bloodshed swoonshiningdownOctober 30 2009, 10:40:35 UTC
Pulling blond hair over one shoulder, an motion done without thought for her thoughts have not left the personage in font of her, Yvaine neither balks at the pronouncement nor reacts with the haughtiness she is fully capable of. That distinction, the lack of humility concerning his title, feels old worn, and whether this is true or not, she has seen enough princes, enough kings, enough of most types involving crowns--albeit from afar--to have her own tone of respect for it, expressed more evidently in the tiniest softening at the corners of her mouth and the lessening of a tension in her focus. It is none of her business, how he came to the manner of royalty rather than that which lies beneath it but not necessarily lesser, and she doesn't think to inquire, but questions still seek to form in the silence. She is curious, has been for hundreds of years, and though recently she had given up on that observing, that vicarious adventuring so many distances away, when presented here with such characters as she has seen as an uninvited onlooker, some secret child yet widens her eyes and twists stories and realities together--the magic of having fallen, the only moments that make it worth her while, and just barely. Yvaine has not had time or care to indulge this private and youth driven brightness, just as she has not felt like singing, nor been joyful enough to flow beyond a distant glimmer, but in the eaves of dark green and gray-black brown, she lets a day of confusion and holding her breath give way to a simple interest in this Prince of the Elves.
Nuada.
That must mean something.
All names mean something.
It gives her reason enough to try her luck at the City library, a place she has heard about but not yet visited herself.
His next words, despite her curiosity, incite the usual reaction which is to refuse, but having parted lips to politely decline, she closes them again, pressing them in a thin line while considering everything from how she does not need it to the look on Tristan's face when she shows up again. He is something of a puzzle, for she remains certain he only cares about her well-being due to his beloved Victoria, but since first arriving, she suspects (sometimes) of feeling sorry for him, a concept that rather stuns her. In the long run she chalks it up to his inane ability to fumble things no matter how well meaning he is. If she likes him--if, she doesn't, mind--it might even be endearing.
As it is, she still has not convinced him that the lioness who has mysteriously disappeared from their living room had anything to do with him, but that's what comes of being raised on one side of the wall near Wall rather than the other. The star does not entirely understand the specifics of it, and certainly not the reality of what will happen to her if she treads past that line, but that part of their story rests on a farther laid point on the horizon. More presently, her mouth quirks to the side in an instant more of consideration before she levels a steady stare, not wide eyed but surely unblinking, at the paler one.
"Very well," she nods once before starting in the direction she remembers coming from, eying every pumpkin with a flicker of distaste.
Rearranging herself on the chosen branch, it only occurs to her upon hearing a mild command laced with the air of someone accustomed to being obeyed that she is not alone. Brow knitting in what can only be defined as reluctance, perhaps hinted with fractional insult, she braces herself so as not to fall in the midst of lowering herself. She makes no haste to hurry, but to reply from the tree is to raise her voice, and that is to attract attention, possibly of those who were hunting her before, and that is something she prefers not to risk. This pale stranger with some level of dislike built into his posture that seems to span a minimum of a three-foot radius in relation to him does not move or sound like those who sought her earlier. Likely, most would tell her that isn't enough to make a judgment on, but Yvaine has never been told these kinds of things, not taught the gradations of earth-rooted interaction. So lowering herself the rest of the stretch to the forest floor, palm slipping against bark along the way a few times, the creature who appears as a woman and has lived her many centuries as something not quite that at all turns to fully face the speaker.
A moment passes and when he makes no remark about her heart that assumption turns nerves to relief even if her own posture does not show this, still as tall and proud as anything, enough to be called stiff even if that isn't the reality of it. Anxiety or not, she still has nothing to say to him, so she just stands there, watching with all due caution, which is a fair amount, considering the day's tendency toward even those who would mean no harm at all on any other day, meaning every harm imaginable and then some.
What she does not expect is for two of three unrevealed until now make for her seemingly out of nowhere. Apparently midnight has yet to come after all, and the rasping and predatory tones concerning a heart coveted have her stepping back toward the tree again in spite of her pride.
Reply
Nuada's words are casual, the first to offer words when she will not, but she moves anyway and this hardly makes things any more difficult for the prince. The spear strikes in a wide arc, lengthened in full in order catch the third party in the stomach. The blood that spills here is fresh but doesn't stain her. He is quick to judge distance and force to make it so. Strike to the leg follows to get this wretched being on its back then it's the creature's heart that is sacrificed to the night when Nuada drives his weapon through chest cavity to the pulsing organ. Death is quick in its case which can't be said for all the other things he's run into today. The timing however is not as off from midnight as Yvaine thinks for when Nuada stands, spear shortening to arm's length again, the body seems to decay.
But flesh doesn't rot to bone and bone does not return to earth. The attacker breaks apart, transfiguring into nothing more than a bed of leaves that have littered the forest floor in honor of the fall season.
"Curses play us for fools," he says to her, unfazed by the sight of the body no longer corporeal. Yellow eyes turn to Yvaine fully. His stare is a stern one, enough to rival even those of the highest kings. "But you, you are no fool," remarks the elf prince, glancing to the canopy before he focuses on her again.
Reply
Her hands fold and twist in front of her, thoughtless.
"Thank you," she adds, managing that inexplicable nature of being believable without putting much effort into it. Lying through gratitude seems downright silly to her and that may be a big part of why though rare, thank-yous carry their weight in how much she means them even if she spares no time to affirm that the thanked actually take her word for it. Focus turning to newly made bed of leaves, as if she half expects it to string itself back together and have another go at immortality.
Fortunately, it does no such thing.
Reply
Her on the other hand...something about her is different, as if the face she wears now is not so much her glamour as it is a side of her appearance rarely revealed by choice. Is his intuition correct? Nuada will not give it voice. Neither does he reach for her hand in any sort of manner resembling cordial after he tucks his weapon away.
"For your show of gratitude I ask for your name."
Ask isn't the right word to use because the way he says it more or less sounds as if he is expecting her to give it to him. "We may look alike," like the humans, "but we are not them." The first step to power is knowing the true name over nature.
Reply
"Yvaine," she replies, seeing no reason to withhold it, but she raises her chin a nearly imperceptible degree as she adds, "And yours?" Qualifying it as civility or something else feels altogether unnecessary and something of a lie, so she leaves the query as it is--basic and unassuming. Even the air around them seems to have changed, the crisp fluctuations of autumn tinged by winter attuning themselves to a night without the cursed. Standing as they are in a thicker part of the wood, light is scarce, closer to none, and her own glow is something to perceive in a blink rather than steady vision, too faint to go by, still muted from earlier paranoia and the urgent need to remain lost rather than found.
Part of her cannot help but wonder if anything similar to this day's troubles awaits her outside of this apex of worlds, her death sought not because she has done anything wrong, but because she may serve as a means to an end, or rather, a lack thereof. The thought alone is enough to make her colder, but no longer facing such people face to face or pursuit to escape, fright dissipates in favor of the preference of irritation and offense. None of this directed so far at present company however, these things remain internal, as often they do, whether or not they are meant to be.
Whether or not his name has been given, the words he too tosses in are worth acknowledging.
"No, we aren't."
A simple agreement, but the scope of it spans more than the words.
Reply
Were the elf prince ot know of what makes Yvaine's heart so special to some human's pitiful dietary concern it would only boost his disgust for them. They are always turning the most beautiful and sacred things about their world into a means to an end, tools, opportunistic like wolves but with the predatory grace in their nature. Wolves use their bare teeth and their bare claws. When has a human ever done such a thing? Yet they roam the woods, declaring the land theirs by right of kings while sheltering themselves behind city walls. It is good she does not make these facts known aloud, even better that he does not touch her lest he learn these things for himself without her knowledge.
"I'll escort you to where you need to be," he offers without saying in doing so he might learn who and what she is, thereby gaining more knowledge, perhaps even an ally. It makes him a hypocrite to do that which he hates as a habit of men, it makes him mad some would say, but as Nuada has already said before, perhaps they made me so.
Reply
Nuada.
That must mean something.
All names mean something.
It gives her reason enough to try her luck at the City library, a place she has heard about but not yet visited herself.
His next words, despite her curiosity, incite the usual reaction which is to refuse, but having parted lips to politely decline, she closes them again, pressing them in a thin line while considering everything from how she does not need it to the look on Tristan's face when she shows up again. He is something of a puzzle, for she remains certain he only cares about her well-being due to his beloved Victoria, but since first arriving, she suspects (sometimes) of feeling sorry for him, a concept that rather stuns her. In the long run she chalks it up to his inane ability to fumble things no matter how well meaning he is. If she likes him--if, she doesn't, mind--it might even be endearing.
As it is, she still has not convinced him that the lioness who has mysteriously disappeared from their living room had anything to do with him, but that's what comes of being raised on one side of the wall near Wall rather than the other. The star does not entirely understand the specifics of it, and certainly not the reality of what will happen to her if she treads past that line, but that part of their story rests on a farther laid point on the horizon. More presently, her mouth quirks to the side in an instant more of consideration before she levels a steady stare, not wide eyed but surely unblinking, at the paler one.
"Very well," she nods once before starting in the direction she remembers coming from, eying every pumpkin with a flicker of distaste.
Reply
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