#taravel

[some-places]

reykjevik

[noritama0301]

青森戻る

[chic-a-gigot]

L'Art et la mode, no. 14, 8 avril 1893, Paris. Toilette Loïe Fuller. Blouse et jupe en mousseline ou tissu ombré plissé accordéon. Empiècement et bretelles de velours glacé. Garnitures et Passementeries de la Maison Coiquil, Taravel et Gay, 23, rue Etienne-Marcel. Parfums aux Violettes du Czar de Le Legrand, 11, Place de la Madeleine. Paris. Bibliothèque nationale de France

[thebankbazar]

Top 7 Speaker Brands in the United Kingdom

The United Kingdom has a long history of audio inventions that put out quite possibly one of the best speaker manufacturers in the world today. They have developed their skill in the heart of London all the way up in Scotland’s tranquil countryside views, British audio engineering has always cut the mustard. Here are the 7 leading speaker brands in the United Kingdom that have fascinated enthusiasts across the world.

Bowers & Wilkins

Heritage and Innovation

Bowers & Wilkins (B&W), a British loudspeaker manufacturer was founded in 1966 by John Bowers in Worthing, West Sussex. Research and Development has not been given emphasis by them but they have a taste of advanced technology in their building known as the Steyning Research Establishment. Speaking of perfection in sound that is further enhanced by the Nautilus range of speakers that has spiraling tubes which eradicates any form of resonance.

Notable Products

Nautilus Series: An outstanding design that served to introduce revolutionary solutions in the context of its industry.

600 Series: Popular for its value for money and great economy.

KEF

Cutting-Edge Design

KEF, the name derived from the initials of its founder Kent Engineering & Foundry, was founded in 1961 by Raymond Cooke. A Maidstone based company, KEF is well known for its creativity when designing speakers. One common method that distinguishes this company is the usage of Uni-Q driver arrays and Metamaterial Absorption Technology (MAT).

Notable Products

LS50 Wireless II: A tiny but powerful and authentic speaker system that does not require wires.

Blade Series: Leading the way in design aesthetics accompanied with highly acoustic sound.

Monitor Audio

Craftsmanship and Precision

Monitor Audio was started back in 1972 and the main principle has been to combine the beauty of design with clarity and quality of sound. Located in Essex, the company has one of the best image reputations when it comes to detailing, specializing in fine craftsmanship and the use of superior materials. Exterior acoustic features of their models include metal dome tweeters and C-CAM (Ceramic-Coated Aluminium/Magnesium).

Notable Products

Silver Series: High-for-high balanced sound favored shadings and overt details.

Bronze Series: This computer is famous for offering uncompromised performance in a relatively low price range.

Wharfedale

A Legacy of Excellence

Typically, Wharfedale is the oldest and reputable British manufacturer of speakers that was started by Gilbert Briggs in the year 1932. As in other chambers, the Wharfedale company was born in Yorkshire and it has a long tradition in the conception of acoustic designs. Their speakers are famous for clarity, the perfect balance of the sound, and the most reasonable price.

Notable Products

Diamond Series: Still legendary for impressive sound quality as well as for the price at which it is sold.

Elysian Series: A luxurious line that at the same time provides a higher level of functionality.

Read more

[fharzai]

There was a pull the other rahaat had, a familiar gravity that was strong enough for Ilmaveth to respond to even though he hadn't been directed to. His finger flexed slightly towards Alrik's hand, a subtle gesture of longing he knew he had no right to feel. When he accepted his new name he released everything from before. The Kossith won, Valkessh broke him, and rejection of his a'dam's pulse was something he lacked the strength to do. This was what he deserved, he was Ilmaveth.

Yet the ache of longing still pinched his heart, and Ilmaveth welcomed it selfishly. He had no right nor nothing to gain by remembering how it felt before when he could lend his aid to Alrik without hesitation or even look at him without shame, but such feelings came from a false entitlement to identity. He was a rahaat, they were rahaats. Desire would only lead to more pain.

"We should be grateful then to our sul'dams that our objective has nothing to do with him. For now, it seems the Kossith decree as it impacts Prospero won't be carried out by our hands. We are preoccupied." His telepathic speech was stilted and unfree. Ilmaveth could hide nothing from Valkessh. Though Alrik was not in her heart, she had no boundaries when it came to dominion. If she caught a hint of defiance from any rahaat, she would send Ilmaveth into their dreams. "Stay preoccupied. Think only of your orders. Remember only what we are now, especially around me. It's better that way."

This was the sentiment Ilmaveth forced the other rahaats to accept while they slept, but the slowing of his pace to match Alrik was more inline with what Fharzai would do. It hurt, maybe in part because his a'dam retaliated for his lack of haste, but there was no telling how long he'd have before Valkessh commanded him to sleep again. "Nothing would've changed. Not even my dreams are safe from them," he warns, not even remembering the last time he'd walked with light in another's dreams. "No one should apologize to rahaats. We are less than servants, and me even less than that. I'm a terror, a nightmare. I will hear the echoes of the screams I cause until the day my sul'dam is through with me. There is nothing else for me. For you though, there may be more. You're sleep has been spared at least in some part. For us…" Eyes forward, still moving slowly, still resisting the pull of Alrik's gravity, and doing everything he could to deny what little comfort this moment brought, Ilmaveth remained fixed on his objective. "…I can remember when 'us' didn't refer to my heart and not my Heart, but I don't want to spend my brief waking moments clinging to what I can no longer touch. I don't blame you for this nightmare, I could never."

“The Kossith have decreed that all darkfriends and those who live under the will of the Shadow, be put to death.” Darkspawn and those who carry the Blight, but even as they walked Alrik did not look at the druid at his side. Eyes under shade, the features of the warrior’s silhouette clouded by long, unkempt hair that fell in greasy tousled strands. 

Alrik did not stop moving forward as his boots pounded against the cracked stones of the village square, the elder’s house now looming before him - target and objective. Fharzai’s voice slithered into his mind, Ilmaveth, as the other was now called and it felt as though a ghost had come and leaned against his bones. There was no room for himself here, but Alrik was too large to be contained with ease and his body habitually flexed and tensed as it resisted the compulsion that overlayed his frame. 

"No." The word was clipped, mechanical, a hammerstrike instead of a thought. His hands flexed at his sides and then curled into fists.  "He is not a threat to the objective." His voice was low, almost guttural, forced through the thick presence of the a'dam. "Prospero is already contained and he watches because he cannot do otherwise.” Another beat passed as Alrik’s head fell, shadows obscuring his eyes and the same dark, tousled hair he’d always worn hung limply on either side. His pace drew slower, intentionally so while progress was still being made, no sul’dam was monitoring closely enough to force his feet to move quicker. 

“I’m sorry,” he said into the stale air along their deliberate march to the home atop the hill, “for waking us that day: for not giving us the story you deserved.” In their next turning of the wheel, Alrik would make up a better one. "This one will be over soon."

[talisa-the-steel]

who: @despairlyklor where: the shoreline, which one, idk, I didn't pull up a map when: as the first group leaves to scout for survivors notes: yum yum yum some delicious despair for our boyo at the end!

A plume of black smoke had been billowing on the horizon for some time now and it seemed to be a common understanding that the Kossith vessel that had ghosted away so many of Taravell’s finest had exploded. Talisa’s stomach had been in knots since the first scout reported seeing it on the horizon. The defeat of the Arishok had been an unexpected boon, but the victory was short lived for the Steel Dragon when news of the explosion circulated and she could not disguise her anxieties from those close to her no matter how hard she tried. Fyren would know she was afraid that it would be a recovery of Nyla’s body rather than a rescue, and it had been unspoken that they would be amongst the first to fly out to whatever wreckage could be found. 

Talisa chewed her nails, an unusual habit for someone who took pride in her pristinely manicured hands and overall visage, as she stood at the water’s edge with Lyklor. She had confided in him regarding her anxieties and fears over Nyla’s fate during Kossith's presence on more than one account. It was why she was there, after all, and why she had been so insistent that Lyklor lent his services as well. Her mask of vanity and frivolity was practiced and polished, a coping mechanism she relied heavily on, but in the present moment she could not keep every crack in it concealed. 

“I’ll be flying out with Fyren,” she said, staring out at the black smoke on the horizon. “We’re leaving soon. I know you won’t be far behind. But do make sure you’re cautious, won’t you?” Talisa peered up at him, her expression just short of batting her eyelashes at him, as if she needed to mold or manipulate him to her will that he be careful. But the expression crumbled in a moment, and she barely whispered, “What if she isn’t alright?”

[freydis-freydat]

who: @eivorx where: the ship when: after the excitement of the uprising has quelled notes: Freydis: I'd know those tits anywhere

The Kossith had been slain or captured, but a new problem unfolded before the captives. The ship floated out in the ink black waters of the Gulf of Taravell, idle and drifting as the moonlight warped across the surface of the sea. Freydis had carved out a place for herself on the bow of the ship and perched herself right on the edge. If she fell, the magic of whatever failsafe enchanted the ship would merely bring her back. The breeze off the sea soothed the bruising on her skin and raw places of her collarbone where the a’dam had once been, and in her hands she clutched Yhane’s veil, taken as a sort of trophy of her own after all that had been done to her and the others.

She turned halfway as she heard the footsteps of someone’s approach, her mind at ease for the first time in many days that she did not worry it was a sul’dam but still on edge with the new experiences she carried. Her gaze bore into the center of Eivor’s chest as she identified him rather than meeting his eye, and she moved over to create room for him on the landing where she rested. “I take it you’ve had your fill?” she asked, staring back out at the violet-black sky that stretched endlessly before them. 

[thequeendomhq]

"A leader can either take care of the living or weep for the dead, not both." - Queen Damodred Mordecai

Eterna, 2989 AC

The sun cast molten gold over the marble spires of Eterna, its brilliance glinting off domes and arches as the city roared with the thunder of wheels on stone. Arethusa leaned forward, her braids whipping in the wind behind her as she sailed through the wind completely uninhibited. The blues of her attire whipped about her as the reins bit into her calloused hands, and the chariot bucked beneath her with every cobblestone it devoured. Her chest burned from the effort, but her smile - wild and unrelenting - never faltered.

Behind her, the cheers of the pedestrians blurred into a single, upset roar. Vendors leaned from stalls, fruit forgotten - children scrambled onto balconies as Princess Arethusa and her three friends raced through the streets of the city - even the Vestals - humourless and distant, seemed to crack a smile at the display. 

Ahead, Elowen was pulling away - again. Her crimson cloak snapped in the wind, and she threw Arethusa a cocky glance over her shoulder before veering hard around the Fountain of Aelia. The spray caught the light, casting halos of mist in his wake.

"Smug bitch!" Arethusa yelled after her, playfully and breathless with laughter. She yanked the reins, muscles screaming, and her chariot drifted dangerously close to a row of market barrels. One toppled in her wake, scattering dates and startled pigeons, but she didn’t look back because she knew who was trying to catch up from behind.

"John!" she called, half-turning. "You still breathing?"

Far behind, John’s chariot wobbled around a bend, his hair a tangled halo of windswept panic. His horses were fast - but his skill was considerably lacking, he didn’t have the speed or the coordination to navigate the streets as Elowen and Arethusa seemed to. So, when they raced, he just sort of meandered behind them - apologizing to those who were put off by the display.

The final stretch opened before her  - the gleaming white street that lined the Harmonium exterior - immaculately kept and lined with marbled statues inlaid with gold. Elowen was there and Arethusa couldn’t help but grit her teeth in response as the wind howled around her and her chariot surged. The princess gained on Elowen: ten yards, seven, five. 

With a final lurch, Elowen’s chariot crossed the painted line first, wheels skimming the marble in a shower of sparks. Arethusa arrived a heartbeat later, her horses slowing only once she stood, triumphant despite her loss, arms spread wide like wings - laughing wildly as the pair embraced.

And then, far behind them, John turned a corner too sharp and crashed spectacularly through a cart of silk. 

Naturally, Arethusa and Elowen burst into laughter before attending to their fallen friend.  

Somewhere in the Gulf of Taravell, Present Day

It began with a rumble from deep within the dreadnought as the ship came to a grinding halt. What followed was the breaking of chains and the subsequent as some of the rahaat broke free of their a’dams and took to liberating those who remained under the thumb of the Kossith. While the dreadnought had a full crew of Kossith, there were far more who’d been imprisoned, far more who took to liberty, and far more to do away with those who held their ground. 

In little under an hour, the dreadnought was brought under the control of the Lysarans - though the ship’s engine suddenly stopped working and, collectively, the group was lost at sea.

Though stranded, many aboard possessed the ability to simply... fly away, or slip into the world of dreams and leave the dreadnought elsewhere. Toward the end of the uprising, the Captain of the dreadnought retreated into his quarters and activated a failsafe. Those who attempted to fly away found that gravity worked against them when they attempted to leave the ship, those who tried to shift into something that could swim encountered the same effect - leaping from the ship only to be shunted back.

For the dreamers, they were bound to the dreams of those upon the dreadnought - incapable of dreaming of anything beyond the interior of the ship.

Worse yet, interrogation of the surviving crew found the dreadnought set to self-destruct - one of the Kossith's safeguards to ensure that both their blackpowder - and their rahaat - were never taken by raiders or outsiders.

In one, faint glimmer of hope, all those who possess a ring of the damned have found they've suddenly gone dormant - as one that was worn has been removed and thrown into the ocean. Narratively, this would have happened during the uprising and would be felt across all the ringbearers by the uprising's conclusion.

The March to Haven, Present Day

Smoke plumed into the sky, thick and unbroken. From the western reaches, the forests burn low and slow - deliberate, not wild or random. Trees fall in uniform rhythm, not to storm or wind, but to axe and fire. The Kossith do not waste and even the forest is conscripted - fuel to feed their weapons of war, leaving nowhere for wolves, witches, or fey to hide in their wake. 

Beneath the smoke the vastness of the Kossathi efforts pressed forward with a palpable pressure that rippled through the air. The ground trembled as the roads, now gouged with deep furrows from wheels larger than any Lysaran cart, shook and groaned with the Kossith’s war machines as they rolled North. Their engines, low and throaty, growled like rows of ancient beasts freshly roused from a long slumber.

From the countryside, villagers fled as Haven’s walls swelled once more. Accustomed to taking in all kinds, the city had stood since the Feronia first formed her pack; tales follow those who make it to safety that those who were not fast enough to outrun the Kossith met the cruel metal ring of the a’dam. The crops that the Kossith came across were taken, wells fortified, and bridges left intact but guarded - they weren’t raiders, but occupiers preparing for their great conquest. 

Atop Haven’s walls, those posted on the watch can see the Kossith approaching along the ridgelines, the silhouettes begin to appear - tall figures, horns catching the early spring sun like the blades of fallen gods. Scouts, watching from a distance, vanish before their reports can be written down and patrols sent to slow the march do not return.

At night, the wolves of Haven can hear the approaching war drums from the tree line - low and thunderous. A letter addressed to Aurea arrives, but soon its contents are widely known. 

To Queen Aurea of Haven, You will surrender the city. Your wolves will be collared if they resist. You have a fortnight until we reach your walls. A fortnight to surrender your city or fall.  Arishok Vassan

OOC info:

Freedom at last! Some of the Kossith have been kept as captives to be interrogated, but for the most part the Kossith have been killed. 

The dreadnought will self-destruct in 1 week.

Your characters are now trapped in the middle of the ocean, but their powers have returned to them. However, they have no way of leaving the ship and no way to 'magically' send any messages to the outside world. Their magical items and weapons were all destroyed.

ALL ringbearers will feel the effects lessen as their rings once again go dormant, but they should understand the severity of removing them now (hopefully).

The fate of Haven will be determined by IC interactions and decisions, whether people choose to help Aurea and the Haven wolves, help them flee, or leave them to their fate is in your hands.

Queen Arethusa will not be sending aid to Haven, as she and the Tower are preoccupied with the darkspawn incursion along the Astorian border.

In Astoria, the Civil War continues following the death of the King.

In Ankhuria, the One God of Maferath has refused to send aid.

In Sinaria, the reclusive Seven remain unbothered by the troubles of the West.

The next plot update will come May 23rd, happy RP'ing!

[fharzai]

who?: open to all || capped at 2 replies where?: the dream realm when?: post hestia's cove whenever

Those within Lysara were afflicted by far fewer nightmares than others across Taravell. Whether they were aware of this fact or not, the destruction of their nightmares could be attributed to the druid of the Tower. Fharzai walked the dreamscape to protect the citizens of the queendom he viewed much as his child nightly, as he had for over a century now. He staunchly believed that the people would benefit more from restful nights of dreams than fitful nights of horrid nightmares, but did that make nightmares worthless?

More and more, Fharzai has had to wield them, forcing him to accept an aspect of his abilities he once believed were too dark for him to dabble in. Now, he walks through the nightmares of dreamers with intention. He doesn't destroy them upon contact but instead adds further nightmare plague to the scape with every step he takes, intensifying the horrors bubbling up from their subconscious and satisfying some small urge he constantly repressed. That's not why he was here, at least not tonight… Fharzai walks until he finds the dreamer, moving fluidly through their nightmarescape in a way they could not. Paralyzed by fear and trapped by the nightmare's intensity, Fharzai appears before them, shrouded by the hood of his billowing cloak of stars. His Torch of Valor shines as the only light source in the darkness, a beacon of hope for the dreamer. They need not suffer any more than they have. "Hello, traveler. The seed of these terrible sights has taken root in your mind, and the night is still young. You will not wake from your nightmare any time soon. This twisted anguish has only just begun." The power of choice was potent, and unless Fharzai had a good reason, he'd never choose on another's behalf. He extends his gloved hand to the dreamer, letting them know he had a way to free them from this darkness. "If you let me in, I can deliver you to a better dream, one free of this nightmare and any others. I'll always be able to find you when you drift into the darkness of the dream realm so you can rest easy. Will you accept my help?"

[elokian]

where?: the port™️ (caribella) when?: troupe 1's happenings who?: open to any who'd be there

It's been a while since Neptune's Fleet sailed the straits of Taravell. Elokian's latest treasure craze has kept his eyes beyond the Veiled Sea, but true to form his navigator's route had his armada sailing to Caribella. With a flagship as iconic as his, Elokian figured that word might spread about his return before he even reached the island, but docking in the port would undoubtedly get gums flapping.

Each vessel of his mighty fleet brought its own, unique intrigue to the dock dwellers, but a flagship as magnificent as his dwarfing every other docked armada was what people would be talking about. Elokian knew how Caribella loved to spin its tales. And while he enjoyed being the center of it, there was no telling what some brash upstart might do with that information. That's why while his crew all went ashore to tend to their stomachs and lovers, Elokian remained behind, swinging low in a hammock rigged to the high bow of his flagship. "Aye, she's a beaut' wouldn't ya say?" he calls down to the passerby. The question comes seemingly from nowhere as the hat pulled over his eyes and aimless strumming of his lute gave the impression of carelessness. But Elokian was on guard no matter what his vibe may seen. Anyone who stared at his ship for too long, even if out of adoration, would be questioned. "No ship is as loyal, vicious, or stunning as she. Ah, the stories she could tell ... making every raft in this port shrivel in shame like a rat's cock wouldn't even make the list. The Captain is quite fond of her, as I'm sure you can imagine."

[valshirathelight]

WISHING ON STARS

Location: Bro idk, somewhere in/by Iskaldrik, but it's back in time Characters: Val'shira Melithar, Atish'len Mentions: Thora, Deimos, Freydis, Njal, Diarmad, Adrian, Deja Prompt: The Road DnD Prompt: "Overhead, as night falls, so do the stars. Streaking constellations across the night sky, writing new stories and rewriting old. Now is the time to reflect as the air seems to hold its breath. Each falling star leaves a faint shimmer in its wake, the world taking pause as the fey and oreads gather at the mountaintop. EVERYONE what is a fleeting wish that crosses your character's heart? Does a memory come as you watch these stars fall?" Synopsis: Val reflects on the things she's learned before, ever since leaving Avalon, and her growth. She also names her baby owlbear.

The more she strayed from the safety and comfort of Avalon, the more she realized she had loved nothing more than a fantasy for centuries. Taravell had been more a mystery to her than anything, a story that had heroes and vanquished villains and beautiful, far off places - most of which she hadn’t seen with her own eyes. Those places she had seen were from the eyes of a tourist, and nothing more. It was a fantasy concocted by the eyes of someone who concluded something was good and left it at that. 600 years, and she had been a child to only just recognize it was far more. It was very complicated. Not just Taravell, but the world outside Avalon in it’s entirety, even the history of the elves. She turned to her back, dark amber eyes now following the path of a trailing star.

Up until recently, Val’shira led a relatively normal life for a High Elve of Avalon. Though loss and grief had found her years ago, it wasn’t until the Fall of Iskaldrik that the odds of everything else in her life seemed stacked up against her. Nothing went her way. And, if it did, she would… gain something vile along the way. Something she saw as bad. A sense of disenchantment in her worldview first, now an odd scar on her ear. She knew enough not to only be grateful for the new magic the scar brought; all things came at a price… She had felt the approval of The Dark One, of all things.

Maybe she was afraid of trusting people, maybe she was disenchanted by Taravell, but it didn’t change the fact that she still found things to fall in love with. Mingling with the darkness and corruption was light and love, tucked into the laughter of comrades and swaying on the branches of trees they passed under. She had found beauty in the strength of creatures like Vuldaks and Genasi, the same as in uncorrupted wolves and druids. She had known the world wasn’t meant to be so black and white, at least in theory. She had concluded that with logic and age and wisdom, but she hadn’t truly learned it. Too safe, too coddled in the peace of Avalon. It was easy enough to come to a logical assumption based on books and stories but…

It was quite another thing to learn it, far more clearly, from experience.

She had been letting bitterness get the better of her, as it always had, when things didn’t go her way. If something wasn’t what she expected, she resented it. If something went wrong, even if she expected it, she still resented it. Because things weren’t supposed to go wrong for someone like her; she had worked too hard to prove she was worth something. Val’shira grimaced. She knew she was a bitter soul and it had done her nothing but harm in all her years. The true juxtaposition of light and dark, it was clearer than ever in everything that she encountered. No matter how she suffered (and she had certainly suffered upon entering yet another portal) the elve could still lie upon the grass now and gaze up at the stars and feel peace and joy for a moment. She could feel the presense of people she had distrusted, and even disliked, and still feel safe and trusting enough to sleep at their sides. She could feel the fear that the approval of a dark God and a scar gave her… but also the pride and excitement of new magic.

Another star danced across the sky. She watched it flicker away into the darkness, the abyss swallowing it up. The owlbear cub nestled a little closer to the space between her shoulder and chest. Val’shira lay there in a bevy of calm, smiling, nearly persuaded to giggle as she tipped her head down enough to press a kiss to the top of the creature’s feathery head. There was still much to do, much to figure out before she could say that they were truly safe, and she didn’t know how long it would take. But if Val could feel worry at the anticipation of time and turmoil that awaited her and her companions, she could also feel gratefulness that she was not alone to endure it. And, wherever she went, she would have this beautiful little child with her too. At the very least, she would not be seperated from the owlbear.

Her eyes turned back to the sky as another star greeted her, its brief, glowing ‘hello’ before it sunk back into the deep, dark blue of night. Val watched another follow it. She took a deep breath, her heart aching with longing as she thought: 'Help me.' She heard the mutterings of Deimos and his constellations nearby, the shuffling of Adrian as he tossed in sleep or wakefulness. She could sense the presense of Thora and Deja as a true comfort. She thought of Diarmad’s small smile, and Freydis’ fierce battle stance. She even considered Njal’s snapping retorts that - sometimes - had become amusing to hear. It was inevitable to feel a sense of kinship to these people she had lived and suffered alongside for weeks. Val’shira thought of Juneau, suddenly, and those others from The Box. Of the Pride Demon. Back then, she had come to the conclusion that it was very wrong to trust strangers. She had nearly been possessed, and even learned that The Tower witches weren’t as heroic as stories made them out to be. But time showed her that trust continued to be the one thing that saved her, trust and cooperation, once she put away her inclination to be bitter and resentful about everything. Gods, the world was a mess of contradiction. And that was… okay. She had to be okay with it. The bad wasn’t just all bad, the good wasn’t all good. Like how Njal was a Witcher, but he wasn’t a heartless beast, and maybe neither had been the Witcher who killed her sister. (She would still kill the latter, though.) She could be bitter… but she also had to remember that wasn’t all that she was. And not let it be all she was.

'Help me not forget this peace,’ she thought, watching the star finally flicker away. Back home in her time she was struggling, running between so many goals and so many desires and not taking a moment to breath. Val'shira couldn’t control everything. The light bringer couldn’t make everything dark into something light. She wanted to be more accepting, accepting of the bad as much as she was of the good. Acceptance was what brought her peace, not the constant restlessness built off negative emotions (grief, resentment, guilt) that she carried like a burden. She didn’t think the stars would answer, she didn’t expect them to either. It was just a passing desire, faint and silent as the trail of light cast across the dark sky. She turned over, her face against the steady breathing of the owlbear. She nuzzled her nose gently against the tiny feathers.

This little child of peace. Atish'len.

Atish'len. wasn't a terrible name for an owlbear. She whispered it with a tiny smile. Then, finally, Val'shira closed her eyes to rest.

[ormir]

self-para ; post-paved in blood.

Thanks to the non-heroics of the paved in blood party, wild magic is surging in Eterna's center. trigger warnings: body horror, death, mentions of grief.

Below the city, the road paved in blood was collapsing. An hour ago, Ormir was anointed by the spray of arterial crimson. He listened as terms traded on the tongue of dragons. He was a part of something branding and cosmic, melded into Taravell’s fate like the red hand blistered into his own chest. 

Now, he was vermin. The Hand was scurrying back the way they came with nothing but a ragged life held tightly in his fist. The brick lung of the temple constricted, closing darkness tighter over their heads, raining rubble and rattling the stones under their feet. Each labor of feline muscle moves the earth, pushing the impending catastrophe further behind him. They fight a pull, a single inevitability, a tidal summon dredging them back toward that room, back toward the light, to the ravenous, pulsing amassment of their failure. It grows louder, vacuous, terrifying. Death laps at their heels. Ormir’s hackles rise in a painful, reactive flight.

The gourd is in his teeth. It’s a magical sham of a trinket he’d intended on selling to some unworldy sod, and is somehow now a last resort to survival. He slows his gallop and listens for the closing drum of his comrades’ footsteps around him. He closes his mind to rationality, to skepticism, to panic, and pins his thoughts on the tower courtyard. Behind layered eyelids, he pictures the intricate pattern of brickwork in Eterna’s streets. The smell of imported spice and fig blossom and the tingling presence of permanent magic. He barricades all his mental might behind his imagination, and shakes the gourd. Inside, a single dry pip breaks loose, rattling musically against its dry casing.

Time opens just as the temple tears open with a boom, and everything is swallowed by the jump of space.

A dozen ears pop with the violent change of being teleported above ground. The air is immediately clearer. The panther shakes his great head to alleviate the pressure behind his eyes, and when he opens them, he’s staring down into the shield of his own dirtied – human – palms. They are in the tower courtyard, exactly as he’d imagined. Standing on two legs, level to or shorter than the others, feels almost like standing naked in a crowd. Panicked hands pat over his torso, and he relaxes at the cool hold of leather over his body. That his dignity remained intact was nothing short of miraculous.

The diplomat’s coffers are twenty gold lighter, his flank unguarded, his dignity in tatters. A stale life was the only prize he’d won through their legendary efforts. Some didn’t make it out with that much.

The relief is short-lived. Like a disturbance on a lake’s surface, the cobblestones underfoot begin to roll in jagged ripples. The gourd had uprooted them by miles, but it’d not been far enough. Awkwardly occupying his bipedal form, Ormir wobbles awkwardly to steady himself. What had they done? Or, perhaps more worryingly, how much had they failed to do?

He reaches inside to shrug his second form back on, to feel the weight of muscle and assurance of teeth at his disposal, but finds the spirit evasive. It stays out of reach, coy, almost taunting, like a proper cat would be. Damn it all. Ormir wore the envelope of fur and muscle more, but hadn’t polished just how to domesticate it to his will.

He coughs on something unpleasant. Something that has mass in his nostrils.

Candy-pink tendrils furl out of the sewers, pushing up from the stone to make clouds of glittering, thick fog. The smell on them is pungently sweet, musky and definitively equine. Horse shit, memory supplies. Sugary, magical horse shit. It’s the stinking punchline to the retrieval that spiraled into harrowing misadventure. A stench to stain Eterna’s hapless heroes. The party disperses, presumably to assess the damage and gather up their own loose ends. 

For a moment, Ormir feels his relief. If a completed draconic ritual’s implosion only was a handful of lives and a city flooded under a blanket of unicorn flatulence, they were getting off lightly in the cosmic scale of events to date. 

Sourness strikes at the memory of the pale woman shedding the Kingsguard’s likeness. Torsten. She had stolen the witcher from somewhere, had incapacitated him or worse. With deepening alarm, the uncertainty of Afshin’s fate burrowed into his brain, laying hard against his panic center. The two were seldom apart. Orin would have had ample opportunity to clear a path for ascension, if she’d been truthful about her motivation with Eivor.

Coughing into his forearm, Ormir squints through the pink haze and braves the upstream push through the crowd into the tower. 

Each spiral up the castle stairs is another layer of chaos unfurling, a new strain of wild magic running rampant. Nobles, scholars and stewards alike fumble down the stairs, bracing their hands against the wall to keep from tumbling. Some are newly, shiningly bald, others crying crystalline tears that drop and chime against the stone steps. Ormir crowds against the center column of the stairs, not knowing if their magical ailments might be infectious, until he can muscle out into the Iskarans’ makeshift chamber hall.

The floor was apparently empty, haunted only by the panicked shouts from the stairwell. The man’s own footsteps echo and grow in the silence, until they separate and take on an impossible rhythm. Four distinct beats moving in a gathered set. A gallop. Something else is running these halls, something moving closer, closer. Ormir braces, readying for magical summon could spill around the corner.  

“Baaahhh!” The creature bleats. A white sheep trots awkwardly, at a limping pace, trailing slips of cloth that Ormir recognizes belong to the servants’ dress. A stained apron sags under the sheep’s stomach, and the dress squeezes around wool that is pushed to bulge out of the collar. Ormir doesn’t stop the polymorph as it clatters by. Helping her is far beyond his abilities.

This was exactly the peril of pickling a city in raw magic. It only solidified his avoidance, his distaste for its usage, even in moderation. Likely the suspended charge in Olympia’s air only fed the spark, like dry kindling for a wildfire. Without anti-magic, chaos climbed Olympia like embers up an open chimney. All the more reason to find the witcher. Quickly.

There was no armor-clad post outside the prince’s door. Ormir grabs the knocker and bashes it, pushing fruitlessly at the handle. No noise or movement inside answer him, and neither name evokes any response from within. They weren’t here.

It’s then he notices the neighboring door to his own quarters is ajar. Moving to close it, he stills at a soft fluttering sound coming from within. Alarm trills in his system again. Tuning his ears, he hears accompanying it, what he can only process as a hushed peal of inhuman laughter. 

Gripping his axe in his dominant hand, the Iskaran softens his step and leans his shoulder against the door. Assassin, thief, bugbear, dragon, whatever waits inside will taste steel before it sees him.

Ormir flings the door open, axe raised. After the sheep servant, he thought he’d seen the wildest this surge had to offer. But it was snowing in his room, and there was a gaggle of pixies trashing his belongings.

Indeed, there were about a half-dozen rat sized, winged fae creatures ransacking what remained of his earthly comforts. The bannisters over his bed lay in splintered diagonal slants, his heavy, light-blotting drapes slashed to ribbons. Instead of snow, though, it was soft, white down raining from his disemboweled pillows. The vintage that had survived and was being saved for a special occasion was bleeding into the bearskin rug, where one creature was bent to lap it off the floor.

A loud rip calls his attention to a bedpost, where a fae varmint is tearing the pages of his journal roughly from the spine, giggling like a child plucking leaves from a tree. 

There are precious memos tucked inside that journal. Last scraps of correspondence before the fall of Iskaldrik. Important documentation. Personal letters. Ormir’s ears burn red-hot with built rage.

Before he can fashion a better approach, the hatchet is already airbound. It skewers the bedpost pixie and pins its tiny, scaly body to the wall, where it gurgles and expires. The others are undeterred in their ruckus, though the closest two hiss and take flight at him.

The flutter of opalescent wings is an assault on his ears, and Ormir grits his teeth as a tuft of hair is ripped from his scalp. He stumbles back for the door, just for a wrinkle in the rug catches on his ankle. He swings as he goes down.

Through some feat of catlike reflex, he closes one of the creatures in his fist. Wriggling, it flashes sharp, yellow teeth in a grinning hiss, and bites into the soft bridge between Ormir’s thumb and forefinger. The pain is needles, snake venom against the blunt throb from his fall, but he clenches tighter. Ormir squeezes to feed instinct, wanting to see those mischievous eyes pop out of their thimble-sized skull. That would curb this bitterness, this utter lack of control, this impotence he felt in and out of every day.

Instead, a blight of pustules raise horrifically over the pixie’s skin. He feels the lesions form under his grip, turning wet and sticky. The creature gurgles a sickly laugh, sticks a green tongue between its lips, and blows a fat raspberry at him. Then it explodes. Right in Ormir’s grimacing mouth. The others go off in similar gusto, blistering, giggling morbidly, and popping, splattering bright gore onto his walls. 

Ormir can only huff in the newfound silence, spit, and wipe a smear of cleanness onto his face. The drip-drip of pixie goo is the only ambience outside of the clamor below. He is utterly exhausted. Defeated. Humiliated.

He stands only to fall back onto his broken bed, haloed by a puff of feathers. A single, bug-like wing twitches on his ceiling. He giggles at the absurdity of it, at the turn a promising night had made. 

Aged parchment crunches under his head. One of the pixie’s torn papers, no doubt. Ormir lifts his head and retrieves the page.  He recognizes the handwriting instantly, even if he doesn’t have the courage to read the words in the voice that penned them.

It’s a jagged stab to a scabbed wound. Through the crisis underground, in traversing the magic-ravaged city above, even as he scoured the castle for the King’s son, Ormir hadn’t put a single thought into wishing Orhan was here, too. It was a new variety of guilt. The shame of enduring a life without. Of persevering.

Ormir held the shredded paper over his heart, thumbing its torn edge. The chunky wetness on his face was cooling, and somewhere far in the tower’s bowels he could hear a sheep bleating for help. If Orhan could see him now, he’d think his Hand had gone fully mad. Perhaps he had.

[noritama0301]

和歌山城　蒸気機関車

[chic-a-gigot]

L'Art et la mode, no. 40, vol. 14, 7 octobre 1893, Paris. Camail de velours noir brodé de jais, avec empiècement d’hermine. Petite hermine formant le col. Jupe mi-velours, mi-drap, jointe par une petite bande d’hermine. Garnitures et Passementeries de la Maison Coiquil, Taravel et Gay, 23, rue Étienne-Marcel. Créme-Oriza de Ninon, Parfumerie Oriza, 11, place de la Madeleine. Bibliothèque nationale de France

[reetkaur2984]

Planing To taravel #ahemdabad #vadodara # pune # Mumbai # Mumbai # chennai #hyderabad

[sakkarathekeeper]

Date: Recent days Location: Prison Pals Characters: @nylathriasoulseer & @sakkarathekeeper Notes: The Mothers

This was... new. Sakkara had lived many lives, and experienced each former Age of Taravell, but in none of those years of her lives did she ever get imprisoned. A first time for everything, she supposed, and even a soul as old as her's could experience something unprecedented. It should have been terrifying. However, there hadn't been a single second where the druid seemed afraid, and it might have been disconcerting for some of them to see her react as though this were a brief life intermission. It even worried Sakkara a little - her own lack of reaction. But it only spoke volumes of her faith in Fate and her place within it. The druid was meant to be here, and she would make the most of it. These young ones needed her.

Or, maybe most of them. None of the surviving elves in this age had lived in ancient times, but many of them still held years in life far, far greater than Sakkara's. When she was not in the company of friends or druids, she preferred these elvhen. She gravitated towards one in particular, a beautiful woman that held great wisdom in her eyes. With the instinct of an augury who made many assumptions, the Keeper approached this elve. This one either saw much because of her ability, like poor young Ikaros, or she was very old. Or maybe both. "Have you ever been in this situation, Asha'bellanar?" Woman of many years. It was, admittedly, an assumption. Most elves, especially those of Avalon, surpassed Sakkara's years. But it was also respect. Her soul had been a faiman in her very first life, and it was because of the elvhen that her people were gifted the magic that birthed druidism. They had a history of deep respect for the elvhen.