Dare And it sounds just like a song

[Anira Verseheart]

Ember District, Crorefell​

In the restless hum of the city night, Anira perched herself lazily in the window of her rented room, not far off street level, close enough to smell and hear every bad decision as it staggered past. It was a decent view, if you didn’t mind rooftops and trouble. Outside, the alleys sprawled like a drunken lover, all twisted alleys and cheap promises. Somewhere, someone was shouting. Somewhere else, someone was laughing. The stars were up there somewhere...

A pair of half-melted candles fluttered behind her, wax pooling on the wooden tabletop. She cradled her lute and let her fingers wander across the strings, coaxing out a tune that ambled along with the night’s rhythm: careless, a little sad, entirely self-indulgent. The air coming through the window was thick with the scent of tar, sea-brine, and a hint of something floral from the courtyard below. Probably jasmine. Or weeds. Or whatever the hell of a flower survived in the City of Fools. Either way, the night smelled alive.

She hummed softly under her breath, a lullaby for herself as much as anyone. Songs about love were easy. Living it was harder. Then came the sound: not the usual drunks, not a brawl, but something sharper. A scuffle with real desperation behind it. Her fingers froze mid-chord. “Oh, perfect,” she muttered, eyeing her half-empty wine bottle like it might solve this for her. It didn’t.

Curiosity... or idiocy, as some would call it got the better of her. Putting her lute down, she swung one leg out the window, then the other, and dropped down lightly into the street. Not much of a drop, though she made it look more graceful than it felt. The noises drew her down the side alley, grunts, scuffling, something that sounded painfully like someone losing. Her heart pounding, pulse quickening in her throat. Maybe it was her turn to be a hero? “Idiot.” Anira muttered to herself, and kept going.

The minstrel slowed near the corner, boots light on the cobblestones. Pressing herself flat against the cold limestone wall, she edged closer, carefully, carefully. Anira peeked around just enough to catch a glimpse of what was going on.

 

[Krava'quiloor]

The creature was wet, some kind of grey, featureless clothes clung to its skin, covered in ripples and moisture-laden. Like someone took an elf, stretched them length-wise, limbs and fingers and all, and all that went into length was detracted from the meat on its bones. Like someone took an elf, and took away almost all the color. Thick-growing but silky-thin white hair clung to its face. Its eyes took a moment to define an iris, but not a pupil - bright chrysoprase.

At first, it simply moaned, wordless demand in the tone, as it tried to swipe at one of the men keeping something in their hand away, and take it back. A punch to the face threw its willowy body against the wall, but unlike any person in the situation - it did not try to touch its face.
A slight sheen of pink moisture came to its face, like a sheen of sweat, slightly sticky. The bruise surfaced on the face in a myriad burst capillaries. Pain dripped out of a bloodied nose in thick, black drops. The blood had the same purple sheen.

The air shivered, a haze alike the one that rises from the heated ground. Its mouth opened, something in the throat unclasped, a full inhale followed, mouth moving awkwardly to form words:

"Give back."
And a hand, expectantly extended. The not-elf stood straight on shaky legs. Its pale skin was now reflecting light iridescent, as if wet, or oily; what an odd response to pain - sweating.

"Are you slow, or plain stupid?"
The hand was slapped back easily, like a willow branch.

"Give. Back. My-"
A buzzing in the air. A word spoken that was many words at once, pronounced without tongue. It made the air shake.
Brother.
Father.
Other.
Elder.
Kin.
Like music bringing emotion about, there was emotion that translated best, instead of tone of voice. A keening, thinning anger that hooked onto the heart and seeped into the mind like ink through cotton.

That was when the blades were pulled, and another punch sent the advancing not-elf backward onto the alleyway dirt, its sticky wet clothes and wimpy limbs. The not-elf's breathing broke, though it was hard to tell whether from pain or anger. It changed its cadence to sharper, punctuated series of exhale-inhale, pupil-less eyes staring at the thing in the man's hand.

It looked like a stone, from a distance. Blue opal, maybe, imperfections forming swirls and sparks, so much like the Rings. Egg-shaped. Glass-polished.
"Don't even think about it, bitch," the sword pointed at the not-elf's chest. They seemed to recognize the threat just fine, unmoving, breath still in the shallow, rhythmic cadence. "'S mine now. Alright? Alright, m. Dumb cunt don't know when to stop."
The leader's nose was bleeding. Took a moment for him to notice.

The not elf was still on the ground, however, no longer looking at him but at the egg-stone instead.
Like a persistent scent of petrichor, a wordless feeling floated in the air.
Something like when anger turns ashen-grey, and there is no more hate, just a cool, distant sort of understanding.
That sort of sadness. But not acceptance.

"She's doing something, boss. Messing with my head," one of them said, unnerved by the feeling. It was almost inviting to share in it. Almost.

Looked like they were about to kick the final shits out of the not-elf on the ground before leaving.

 

[Anira Verseheart]

Anira took one look around the corner and immediately yanked her head back like she’d just caught a whiff of a decaying corpse. Pulled back so fast she nearly smacked into the wall behind her.

Nope!

The minstrel, already stepping backward, hands in the air like the alley might take offense at her presence. That had been a wet corpse in a wig and three thugs with more steel than brain cells. That’s somebody else’s story! But by Akmal’s teeth, what was that thing even doing? Crying or bleeding or casting some sort of sadness spell?!

She waited a beat. Maybe two. Anira took a breath. Another. Smoothed her hair unnecessarily, then wiped her sweaty palms down the front of her coat. It didn’t help. Then... damn it! She peeked again.

Absolutely not!

The not-elf? creature? person? was a mess of shimmer and bruises, all fragile limbs and fury. The goons, meanwhile, were the usual sort: weapons out, and just intelligent enough to make violence work in their favor. The thing they’d taken glowed like it meant something. Magic rock, probably. Bad magic rock. Anira took a breath.

Still nope.
Still very much a nope.
This is not how bards die!

She turned on her heel. And paused. Because there it was again, that damned itch. Not the one that meant fleas from the tavern mattress. The other one. The hero itch. She mumbled “But…”

She peeked a third time. Anira leaned back fast again and closed her eyes, rolled her shoulders, gave herself a slap on one of her cheeks. Come now, Anira. You’ve talked your way out of worse. That wine merchant in Virdalen, his nephew in that unfortunate goat situation… Yes. Yes! This is just another performance!

So she stepped into the alley like she owned it, chin high, voice clear.

“Oi! Ugly. All five of you!”
Five heads snapped her way. Five weapons didn’t drop. Not ideal.

Anira blinked. Panic hit her throat like a bad note mid-song. Think fast. Think faster!

“Oh!” she gasped, throwing her arms wide like she was announcing the bloody moonrise. “There you are! Gods, I've been looking everywhere for you lot...!” She paused just long enough to let confusion creep in. “Oh, no, sorry! Wrong group of bastards! But you do know the whores doing free hour are over at the The House of Opals, right?” she chirped brightly, pointing vaguely toward the street.

Beat.
Nothing.

Then she clapped her hands. “Go on, shoo! Best seats vanish quick when the discount’s on!”

 

[Krava'quiloor]

Beat.
Nothing.

The air shivered, the sweaty colorless thing pushing itself away from the pointing blade on thin limbs, very slowly.
Thin, line-like lips parted, but it did not speak.
Another word, concept, meaning spilled out like filling from a succulent shepherd's pie.

Important.
Attention.
Listen.
Trust.
Go.

The knotty fingers dug into dirt, narrow hands pushed the not-elf back up into standing. For just a heartbeat, it looked at the one who spoke with a different voice.

The feeling of the itch, the hero, the slight burn and buzz of need - a cool, soothing touch resting on that spot in the mind.

Sunlight through trees, cool wind on a hot summer day, taste of clear water from a spring, the scent of fresh earth and flowers carrying in the lazy breeze. A sense of stillness, not a ripple on the pond.
A warm embrace. Scent of favorite food. Warm spot under the blanket. A sense of kindness when a pet nuzzles lovingly.
Gratitude?

Not words. And not the bard's, distinctly - touching, but not invading. Offering, like one would a gift, a song, a promise. Foreign. A pause of silence, half a beat later. Eyes without pupils turned to the group. The not-elf took a step back, breathing sharp, concentration writ clearly on almost emotion-stripped features. Long, narrow hands clasped in front of its ribcage, interlocking fingertips. Almost dainty, almost shy, if it came from someone looking much plumper, softer, more familiar.

In a few unsteady steps, it shifted between them and Anira.

Go.
Now.
Hurry.
Free time hour discount whores seatsgroupofbastardslustlegslimbstopplingoveranimalsinrutheaturgencychase.
Unremarkable wall with no door or window. Linen without dye. Grey overcast sky with no landscape. A slightly crooked stitching. Unworthy of attention.
AWAY.

Weaving with another's song, another's words, another's meanings.
"Free hour?" Confusion.
"Fuck this ugly bitch, I'm going." Pliable.
"Yeah, I'll be there first anyway."
They were confused but resolute in the decision made, one by one turning as a disjointed group. The shiver in the air had ceased, and drifted with them.

Egg-stone landed in the dirt, falling out of the loosened, absent-minded fingers. Nobody looked back.
Blank grey canvas, no ideas to find, the creature insisted as it saw them off, its eyes fixated on the dropped - jewel? - but seemingly not daring to move until the last of them was gone.

Then, it lunged for the rock and grabbed it in both palms, crouched and hunched, the treasure pressed to its chest.
But while its eyes remained on gently, almost reverently wiping the polished rock off of the last speck of sand, its reach extended to Anira once again.

Long taut string cautiously let loose from the bow's core. A clogged riverstream pushing the rock down the rapids, running free again. Witnessing a tearful reunion with father who is mother also, maybe both or either. An invitation of two branches to sway to the same favorable breeze.
Friend.

The not-elf bowed slowly, half-way, keeping eyes on the stranger, dirty hands opening its shirt folds without a single reservation to the nudity, to gently wrap the egg-stone in and move the folds somewhat closed again. It looked on.

 

[Anira Verseheart]

Whatever just happened, it wasn’t normal. And she lived in a city where drunk sailors tried to marry pigeons, so that said something about whatever just happened. Anira didn’t move for a long moment. Jaw slack, hands still half-raised like she was expecting a punch... or a group hug from The Eight themselves. “I... what just happened?” she blurted, voice rising an octave on the tail end. “Did I...did we...win? Is that what that was? Because no one got stabbed, I didn’t get punched, and I’m not even bleeding! HAH!"

She placed a hand over her chest like she needed to check her heartbeat was still her own. “That was either magic, divine intervention, or I finally hit my dramatic breaking point and hallucinated the whole damn thing.” The bard watched the creature, reverently cradling its glowy egg like a priest handling sacred cheese. She pointed at the not-elf? creature? person? “What did you do to them? Whisper a poem into their brains? Cast a ‘go away, I’m emotionally complex’ spell?”

Then the wave of relief hit, hot and fizzy and immediate, and Anira let out a very unladylike bark of laughter and stumbled back to lean against the nearest wall. Half-collapsed with a groan. The bard could not believe that worked. She insulted five armed men, made up a brothel, and somehow didn’t get stabbed. “Ohhhh, thank every star above and below, I really didn’t want to get blood on this doublet. Do you know how hard it is to get dried violence out of velvet?”

She let her head thud gently back against the bricks and looked skyward. Another breath. She laughed again, lighter this time, giddy with relief. “I mean, no violence! No bloodshed! Do you know how rare that is around here?” She slid down the wall a little, still eyeing the shimmering sewer elf with suspicion.

“But seriously. Whatever that was... that emotion-whispering brain-hug? Not a fan. Felt like being tucked in by a warm ghost" Anira pushed herself upright, straightened her doublet, and dusted off invisible dirt like it was pride. Her blue eyes tried to follow the egg, but lost it in the folds of the shirt.

"Well. Glad that’s over. Now, what in the screaming hells is that thing you nearly got turned into soup over?”

 

[Krava'quiloor]

Did I...did we...win?
Nod. The facial features remained relax, which gave the colorless face an unintended 'resting bitch' expression.

What did you do to them? Whisper a poem into their brains? Cast ‘go away, I’m emotionally complex’?
Slight narrowing of the eyes, an easy smile that turned thin lips into a line for a moment, slight shaking of the head.

Do you know how hard it is to get dried violence out of velvet?
Perhaps unexpectedly, but the smile persisted and a nod followed. It was dressed in... whatever that fabric was, it looked too monolith, like leather, but much thinner. Thin, grey, linen-like leather?
The 'sweat' on them seemed to dry, pink sheen off of any light sources reducing. It looked sickly without, pale.

I mean, no violence!
Nod.
No bloodshed!
Nod.
Do you know how rare that is around here?

A pat on the head. Scratching a cat behind the ear. There, there.
The not-elf looked at their dirty hands. Frowned. Looked further down, to the dirty clothes. The warm sensation abated, like a retracting limb. To keep whatever it felt to itself.

But seriously. Whatever that was... that emotion-whispering brain-hug? Not a fan. Felt like being tucked in by a warm ghost.
Another smile, slightly strained and certainly tugging on what few facial muscles there seemed to be only on one side. The not-elf pointed to its... her throat. Shrugged, glancing away and to the dirt that it fell to earlier. One hand still cradled the egg-stone, smaller than her fist, to the solar plexus, under the undone folds of the shirt.

Well. Glad that’s over. Now, what in the screaming hells is that thing you nearly got turned into soup over?
A slow, full-chested inhale. As if the whole 'brain hugging' was pointedly kept retracted. The voice was a straight up wheeze-whisper, and it was pretty clear why - she spoke on an inhale instead of exhale.
"That Thing. Is..."
She looked at Anira, then glanced upward, forehead covering in tiny wrinkle-ripples as she struggled for a word in an unknown language. Vibration rippled through the senses, emotion unfurling once again almost half-mindedly.

Pebble in the shoe. Dropped something onto the freshly laundered clothes. Mosquito insistently buzzing over the ear. Stumbling before a friend.
Discomfort. Embarrassment.
The sense retracted, like a loose-fitting shirt getting tucked back in, with impatience and a slight irkdom.

She was clearly trying her best to think of a response, blood still trickling in thick drops, now and then, from the broken nose, onto the thin lips, and onto the ground, or the grey shirt which seemed to absorb and stain just fine. Another point at the mouth, at the head, head shake.
"This place." Head shake. An attempt to communicate with limited words, words she clearly understood, but that were not enough to convey the whole. A slight touch of narrow palm to the chest. "I'm not around here."

An absent-minded touch to under the nose.
"I'm bleeding."

 

[Anira Verseheart]

It hit her only after. The warmth curling behind her ribs, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips for no damn reason, the pressure behind her eyes like she was about to cry over something she didn’t even understand. The images, not her own, not drawn from memory or dream, but pushed in like pages of someone else’s diary shoved under her eyes. A flicker of memory that wasn’t hers. A borrowed comfort. Thoughts shaped to be like hers but carved by someone else’s hand. Familiar, but all wrong for someone that had been raised by a man like Elias Veyne. He had raised her alone, no orchard-dwelling grandmother! Whose grandmother had that been?!

It didn’t hurt. That would’ve been easier.
No, it was quiet. Polite, almost. Like being folded into a conversation she hadn’t agreed to join, woven itself through the edges of her mind. Her chest fluttered. Her knees felt light.

Her eyes flicked to the father-egg-elder-stone, to the way the creature kept it tucked so close, it was either valuable, sacred or dangerous. Possibly all three, if the bard had to wager a guess. She didn't like how that thing looked. Didn’t like how it made her feel. She didn’t even know what she felt, and that was half the damn problem.

“Oh. Can’t talk,” she said, voice flat. Convenient.

"I'm bleeding."
Anira blinked, hands lifted, flicked her fingers vaguely toward the air, where that not-violence had just happened. “Yes. Yes, you are. Quite a lot, actually.”

She took a step back, eyes dropping to the blood and then sharply away, face scrunching. Velvet and blood were sworn enemies in her book, and besides, she’d never patched a wound or tended a sick person in her life. She once got a splinter and spent two days convinced it would travel to her heart. That was the extent of her medical training. Anira blinked once. Twice. Laughed, though it came out thin. "Right..."

“I... think we need a boneknitter.” she offered, voice a bit higher than usual. Preferably one with clean hands, steady nerves, and a very strong stomach. Which is to say, not Anira. "Pretty sure I spotted one of those bastards lounging by The Weasel. You, my friend, stay seated, stay calm, and .... don’t start another fight. I’ll go fetch him."

 

[Krava'quiloor]

Everyone was an ocean in a bottle. Some had smaller openings, some had less substance contained within. But everyone was an ocean, and things that dwelled. The undercurrents of subconscious, whales of established beliefs and known skills, quick gathering schools of silver-scaled fish - comprehension stirring from a multitude of smaller sources. The ever-changing ephemeral coral reefs of self-perception, each one for a different kind. And sharp-toothed, quick predators lurking in the seaweed and rising from the depths, too - protecting the ego from both bad things. Plenty good things, too. Like the crumbling of the cliff on which the coral reef hinged, because it has only ever been sand.

She could watch a single mind like a view out a window, glimpses and light on the waves.
There was no value without connection.
These minds were self-important. If they were shown a thought they could not claim as theirs, they felt apprehension. They'd do it with feelings, too, claiming someone's joy or sorrow as theirs in pale echoes of the same. But all the same - it had to be communicated their way. The imperfect way of words and facial expressions. So they could make it theirs at least somehow, feel good about the perceived wholeness. As if their schools of fish-thought did not dwell into already grown corals and depths, and the outline of all that was in the undercurrents and buried pains - was not from imperfections in the shape of their bottle brought about from outside pressures.
Like they could un-learn what another spoke out loud, so long as they'd heard it properly to process.
Like most of their art was not aimed at calling to emotion by some means of skillful portrayal.

She did not know the language, but she was not slow by any means. Meanings-into-words from stray thoughts and spoken phrases. Proper diplomacy was much more than learning the language, however. It was achieving an understanding. She would need someone higher-minded. Someone who delighted in acknowledging complexity, and found joy as effort of comprehension yielded fruit. Yes, those minds would be most...
...succulent... no. No.
...welcome and pleasant to the touch.

The not-elf who seemed to have fallen into thought staring at its bloodied hand seemed to stir at the mention of a boneknitter. Another to... no. She did not do things their way. Didn't matter she took away pain while she made the bones heal without seams and grow a bit, adjusted mass and stuck flesh back together. They liked forcing sticks on limbs and letting the body do the hard work.
But then, the boneknitter might have someone in their care that was about to die. That was in pain. That had knowledge she needed. She could weave around them, softly like a lullaby. Make their last dream a gentle one, without pain, or fear, or bitterness. A dream of heartwarmth, and the company of their kin, and that nothing that they've sacrificed was in vain, that their desperate attempt at making a better dream would live on...

Tears welled up in those huge, green eyes. Blink. Another. They remained wide open as the tears spilled over, and she wrapped the bony arms around herself, allowing a little bit of self-pity. She deserved it, just a little bit before she'd pull herself back together again. Everything's been a lot. She was hungry. The pod was in some unknown warehouse, which could only mean they've found the last home made. Probably taken a lot of 'shroudfiend stuff' that seemed valuable. Probably destroyed the intricate networks by picking 'cave flowers' from their receptacles.
Oh no. The walls, simple as they were, would probably protest...
...and they have probably burned them. And the flames ignited bright, quick, and orange-purple.
Horror. Kept close to the sinking feeling not just in the chest but entire body. She couldn't get any paler, at least.

A cautious, long inhale through the stuffy, slightly swollen nose.
A thin-lipped smile.
She swallowed, touched her throat again, and spoke. On an exhale, this time, partly repeating words in a correct cadence - partly mimicking Anira's phrases. The voice was soft, soothing in tone, and probably could be called feminine, slightly higher than the forceful first words from before to that effect.
"You fear I. Quite a lot, actually. You not need fetch. Thank every star above and below, you give words when bastards not give back my..." a pause. No word there. A quiet 'm', to note the phrase was over. "No blood on the doublet. You stay. I calm. Bleeding fine. No on..." A thoughtful gaze lingered on the clothes. "The bastards will go back here. You do not violence. What you do?"
Concern. Inquiry.
Bloodied hand rose to close the offending nostril. Might as well stop dripping precious material around.

 

[Anira Verseheart]

Everyone, apparently, was an ocean in a bottle. Some people got to be stormy seas with crushing emotional depths, full of mysterious shipwrecks of intellect, some people had deep, roiling tempests of trauma and meaning and symbolic whales or whatever. Anira? She had a neat little wave that glimmered when shaken and looked good on a shelf. Less depth, maybe. More sparkle. She wasn’t pretending otherwise.

She didn’t have reefs of ancient self-perception or subconscious leviathans lurking in her psyche, just a few sarcastic goldfish and a stubborn crab of self-preservation. Her ego wasn’t some cathedral built by the sands of childhood tragedy; it was a floating raft, hastily painted and held up by the sheer force of will and a good jawline. Her inner world wasn’t full of haunted coral or subconscious monsters dragging their truths from the deep ... no, thank you. She had some anxiety plankton, a few lonely barnacles, and at least one highly judgmental sea cucumber. Not glamorous, but it was hers.

This creature, with all its drippy space-mystic decided Anira’s bottle wasn’t seaworthy. Looked at her like she was all surface. Gloss without substance. Well. Maybe she was. So what? She had chosen glitter over gravitas. And sure, maybe she didn’t have grand philosophical cliffs crumbling beneath her psyche. Because here’s the difference between creature and the bard, Anira might be shallow, but at least she would've asked before diving into someone's ocean.

Anira stayed rooted, watching the creature like one might watch a very sad cryptid bleeding on the street. “Well, this is going to be one of those days, isn’t it? I’m not staying here to wait for those bastards to come back. But I’m not leaving you behind either. What do you want to do?” Her fingers flexed, hesitated and then she stepped closer. Just a little. Carefully.

“You’re hurt. I’m not a boneknitter, but I’ve got clean towels, and a door that locks. So..” she extended her hand, paused mid-air, winced just slightly. “Come with me."

 

[Krava'quiloor]

Some shallow water reefs were most colorful, with warm waters and dappled ornaments of green-gold sunlight. A lot of pretty fish lived there. No more, and no less.

"I'm a knitter, only need... eh... Want to go with you." a quick glance to where they went, still empty, but of things that didn't work like one'd expect them to - her ears were one, poor at picking noises from the samelike ambience.

"Towels and door good." A momentary pause, her form drifted closer - first the body moving, then the leg actually stepped forward to hold weight. A thin smile, narrow hand raised softly in refusal to take that offered hand. "Blood and dirt and sweat not good, make you hurt in heart, and somewhere under a bit. I know the hurt. No, no, no good, no hug, no dirt on doublet, you not worry." Longer phrases with borrowed words. Serene - smiles were fast-fading, conveyed and then dropped - the not-elf's face seemed relaxed. "Go. I will come with you."

The last half-glance over the shoulder as they left, and the hand that kept the busted nostril plugged drifted to the head, smearing the pink sweat and purple blood and likely colorless gooey snot into the white hair. A light groan.
"Is long go?"

She walked, sometimes stumbled on weak legs, knees barely not buckling under her, sometimes almost seemed to regain her strength and glide in a stride that had a weightless quality to it. She never did end up stumbling, no matter how hard she wobbled. All the same, the steps aligned with Anira's, as if a certain level of synchronicity came naturally. The not-elf could have been a dancer or a circus acrobat, maybe, if she were ever not so strange and angular.

"This will have thanks," came a resolute statement, after a bit of walking. "Speak to me. What do you do?"

 

[Anira Verseheart]

Anira gave a sideways glance like she was half-expecting to wake up any moment draped across a chaise longue with a hangover and a moral dilemma. But no. This was real. The not-quite-elf was still matching her step for step like some eerie little puppet on invisible strings.

Anira blinked, hand still hovering protectively over her lapel like it might shield the doublet from ghostly smudges. “Oh, sweet thing,” she said, almost laughing, “If I worried that much about the dirt, I wouldn’t have come to the City of Fools in the first place." She stepped in beside the not-elf, close enough to lend support without making a fuss of it , one arm brushing against the other’s without seizing. “...I’m Anira. I sing for coins."

A little flick of her hand toward the narrow staircase. “Room’s just up there." As they reached the door, she gave it a hip-bump to open. I know this building’s one good gust from falling over and I still pay rent. “In you go, darling. No dying. House rules.”

She watched the strange creature shuffle over the threshold. The bared closed the door behind them with a soft click, sighed again.

In the room there was a fireplace, and a small fire was burning there. There were bookshelves, filled with books, scrolls, quills, and other things. By the window she had been sitting by earlier, her lute was still leaning against the soft cushions in the nook. Anira reaches for the window and pulls it almost to shut, but leaves it some open, a small gap so they can listen to what's going on outside. Then she pulled the long curtains to cover the window.

"Please, sit." She gestures towards a canapé, placed not so far from the fireplace. On the walls hung several different instruments that she had collected. There was a white violin, she recently found on a auction. A bargain and one of her most favorite things. A few different drums, one seemed to be goblin-made. Several different flutes and a unstringed black harp. "Don't touch that, it's cursed." She warned the creature about the harp.

 

[Krava'quiloor]

Not-elf listened, eyelids with thin lashes falling half-closed. Not just to the Anira words, to all the words drifting around while they walked. Let them settle like sand underwater, all these new words. Still not enough, far from. She would need to...

They haven't acted like apes with an essential diet of coconuts for years, for decades, now.
The obelisk was not among possessions when she woke... must have been pilfered, and if not, perhaps it was worth returning to the last home. Remained to be seen by what means. She would need to procure material.

"Anira," she repeated.

Not a difficult task, but until these matters were well-settled - and there seemed a marked stela of a list - she was vulnerable. Not to mention, underdressed for the weather or any travel.

And the elder was sleeping through all of this. And Lock was sleeping through all of this. Unfair.
The egg sank under the ribs, flesh parting to accommodate and ribs reshaping, slowly, ardurously, but without much noise, like molded clay. Once they could hold the vessel, Krava let go of the fabric cover, re-tied the shirt properly over the torso that was, for an elf, or a human, possibly for devahni just as well, remarkably lacking in curve or feature, save for the somewhat prominent ribs. So hungry... she could go right back to sleep, just to not have to deal with a numb sensation in every fragment of the body. Hungry, hungry.

Mouth opened and there was a soft of soft hack without a smile to accompany, then mouth closed and there was a pause before a proper chuckle. Laughter seemed to be one of those things that needed to be re-learned.
"City of Fools. I from... place name... a-a...ah. Witsfolly." But as she said it, the air rippled slightly, sound of the voice shifting, almost doubling. 'Witsfort'.

Was she weaving to try and say two places at once? There seemed to be nuance lost, not just from the vocabulary lacking. Some... odd notion, like words were meant to house a whole description painting a picture, if not a piture itself - and failed.
Did she mean to make a joke?

A pang of hunger dissuaded from trying that again, all the same.

She looked at the narrow staircase, then glanced over her shoulder, and followed behind Anira's lead, trying to float-step onto as few contaminant-rich stairs as possible. And, once let inside, there was even something like a polite bow of the head before proceeding - in more convincing, grounded steps.

She almost did not enter as she saw the fireplace. The nose, eyes, lips twitched in some sort of an expression, more like a ripple. No feeling came to accompany or explain, but the eyes were slightly wider as the not-elf gave the fireplace a large berth, in no hurry to sit down, as if the fireplace could move and bite her with embered kindling. She would not blink for many beats longer as she moved inward, attention fixated on that fire.

"No worrying, I do not dying, I live. No of the going- walking dying. Those are bastards. Do not like." Some poise, an awkward imitation of a cleared throat in two short wet clicking exhales. For a moment, the creature with two hands folded in front would look almost dainty. "Good meeting. I am..."
Her hands, both empty, spread in front of her torso, long fingers fanning out. Like she was letting birds fly free from a cage, or following the tracks of some imagined fireworks erupting from her mid-section.

Six lines raised, partially interrupted, varied an elevation, the feeling of running tips of - fingers? - to read them.
Bright (Clever)
Dream (Free thought with levity and hope)
At dawn (At the beginning. At the inception)
Mouth struggled to wrap the meaning into just word-sound, the shroudsong would not carry it the same. A ripple in the air, an odd glint from reflective surfaces immediately next.
"Krava'quiloor if good with mouth speak. Or, Krava. Or, Kay if not clever."
Because why let herself be called bright in the mind when she occasionally wasn't?
"This whole name only with... brain-hug. 'Oh no, sorry'. I speak, knit, -grow? Grow bones, grow... roots?.. Grow speak between- ...ah... Very..."

Another silent struggle for a sound combination that wasn't there yet. Frustration mounted on the blank face with a shiver-tremble to the exhale, and a loud sharp inhale, all with mouth closed, through the nose. Then, the mouth opened, and let frustration out, an inhaled creak of a noise like an old, swollen wood door, head rolling back in utter defeat.

A diplomat without a means of communication. Infuriating. Probably hilarious.
Agony.

For something so alien in combination, this felt like an oddly... formal way of introduction. Complete with 'this is how you spell it' in a language and script completely unfamiliar, offered wrapped like one of those Sonshan gift-givings, with elegant folds, before it was awkwardly put into mouth noises in an attempt to somehow limit it to sound.

"No touching," came the muted agreement. She seemed more curious in the instruments than sitting, and shifted closer, not touching any, but weaving head side to side, swaying, a little like an owl, as if she was doing her best to perceive the means of musicmaking in all three dimensions. "Please towel and... the...." An awkward motion, like pouring something on her head. "And an... ah..." Hands cupped together, like a bowl. "A bad one. Please?"

Familiar voices barked something around the bend of the street. Familiar cadence... resonance. The bastards, perhaps, looking at the footprints in the mud.
'Don't you worry, grain for brains, the design is very elven.'

 

[Anira Verseheart]

Anira's gaze flickered uneasily as the six shimmering lines rippled faintly in the air, their ethereal dance brushing the edges of her mind. Each pulse carried a weight the bard couldn’t fully grasp, subtle but insistent. Bright. Dream. At dawn. Words wrapped in colors and whispers, impossible to fully speak aloud, slipping between the fragile cracks of the human's thoughts with ease. There was no shield here, no clever ward to stop the slip into her private tides. It would be so easy to reach in and rifle through the mind's pockets, pulling out the things the human never even would realize she’d lost.

The bard swallowed, a thin line of unease curling beneath her usual playful veneer. When the creature offered its tangled names, Krava’quiloor, Krava, Kay. The awkward attempts to explain, to ‘knit’ and ‘grow’ the meaning out of silence and fragmented sounds, only sharpened the dissonance between them. Anira felt the creature’s frustration, but also her vulnerability. The minstrel blinked once, then let out a small, amused sigh. The introduction had been a fumbling symphony of fractured words and hesitant shapes.

"Karva?" Krava'quiloor was to complex name for the bard to even try to pronounce. If she pronounced that wrong, there was a risk that she would invoke some ancient entity instead.

It could speak with its mouth, yes, but that other way... the images in the bard's head. It spoke in a language beyond words, painting pictures too vast and complex for mortal tongues to capture. How could a single, brittle word like love ever hope to contain the tangled depths of what love truly was? The creature knew this.

They hadn’t acted like apes in decades, or so the creature had told itself. Civilized, dignified, refined. Yet here it was lowering itself to something primal. Why struggle with the tedious, inefficient exchange of sounds when the mind itself could be reached directly? Why waste breath and effort when the flicker of a thought, the surge of a feeling, could be delivered without misunderstanding or distortion? This effortless invasion, this quiet dominance. To slip behind the mortal eyes, to fold her emotions into its own, with a smoothness that no physical speech or touch ever could match. Why speak when you could be heard? Why explain when you could simply implant?

Anira’s eyes softened as the not-elf hesitated, cupping her hands as if holding an invisible vessel. The simple, silent plea for a bowl. Without a word, she stepped over to a small wooden shelf nestled near the hearth, where a ceramic bowl waited among an assortment of modest kitchenware. She grabbed a linen towel and carried it over to Karva. Setting the things down before the not-elf, she gestured toward them. Grains for brains? What was that even?

“Here. Do you need water?”

 

[Krava'quiloor]

"Krava." a sharper breath denominating a chuckle. Humour or brief indignance, it didn't show on the face below the eyes and triangular cheekbones. Those twitched a little, like a quick smile.

As if fixing a shirt having open a couple buttons more than intended, Krava seemed to recede, in a way - as if trying to tuck in and hide the field of thought and peripheral concepts, the mental mass that was part of her, trying to spread wide and resonate with anything alive. Tuck it away, and tuck it away some more. It was a point of discomfort, after all.

But that field was tense, so hard to keep pressurized in a body that small. The body that did not fit the size of power it contained, that ached and hungered and begged to grow, if not to full size then to full potential at least.
This body would not survive the simple full shift as it was now. Only the grotesquery of urgent means, and only if nourishment followed.

She had a fading comprehension. In some part of the mind immediately exposed to hers, Anira had the capability to understand. No need to strain that understanding, of course. But if someone was getting used to floating in saltwater, when it was made calm and pliant and the currents carried them safely - perhaps, they weren't entirely helpless as a swimmer?
Curiosity stirred.
What if...
No, no. Reckless consideration. And yet...

Do you need water?
A nod. She pulled the bowl away - not in here.

She reached up to the nose, touched to the blood, and the beads traced after the fingers, weightless, like a string of black-purple beads. Lingered in the air, slightly to the right while the not-elf traced around the earlier smudge in the hair. Blood un-congealed, lifted off her fingers, joined the string that merged into a small singular orb.
She could not reabsorb it, but it wasn't spent. Nothing too complex, though.

Fingertip poked the orb of purple blood, and it shimmered in a network of tiny, green glowing channels circuiting through it. The fingers pressed together, hand lowered a flowing sway, tips seemingly attached to the blood's surface. The orb unfurled into a sheet, then split into a dozen black, glistening wires that coiled and coiled, until they were - strings. The resonance sang to her somewhere between dead stretched gut and living spidersilk.

Hunger churned. The nose was fixed, the bruise gone, and...
The bastards were just by the establishment. They've caught someone sitting in the shade to ask some questions, looked like.
There was an impulse, brief and natural, to unravel the tendrils of her mind and direct the tide of thought their way, sway to not look up. But she wouldn't. Waste of precious thought.

Instead, the not elf's palm turned up, lifted the way it descended, merged the whole bit of material back into amorphous black mass, and wrapped around the re-formed orb. Fingers splayed, tweaking invisible curves, sculpting ridges. It only took a beat before the color changed to hues of blue star flowers and green of plant matter. Buds grew from green, color bled to them, and they popped with a soft noise into complete creation. All shared a single stem, however, still inky-purple, shiny-smooth and hard as a cut quill.

The strange bouquet was then put gently on the side of the wash board. The not-elf seemed conscious of being dirty, and even stood on tip-toes, as if contaminating the area was somehow offending to her senses.
"Eh... don't... look, maybe." It wasn't an embarrassed plea. It was a warning. "Not good for looking."

Not enough water to wash it off first, so she'd have to resort to the other method. It always left the skin viciously tender.
So, Krava pulled the towel onto the floor, spread it and stepped on it as she shrugged out of the shirt, then lowered down the pants. This matter was spent. Too tired to renew. Only washing with hands or disposing.
So, the grey garments landed beside the towel, marked as almost no further use.

Krava's body was as frail as it presented, skin tight against the ribcage and every muscle, smooth and colorless, with a light pink-purple sheen. The vertebrae prominent like an alien rosary.
Along the ribcage, up the middle of the abdomen, and on the sides of the lower back - ran the narrow, almost-black, almost-metallic stripes. If not for the slightest change in texture, they would have looked like tattoos, ink with a green sheen.
Right in the solar plexus, nested in the shaped ribcage as seemingly securely as a core part of a golem - the strange egg.

The body of the not-elf also did not have many features one would expect. No body hair. No nipples. No extra to the areas one would expect on a born female. No bits where one would see them on a male. The shoulders were broad, but not too broad, the hips narrow, and most joints and ligaments visible without much muscle mass nor fat to cover for it. She stood straight, not a hint of an awkward slouch.
"Do not look," the not-elf reiterated, just in case, not distracting to check if the recommendation was followed.

With a soft shuffling, akin to turning of a manuscript page but continuous, Krava began to shuffle out of the dirty upper layer of skin, growing a new one as she went, slowly and meticulously. The shed layer stuck to the fingertips, turning purple-black at the edges that touched, gathering into a small, compact orb in either hand as the not-elf moved her head to free the neck, the shoulders, arms, shifted from one foot to the other. The matter passed over the towels, dutifully dispatching - dirt, dust and everything that did not belong. And then, rested atop the dirt in two neat dusty piles. No mess. Easy to collect.

"Bastards close. Hope they not find." the not-elf mentioned casually. One hand ruffled and combed through her own hair, to make sure all of the dirt was gone.
She didn't seem to care for the brutes finding her naked, so long as the insulting contamination was gone.

"Clean."
The not-elf stepped off the towel and bent over to fold the edges over the discarded material. It could be dusted and laundered with no issue, now, and she would only have her feet dirty from the floor. Great Thinker preserve.

Only once she was certain the dirt wouldn't spread from the towel at a sudden draft, and straightened up, did she look towards the door, whether the thing had been kicked open yet or persevered.