[SEASONAL EVENT] Crowns, Pastries, and Carnival Games
For Rory
Phoebe Steadman
the Nightingale
Midwife

Age: 26 | Height: 5'9" | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Greatwood
Level: 5 - Strg: 32 - Dext: 46 - Endr: 41 - Luck: 41 - Int:
PIM - Mythical - Dragon (Electricity) BRANBAST - Mythical - Sear Cat (Speech)
Played by: Grant Offline
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Posts: 3,062 | Total: 5,479
MP: 1825
#1
PHOEBE
Okay. Fun. Phoebe was going to have fun! Maea had suggested some of Amalia’s pastries and…well she did have quite the sweet tooth lately. So she went over and perused what there was to be had…and ended up getting one of everything. She placed them in her little basket alongside her flower crowns, munching happily on a little cream filled puff of perfection. She would have to bring Frey one of these sometime. She had a feeling they would very much enjoy them.

But as she walked around, simply enjoying the sights, her eyes landed on a sulky, familiar face. Rory. She paused mid-step, feeling like she ought go and say something. He had helped her find her snares in the ruins before Long Night and had been very kind then. But now…well she suspected he might not like her very much. She was an Outlander after all…and he had sparked a lot of hate towards people like her. But… this was about being happy. This was a fun time. And…maybe she could sway his mind about people like her if she showed him a bit of kindness.

So, plucking up some courage, she approached the grumpy looking fellow who had inspired the hate that ended her very first romance. ”Uhm…hello Rory… I know you probably don’t care for people like me anymore but uhm…would you like a crown or a pastry?” she asked, offering one of each to him.
I look up to the little bird
The flies across the sky
And I, I wish that I could be that bird
And fly away from here
Leatherworker

Age: 36 | Height: 175cm / 5'9 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 3 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 8 - Int:
Played by: Neowulf Offline
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Posts: 397 | Total: 642
MP: 970
#2
RORY
Rory was still struggling a bit with that 'being civil' bit. He was a bear poked from hibernation and into the sunlight, conflicted about the warmth washing over his skin: part of him wanted to bask in it, the other wanted to snarl and return to his isolation. It seemed wrong (unfair?) to be enjoying himself at a festival when his world has so recently ended. Restless, Rory bit at his thumb as he loitered.

He still wasn't over his own part in it, either—should he have tried to fight off Wessex and her cadre? Hah. He would've lasted a grand total of three seconds against four-five Ascended in the night.

So, should he have thrown himself in front of 108? Grappled with that old, old creature, to prevent them from releasing the Core?

What, then? Wessex might've taken their place, and then the Core would still be free, and Wessex incinerated.

Should he not have gone up the Spire at all? But it had been his future being unfolded. Surely he had a divine right to witness it? The thoughts chased themselves through his brain, snakes biting their tails and snapping their jaws at one another. He needed more time, to sort himself out, to.. to figure out what to do with everything.. the world...

He could still see the forest spreading out beneath the night sky when he closed his eyes.

Rory swallowed and reached up to scratch Isuma's chin for comfort. Jigano had left to play his harp with the musicians, urging the masses into dance, and Rory had taken the time to slink back to his favorite beer brewer and get his paws on more honey beer. It was cold and light and he had to exercise a surprising (and depressing) amount of willpower to not down it like his life depended on it. He wanted a slow, constant burn to take the damn edge off his mood, not to get piss-drunk and start vomiting.

A timid voice offered a greeting, and Rory turned his head. His mind riffled through memories, ending up in the darkness before Long Night: Phoebe. Right. Isuma, still perched on his shoulder, just gave her a cursory glance before returning to her self-care.

But, uh...

Rory blinked at her, sort of uncomprehending. Don't care for people like her? What aspect of her? Female? Blonde? It was the first time someone had brought up the contents of his little speech to his face, so his gears were very slow to turn. He had washed his hands of it beforehand when he had told Jigano he didn't mean it, and in the chaos of what had followed, with all the revelations and changes, his mind had apparently translated that to somehow have made it into the brains of all the Outlanders.

Which, of course, it hadn't.

"What?" he said, his eyebrows doing something complicated to further demonstrate his confusion. He looked at the offered pastry, and the offered crown. Physically, he could only take one, because he had a beer tankard in one hand. "Why wouldn't I care for you?" He sounded bewildered, but inclined his feathered head towards her to indicate she could crown him.



Clothes/style recap, because he's odd today: sort of snug-fitting black wool pants, dark blue shirt with a nice patterned trim, and a bright sash tied around his waist. His hair is done up sort of like feather guy here but less jpop, and his hair is longer.
as if you were on fire from within,
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.
Phoebe Steadman
the Nightingale
Midwife

Age: 26 | Height: 5'9" | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Greatwood
Level: 5 - Strg: 32 - Dext: 46 - Endr: 41 - Luck: 41 - Int:
PIM - Mythical - Dragon (Electricity) BRANBAST - Mythical - Sear Cat (Speech)
Played by: Grant Offline
Change author:
Posts: 3,062 | Total: 5,479
MP: 1825
#3
PHOEBE
Oh. He didn't remember her it seemed. She supposed that was fair. While Rory had been leading a charge, Phoebe remained ever the wallflower, quietly observing from the back of the sidelines. But she carefully placed a colorful crown of flowers on his head, gently arranging his intricate feathered hair style around and through it so as not to mess it up. "I like your hair." she said, looking at it with obvious intrigue. She wasn't quite certain how he managed to get it to stay that way. Phoebe recalled using beeswax and hair oils for intricate hairstyles for finishing school events...and perhaps he found a way to keep the feathers in with pins? Regardless it was very unique.

"Well...I'm an Outlander...and one from Northaven no less." she said quietly, looking down at the ground. He had made his thoughts and opinions on her kind rather well known after all. But unlike Emmett, who she suspected she had the capacity to forgive with very little coaxing, she didn't know Rory well, and he had been head of the charge. She didn't expect him to treat her with any kindness when her heritage was made clear, but she was going to try.

"But I thought...maybe...if you aren't too uhm...upset with me being here at your festival at all, that perhaps it would be good to go play a game? I think it would be good for people to see us getting along and...well it is a festival and you look really put out and look like you could use some fun." she said, clearly nervous, her insecurities getting the best of her. This had been a stupid idea. She wasn't anyone important, not even worth much of a memory even, why would he play a game with her?
I look up to the little bird
The flies across the sky
And I, I wish that I could be that bird
And fly away from here
Leatherworker

Age: 36 | Height: 175cm / 5'9 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 3 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 8 - Int:
Played by: Neowulf Offline
Change author:
Posts: 397 | Total: 642
MP: 970
#4
RORY
"Thank you," he responded quietly as she fussed with flowers and feathers, patient and bewildered; he had a rather extravagant streak, encouraged by his mother, causing his sister to roll her eyes, and mostly everyone to agree that it was a good thing that his father wasn't alive to witness it. He enjoyed messing about with his appearance when he had a reason to, which wasn't all that often. Fiat Lux was an excellent opportunity.

When she pulled her hands back he straightened up again, his gaze tinged, darkly, by the uncertainty—concern, even, though it didn't take a genius to figure it out.

Then she said what was on her mind, and Rory felt two things: one was his heart sinking, the other was the very strong urge to slap himself. Idiot. Of course it was that; of course it was his whole business of riling up the Naturals against the Outlanders, him decrying their everything, pretty much, calling them .. whatever it was he had called them. Probably something akin to ticks, though in a lot more words.

"Oh, Phoebe," he said, tired and sad and worn all of a sudden, a million years old and with a thousand pounds weighing on each shoulder. He didn't interrupt her when she went on, but raised the tankard to his lips to take another sip of it.

He admired her bravery. It took strength to seek out someone you thought disliked you, to reach your hand out in peace and friendship even as you feared the other would scorn it, and spit on it. "I'm not upset at all by you being here," he said quietly. This was different from the icy shock of the Outlanders being at the Festival of Lights, too new and sudden, and to top it all off: stealing the prize they all sought. It was the first time he had spoken out against the Outlanders, a quiet complaint to Wessex. "And you're right. I don't feel very fun right now." There was a little of the wolf in him, then: the sharpness of his eyes, the edges in his voice.

Then he sighed.

"I know what all I said sounded like." Absently he moved his hand in small circles, watching the light beer swirl and slosh. "And while I was very, mmh.. upset with what was happening, and how it was being handled and decided, I have no problems with Outlanders. It was just .. a convenient way to get people together, to try and stop things."

Not that he had succeeded, anyway. It disturbed him to wonder about what else he had inadvertently broken, the thought like an uncomfortable garment, wet and warm, clinging to his skin.
as if you were on fire from within,
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.
Phoebe Steadman
the Nightingale
Midwife

Age: 26 | Height: 5'9" | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Greatwood
Level: 5 - Strg: 32 - Dext: 46 - Endr: 41 - Luck: 41 - Int:
PIM - Mythical - Dragon (Electricity) BRANBAST - Mythical - Sear Cat (Speech)
Played by: Grant Offline
Change author:
Posts: 3,062 | Total: 5,479
MP: 1825
#5
PHOEBE
Phoebe listened quietly as Rory spoke with sudden exhaustion that seemed to overtake him suddenly. It did surprise her that he wasn’t upset by her presence and it showed in the way her eyes widened slightly. She had expected him to tell her to take a nice long walk off a very short pier. Nervously she played with her bottom lip with her teeth, not really sure what to say that suited the situation. ”I think…then perhaps the lesson to be garnered is that what seems most convenient in an instant is not always the wisest decision in the long run.” she said gently, in a tone that did not convey judgement but a general suggestion. What he had done had caused a lot of strife and now distrust where Phoebe didn’t think any was necessary. ”And generally speaking, the right thing to do in any situation is rarely the easiest or most convenient thing, at least in my experience.” She said with a soft smile.

The young midwife looked around, eyes spotting a little stand with a festival game. ”Why don’t we go play that? I think the point is to knock the bottles over with a ball. You can take any frustration out on that!” she suggested, brightening up a little bit, if only for his sake.
I look up to the little bird
The flies across the sky
And I, I wish that I could be that bird
And fly away from here
Leatherworker

Age: 36 | Height: 175cm / 5'9 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 3 - Strg: 16 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 20 - Luck: 8 - Int:
Played by: Neowulf Offline
Change author:
Posts: 397 | Total: 642
MP: 970
#6
RORY
He was a watcher, a wary creature: he saw the widening of her eyes, marveling again at how little a difference it made in humans with their small, small irises. They sat there like islands in the white, so different from the eyes of an animal. There was no tell-tale band of white against the dark; on a human you saw it more by what it did to the rest of the face, a chain reaction of muscles moving to accommodate the expression.

She recovered admirably, considering his words and jumping to all the wrong conclusions.

Rory heaved a small sigh, feeling the itch of his teeth and his hands: to throw the beer back, to grow fangs and bite this soft-cheeked girl who had the gall to tell him he had done the easy and convenient and wrong thing. "Do not imply that what I did was easy," he said icily over the rim of his beer, finding that a lifetime of rolling over had suddenly put him off doing it altogether. Holding the leash of an angry mob when all you wanted was the solitude of your farm and your safe, known life was not easy.

Holding the loyalty of the same mob once the fires of anger sputtered out was not easy, either. Reining back the violence of those baying for Outlander blood: not easy. His blue eyes were hard. "Only time will tell what we were forced to unleash on the world. Standing aside without a fight would've been the easy thing to do." He narrowed his gaze at her.

By choosing action he had chosen the difficult path.

It was only the narrative that had been convenient, and slightly untrue.

But she seemed eager to move away from the conversation, and honestly, he didn't blame her. She had a point in the fact that there was merit in getting along at a festival: he had caused damage to Natural/Outlander relations, and though he wouldn't let her get away with calling what he'd done easy and convenient and wrong he had no ill will towards her.

"My frustration," he echoed dryly, moving in the general direction of the little ball-bottle game. His frustration wanted copious amounts of beer. "My unfun." But still, the corner of his mouth quirked up, though he was still so much darkness and sharp edges: very uncharacteristic of him.

[ As you might've noticed this took me a month, if you don't mind I'd like to fade this out very soon into a sort of 'and they hung out in the festival spirit despite their differences' and archive it. :) ]
as if you were on fire from within,
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.


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