Kin Filled Gardens

Log Info

• Title: Kin Filled Gardens
• Emitter: Cuemoni
• Characters: Cuemoni, Geir, Tlanexhuani, Skielstregar
• Place: Memorial District
• Time: March 10th, 2023
• Summary: Four sith-makar in the softskin city! Oh my! They're gathered around the Memorial District, Cuemoni taking in the nice day, as is Geir, Tlanexhuani, and Skielstregar. Though their meeting was chance, those that were not introduced to one another soon become acquainted. Cuemoni is new to Alexandria, and she relays her plight and reason for pilgramage though a story of her tribe. This unsettles Tlanexhuani, then Geir as they make their exit. The remaining to speak of kin that can help, as well as Mictlan.

Memorial District, high noon.

It's spring, and that cannot be denied even by the most winter-hardened of pessimists, as the sky is a dazzling blue filled with white, fluffy clouds. The wind is slight and mild for a warm day, and while the Memorial Gardens are always lush, vibrant, and warm, this is a day where they particularly shine.

A turquoise-scaled sith-makar is basking in the sun, meditating as she sits in the gardens with vegetation surrounding her. The red symbols and lines painted on her form, particularly around her eyes, almost contribute to her still and statuesque form--if one is able to believe that a painted statue of a sith-makar would be here in the Gardens, that is. All is still, peaceful, and calm--

And then a bird lands on her head.

Golden eyes rocket open, and she launches up her claws to catch the feathered creature, but it flies away with a startled call. The sith rumbles with displeasure. "This one was looking forward to a meditation snack," she says.

The copper-scale wanders the Gardens, eyeing the abundant green and colourful background with awe. "Thiss is Mictlan-scale magicss, certainly. This one should have walked through here sooner." Geir stoops to sniff at a grouping of colourful tulips, pressing his nose against the buds, his tail curling back and forth behind him. "Hmmmph."

The sudden eruption of a bird in flight causes him to stand, his eyes following its flight. A voice speaking of a snack is heard, and he pushes through the brush towards it. "Peace on your nesst?", the copper-scale intones, unsure of whom or what he may find. A flash of turquoise and red draws his eye. "Oh."

Further down the garden path, upon a bench, sits another bluescale. Darker, likely older. The post-bird silence is broken by two sounds from him: a mild stuttering hiss of mirth and the *tink*ing of small hammer upon copper strap upon a large hammer that rests on the bench beside as an impromptu anvil.

Among those lamenting the passing of winter is that of a large, silver scaled makari. He's in nothing more than a tunic and pants, though a halberd peeks over his shoulder as he ambles on by through the gardens.

But sudden movement across the way gets his attention. "Mrrh?" Geir? And... who's that?

Intrguided, he ambles over lazily, sun making his exposed silver scales sparkle. "Ssshaman Geir," he rumbles in greeting. "Bluescale, peasse on your nessst."

The turquoise-scale sith-makar regards both the silver-scale and blue-scale who approach her with golden eyes, made all the more striking by the painted lines of red along her eyes, that seem to inspect all who approach her. But when Geir is addressed as a shaman, she bows her head in reverence for his station. "Peace upon all nests," she replies.

She rises up from her sitting position and tail-thumps the ground in greeting. "This one was enjoying the sunlight and calm for meditation, and invites all to share in it. This one is new to the softskin city, and introduces this oneself as Cuemoni, Shaman of the Xiuhcoatl tribe."

Geir is aware of a hissing laugh, the 'chink' sound of copper being worked, and the silver-scale behind him. But he stands unmoving until the turquoise one speaks, and then he blinks, giving his head a shake. "Peace on all nessts.", he says, and welcome to Alexandria." The copper-scale returns the bow of the head in kind to Cuemoni.

"Sshaman Cuemoni. This one is Geir, the silvery-one is Skielstregar.." Geir looks to Skiel a moment, considering. "Warrior Skielstregar, though this one is of the opinion he might also be considered shaman, should he wish." Tlan is regarded then. "This one has not met Bluescale, peace on your nest."

Tlanexhuani lifts his head from his work, tail swaying. "Sssa! Peace on your nests. Warrior Skielstregar, Shaman Cuemoni. This one is Tlanexhuani, Crafter. Iss good to feel ssun on scales!"

<OOC> Ulthan says, "Hello"

The silverscale looks about to all those present, him standing up straighter as he's suddenly finding himself amongst quiet a number of kin. In... the softskin city?

He finds himself staring at the bluescale and their markings. Another shaman? He's never heard of such a tribe, but the markings was something he remembers doing in a long dredged memory.

The man blinks. And he shakes his head, realizing he was staring for too long. He's being addressed! "Thiss one thanksss you for thinking ssso, Sshaman Geir, but thiss one is jusst Warrior." As for the invitation, he hesitates, but something pushes against his back and he's ambling a space to sit a bit away.

Finally noting the hissing, he looks over and perks. "Ah. Crafter Tlanexhauni. Hello. Peasse on your nesst. Thiss one iss glad you are enjoying yourself!" Especially so considering... recent news.

Ulthan nods a slightly wary greeting to the people in the gardens as he walks hurriedly past, a hand on the satchel slung over his shoulder.

Ulthan has left.

Cuemoni's golden eyes flicker over all the announced makari. She gives a sort of pleased-sounding rumble. "Shaman, Warrior, Crafter. It is good for this one to meet so many of kin-not-of-tribe in this place. Softskin city not so soft after all."

She tilts her head curiously with Skielstregar's last remark. "Has recent turn of the cycle caused for the Crafter to not enjoy himself?" she asks. "This one may be of help in appeasing upset spirits if needed."

Geir nods to Tlanexhuani, "Crafter Tlanexhuani. Welcome." The object Tlan is working on is eyed curiously for a few moments, before the copper-scale looks to Cuemoni. "This city is not so ssoft, yes, the Makari have come. Though... this one has seen softskins that are not sso soft either. They can impresss. Insspire." A look of pain is seen in his eyes momentarily, and he looks to Skielstregar, leaving the question of current events to the one asked.

The copper ribbon is partly coiled from the measured tapping upon it, though this has stopped for the moment. The small peening hammer is put back to the bluescale's belt before he slowly rises, with shuffling of leather and creaking of knees... or possibly creaking of leather and shuffling of knees.

His tail stills briefly at the suddenly focused attention, then resumes its slow sway. "Ssa. This one is well. Many of The People here! This one find more in softskin lands than path in am'shere." Another bemused hissing.

Skielstregar rumbles warmly. "Sssa, they can, the softskinsss are certainly not soft." He pulls his polearm free, letting it rest in his lap and soak in the light. "Yess, Crafter speaks well. It is good to see so many of kin here in the city."

He looks to the new bluescale. "And what bringsss the Ssshaman here? You look asss if you jussst left home, symbolsss and all."

Cuemoni's golden eyes nictate at the question asked of her. "This one arrived here only two days ago," she states. "These lands, the softskin peoples, their customs, are all unknown to this one. This one is ignorant and will admit to such."

She gives sort of a displeased grumble. "This one was foretold by the Elder of this one's tribe to leave and go to faraway lands. But this one had no reason to go... until this one's tribe began to lose all hatchlings. This one's tribe is blessed by a spirit spanning back generations, but the spirit appears to have abandoned the tribe. This one seeks aid and knowledge--even if it is too late to save this one's tribe."

Geir's expression grows troubled with the news that Cuemoni brings. "This one is willing to assisst in navigating softsskin customs, and certainly, we three can answer what quesstions you may have. The answers may not be as helpful as hoped, but they sshould a good start.

The copper-scale inhales and exhales heavily. "You sseek help with the spirit. You have thiss one's sspear, and what powerss this one can musster."

The sounds and scents of humor from Tlanexhuani abruptly disspiate at Cuemoni's tale of hatchlings and tribe. "This one..." he attempts to offer with come concern, before his tongue curls about in search of words it cannot find. "... This one ... should go..." He turns, and moves down the path, hints of worry and sadness left in his wake.

Skiel's scaled brows shoot up at the mention of such a fate. "... oh. That isss... thisss one isss sorry that happened to you and your tribe. Erm, but like Geir, thisss one can help with sssuch cusstomss asss well."

The scent of worry catches his attention, and Skiel looks off to spy Tlanexhuani slipping away. He looks on a touch in worry, him rubbing his neck before filing that away for later. "... thisss one hopesss he isss well."

Cuemoni eyes Tlanexhuani as he departs hurriedly. She makes a displeased rumble in her throat. "This one is sorry to deliver such news," she says, "and did not mean to upset or displease. But it is the fate that has befallen this one's tribe. For the moment, I must learn more about the lands and the people. The mission is a great river that this one cannot yet swim in, or this one will drown."

She gives Geir and Skielstregar a more satisfied thump of the tail on the ground. "This one is thankful for your offers of aid. This one met the Shaman Zeke yesterday and was aided by him, too. This one was... stuck in softskin chair, and the Shaman Zeke pulled out of chair. This one is grateful, and will likely make more mistakes like to trust the softskin chair in the future that may need aid."

Geir also watches as Tlan leaves in some distress. "That one smells familiar ssomehow, as if this one should know him." He nods to Skiel, and looks to Cuemoni. "It is not your fault. We all feel the loss of younglings, be they our kin or not. A river, you ssay? We can help, yess, get you across this river if need be."

The name she speaks causes Geir to flinch. "Zeke? You have sseen him?"

Skielstregar shakes his head. "There isss some woes asss of late. Mictlan sssuffered an earthquake." He glances to Geir. "Thisss one knowss them."

He can't help but chuckle, a rumbling roil in his chest at the mental image. "That sssounds like Ssshaman Zeke to help kin, even if one's tail is stuck in chair. Chairs here... not good for usss!" he grins. "But yesss, if you need help, you need only ask, the People are ssstill strong, even out here."

Cuemoni's golden eyes turn to Geir. "Yes, this one has seen the Shaman Zeke," she replies. "But this one will explain the river. The river is what a softskin might call a story, or a lie. It is not real. It is a saying to embellish the language."

But she makes a reverent rumble in her throat. "However, the river... is also not a story, and the language is important. Xiuhcoatl is the name of the spirit that blessed this one's tribe, therefore the tribe is the Xiuhcoatl tribe. It is said the spirit dwells in water, but breathes fire, and so is a spirit of both water and fire. Every sacred cycle in our tribe is fifty-two years, and every sacred cycle, a hatchling is born with turquoise scales like Xiuhcoatl's to indicate his blessing is still with the tribe. This one's tribe dwells by many rivers, and even the Elder who is sick and dying is not sure of where Xiuhcoatl lives in the waters. Therefore, all water is sacred. Therefore, all fire is sacred."

The Shaman's golden eyes nictate with her pause. "This one is the last turquoise-scale hatched to live past the first year. A turquoise-scale was born one cycle ago, but he did not survive his first year. And this year, at the end of the cycle--no turquoise-scales were hatched. This is the omen that sends this one to faraway lands."

Geir is silent for some time, staring at Cuemoni. He tries to speak, and his voice is merely a crackle. Clearing his throat, he looks down. "Sso you are the last of your kind who might solve this dilemma? Thiss one will assisst. Go where needed, help you find Xiuhcoatl. But... why were you sent out here? Is thiss land where you might find Xiuhcoatl?"

He glances at Skiel, "You know the crafter, or Zeke?"

Skielstregar shakes his head. "Even liesss have truth." The large silverscale settles in, arms idly wrapping around his polearm as he listens. His eyes drift to the gardens. "Water dwelling, fire spitting..." he echoes, intruiged by the paradox and reverent of it. But his eyes are drawn back by the news. "... that isss... remorse to hear sssuch a thing. But you are brave to strike out to see what caussed thisss omen."

The question from Geir is given a chuff, and a nod. "Sssa. Both."

Geir blinks and cants his head slightly at Skielstregar. "Are they.. kin? That might ex.. plain.." The copper-scale trembles slightly. "This one must go." He turns to face Cuemoni, "Pleasse, thiss one can be found at the Vardama monestary above the temple district, up the mountain. You may also find this one at the Ssoldier's Defense, or even Mictlan. This one musst go."

With that said, Geir turns and runs off in the direction which Tlanexhuani left.

"The Elder, who taught this one how to call on flame and other spirits, foresaw this one leaving to faraway lands when this one was young," Cuemoni replies in answer to Geir. "When there were no turquoise hatchlings in the last hatching, she fell ill, and sent for this one. She believes this one will find what is needed here, far away--even if it does not turn out to be what is needed to save the tribe. There is memory, too, in one who walks of Xiuhcoatl's scales and talks of Xiuhcoatl's blessing--that is how the tribe may live on. Through this one's path. Through this one's memory."

She dips her head in reverence as Geir leaves. "This one wishes you peace upon your nest, Shaman. This one may seek you out at the Death-singing Dragon's temple."

Cuemoni turns her golden eyes to Skielstregar. "Ay. This one does not see it as bravery. This one sees it as duty to tribe and duty to the People. The omen is dark, but this one works with flame, which is bright, and this one will bring the flame to light the way." A tail-thump on the ground, as though to add the weight of conviction to her words.

Skielstregar continues to pay attention, his features and scent (as he was a little bit aways) wafts with worry. "Yes. It is through the memory how tribesss and kin live on. This one you hopes you can know what happened of the Xiuhcoatl. Or, perhaps, at least answeresss as to what can happen next."

He blinks as Geir suddenly leaves. "... peace on your nessst. Deathsssinger. Everything... and he isss gone..."

He shakes his head, and turns back to the female. "Thisss one dissagreess, in a way. Doing one'sss duty isss bravery. Be it merely cooking for kin, guarding the tribe, or keeping lore," he rumbles, his tail thudding against the ground in turn. "Thisss one admiresss your conviction and fire."

Cuemoni tail-thumps again. There is that conviction that has been praised. "This one can understand your argument. If one does not do their duty because they do not want to do it, then this one thinks it is cowardice and an insult to the tribe and the People. If one does not do their duty because they cannot--then that is understandable, and one must seek out a healer so they can heal. The hurt in body and in mind cannot do what the healthy can."

The fire shaman looks at Skielstregar. "This one wishes to know. How many of the People are in this city? Are there others that I can call for aid and alliance?"

Skielstregar has a warbling 'eeehhh' in his throat. "Ssa. Thisss one mossstly agrees. But if their duty cannot be one, perhapsss it is the wrong duty. But to shirk if it taken up, then yesss, thisss one agreesss, it isss cowardice."

His tail sweeps large swaths behind him, him having looked off to the gardens before finding a golden gaze resting on him. He perks. "Ah. In thisss city? Not many. All you sssaw her today isss mossst of them, save for one or two. However, if you wisssh for more of the People-"

He points down the northward path, out towards the city gates and beyond. "-Mictlan. Take the road, into the woodsss. Find softskin settlement there. Another path will take you to the sanctified groundsss of kin. You will find more kin in thosssse woodsss and in Mictlan. There isss also grove for earth ssshamansss there in the woodsss, but you may need a guide to get here."

The nostrils flare on Cuemoni, and she gives a pleased rumble. "Mictlan," she says. "This one is happy to hear of such a place where the People gather so far away. But this one will endeavor to not venture too often there. If one is far away from home, one should learn about other peoples and other cultures. This one will not hide forever with others of the People in Mictlan."

Then her golden eyes turn to the ground as she murmurs, "Although this one is surprised with the People that has been met. And curious, too, about them."

Skielstregar rumbles back happily seeing as such information has pleased such a respectable member of the People. "That isss why thisss one isss in the city oft, and offersss to essscort people to and fro Mictlan. They enjoy the People, but sssoftskin culture issss facinating, no?"

At that, Skiel can't help but lean in, curiosity piqued. A wafting scent of wonder, with an undercurrent of... no, dread is a weird scent to be mixed in. "Mrrh? How ssso? Many of the People are quite varied, even here. Many are intereesssting. What hasss you curiousss?"

Cuemoni seems... unsure, by scent and by body language, as her tail twitches. But she divulges anyway. "This one... met one of the People. He seems gentle, possesses handsome features, and is compassionate. But he says he has had no hatchlings. This one is not looking for a mate, but this one is... curious as to why one such as him would be passed over."

The Shaman stews over her words for a moment. "This one should not pry into other people's affairs. But this one believes he has darkness. This one does not like to see one fighting with darkness on their own. Would it be bad for this one to offer friendship and aid?"

Skielstregar rubs his maw, fangs grating against the back of his hand. "Hrmmm... you mentioned you met Shaman Zeke. That sssounds like Shaman Zeke. Sssa, that doesss sound very like him. He has many wordsss to ssshare. And yesss, he isss handsome."

Pause.

"... respectfully, of course," he mumbles, face frosting a tinge. "No, it would not be bad for you to offer friendship. Thisss one thinksss he needs many friendsss."

Cuemoni tail-thumps, a haughty huff leaving her snout. "This one will not confirm if this one is speaking about Shaman Zeke." Twitchy-tail, twitchy-tail, golden eyes and nostrils flared.

...

And then she huffs again. "... There is no wisdom in concealing it. This one is speaking about Shaman Zeke. This one is just... worried, somehow, about offering such friendship. This one does not fully understand why. Perhaps it is because this one is unsure if Shaman Zeke will look at this one as a friend or as a hatchling to be taught. This one has much to learn, but this one will not be treated as a child."

Skielstregar can't help but let out a let rip a loud, boisterous laugh at Cuemoni's tepid attempt at concealment. "Bwahahaha! Ahh-" he wipes off a frozen tear from his eye. "Goodnesss, they apologize for laughing, but that isss too funny. Your worriesss are well founded."

He turns to face her, and points to the horns on his head. "Thisss one may have hornsss, but they are not that old. Barely thirty one seasssonsss," he mentions. It is strange, horns tend to not come in until much, much later. Regardless "- and yet, thisss one wasss treated asss an equal when confiding with the Ssshaman. They never felt like they were treated asss a hatchling."

There's relief in both Cuemoni's scent and body language, as well as amusement in her facial features. Apparently, she doesn't much mind jokes and laughter at her own expense. "This one is grateful," she says, "for your condolences. Perhaps, because of this one's tribe and the pressure the tribe has put on this one before to take a mate for a nest, this one considers those who have made no hatchlings despite their age to be unusual. This one hopes that the idea of Shaman Zeke dealing with darkness is wrong."

She turns her golden eyes up to the sky. And she gives a sniff to the air. Her tail wags. "This one hungers," she admits. "For the scent from over there. This one will leave to acquire the source of the scent. Peace upon your nest, Warrior."

Skielstregar rumbles warmly. "You are quite welcome. But thisss one can understand sssuch presssuress. Know that ssuch here will give you no presssure to nessst if you do not wisssh it."

He looks wistful. His dead silver gaze unfocused on Cuemoni. "... isssn't everyone dealing with darknesss in their own way?" he intones, scent and expression a remorseful acceptance.

The warrior looks skyward. "Sssa. Peace on your nessst as well, Ssshaman Cuemoni. Dragonfather'sss light warm you. If you have need to get to Mictlan, jusst find thisss one. They will offer guide."

-End Scene-