Paint Ponderings

The mid-day sun blazed unfiltered and mostly unshaded here, especially near the Tornmawr. A bit south of the ferry docks, a single oruch is seated on the west bank just out of the water with a few small wooden bowls beside her. She is far enough from the road and ferries to not be a hinderance nor trampled, but near enough that random predators are not likely to approach.

No predators. Surely.

However, in the blazing sun, something sparkles from upstream. As it grows closer, the shininess is silver scales on an massive body of some kind of creature. Recently there were alligators in the river.

It gets closer. Oh. Wait, no, that's a sith-makar. A very muscular, very large sith-makar. And their head bonks against one of the banks close to Bryn. "Ow," they rumble, animating from being a floating log as they reach up, sinking talons into earth as they pull themselves out, armored in a breastplate and plateskirt, as well as with a cracked halberd in hand and a bag on their back.

Bryn dips a finger into one of the bowls, which are revealed to hold pigments in a variety of bold colors: red, black, yellow, and blue. She looks to her now-red fingertip and considers... though her pondering is broken by the shining to her left. The floating scales are eyed warily until they emerge... and then a bit more warily for a few moments after.

Her own attire is not so armored, though it is aesthetically similar; a leather skirt without plating and a leather breast...band rather than a full cuirass. Bushy brows lift upward at the word. "Ow? You run into some alligators?"

The makari rubs their head. "Mmmrr? No, thisss one hit their head on rock. Okay though-" They blink then look over at the oruch woman, surprised at their presence. "Oh! Thisss one apologizessesss, they did not mean to interrupt whatever it issss you are doing." They tilt their head to the side. "Alligatorsss?" A very long think. "... oh! Swamplizzzardsss. Sssa-er-no, thisss one did not run into the swaplizzzardsss."

The silverscale rises. And rises. And rises. All the way to his full height. And streeetches. Maw opening to show off jagged teeth and fangs. "Ah! That wasss a good nap!" He blinks. "... oh. Thisss one did not realize they dozed all the way to here. Oopssss."

Bryn watches the makari rise up, though now looks much less wary. In fact, the comments provoke a hearty, if brief, laugh. "Slept and floated all the way here?! Could've seen swamplizards 'n not known. Don' look like they chewed on ye, though!"

As for the apology, her chortle trails into a snort, sigh, then shake of her head. "Not interruptin. Just thinkin of warpaintin." She looks to the bowls and her fingertips. "Thinkin of the tribe."

"Sssa! Thisss one likesss to sleep in river when the day isss hot. Thisss one prefersss the cold," the silverscale explains, wiping off his arms with his hands. Little shards of ice have started to form and shaved off to the ground. He grins- a tooth filled, fanged thing as dead silver eyes look down to the sitting Oruch. "Thisss one thinksss thisss one would have not woken up if they chewed on thissss one. Maybe ssswamp lizzard have problem, thiss one may end up chewing on them!"

They look down at the pigments. The shiny makari chuffs, a cloud of visibly cold air trailing out their nostrils. "Ahh. Thisss one undersstandsss much. War paint very important, dependsss on tribe. Thisss one donsss paint for righteoussss battlesss when they need the Dragonfather'sss blesssing."

They stare a moment overlong. His large tail twacks the earth. "Thissss one isss Ssskielssstregar, Warrior-Cassste and the Dragonfather'sss blade." They thump their chest twice, making the armor rattle and dislodge more ice.

Bryn hadn't noticed the ice until it is conspicuously falling to the ground, which makes her blink. Now she's much more aware of the chilling mist from the exhales. "Huh. Yeah, you look like you like the cold..." Which seems like it's also damn handy in the heat, too?

She then rises up onto her feet, not quite coming eye-to-eye with him. Her arms is extended out to him rather than thumping any chests. "Brynhildragar of the Broken Tusks. Yeah, it's important. Just trying to work it out. Not been painted afore. Tryin' to remember the marks. Rest of the tribe ain't here."

Skielstregar rumbles. Is that a chuckle? It's hard to tell with makari. "Mmm. Sssa, thisss one does not like the heat at all..." They watch Bryn rise and extend their arms. Some old icecube in that skull of his flashes with recognition, and they reach forward to clasp forearms with a /solid/ clap. Their own inner forearms are littered with old scars. And their arm is /cold/. "Peassse on your nessst, Brynhildragar of the Broken Tuskss. Much fortune and findsss for your tribe," Skiel rumbles warmly.

Skiel glances down at the paints. "The tribe do not make the marksss. The marksss make the tribe. Do what feelsss right."

A firm handclasp Bryn respects. Scars, also respected, though her own flesh is rather unblemished aside from the eye. After the physical, the words register and thick brows lift some. before a glance to the paints. "Huh. Didn' think o' that. Maybe I-" Her words cut off at another realization.

"Ooh!" Scales may be a new sensation to her. She doesn't immediately release the clasp, though her grip loosens to feel the texture. On the other hand (well, actually in the same one), -chilled- scales are definitely a new thing. Bryn takes a big step closer right up to the mobile heatsink, guiding the forearm to her stomach. "Well, -that- feels right, right now," she grins tuskily.

It's nothing prurient, exactly; she's just using him for his body temperature.

Skiel blinks a bit dumbly before belting out a loud guffaw as his arm is used as an ice cube. Makari are more physical, and it doesn't phase him at all. "Every sssoftssskin doesss thisss," he mentions, snickering. "Many friendsss climb on thisss one when the sssun is scorching. Usually sssmall folk on legsss."

He gestures to where Bryn was sitting. "Sssit, take tail, much easier," he offers, reaching behind him to fuss with some straps on his tail. A moment later, a sheathe of plates clatter to the ground, revealing a large, shiny scaled tail. "Thissss one needsss armsss."

Bryn echoes the laugh and releases him so he can have his needed arm back. She's not surprised to hear she's not the first. "Used to leanin in close to keep warm when it's cold; first time tryin it th'other way 'round." She plops her backside back down where it was before to watch him shed plates from scales. "That's alot of layers. You must see lots of action, eh?" No wonder gators wouldn't bother him sleeping... though now she thinks and that found him might've been more keen to snuggle to cool off than pick a fight. Still attentive to him as his words, she eyes the paintbowls again.

Skielstregar rumbles. "Thisss one very much doess the same. Many huddlesss to keep warm." He grins down at her, the large tail swaying before and forth before letting the tree-trunk frigid limb flop into Bryn's lap. There. Cooling tail. "Sssa, thisss one issss Warrior-Casste. Protect kin and tribe. Asss well asss anything that may threaten thessse landsss." From how hulking his stature is, the scars, the beastial head used as a pauldron, and the overall nature of him, he must get into a lot of actions. "That isss, if sssuch thingsss decide to interrupt their lumber harvessstingssss." Oh. A lumberjack.

He plops down next to her with a thud. "Ssstart with armsss," he advises. "Easssy to sssee. Do face next, ussse river to sssee ssself. Worry not how it looks. If if it feelsss right to you, then it isss the correct mark. Let your ancessstorsss guide your fingersss."

Bryn welcomes the lapcooler tail, giving it a pat with her non-stained hand followed with a trailing drag of fingers (more scales!). Then both arms rest on her knees as she muses. "Ye, been thinkin of th'ancestors alot. Know lots of stories about them; some good, some bad. Just don't 'member ma's ma getting real specific on paints. I'm a warrior, too; we all are... but I know more 'bout ancient battles than any I fought."

Skiel doesn't seem to care about Bryn's idle inspection. They're shiny! He gets it. Honestly he was glad he could help someone in some manner, no matter how small. A rumble echoes in his chest. "Kin- er, sssith-makar- live through ssstoriesss of clanssss and the memoriesss of kin. Thisss one may not remember mossst thingss well, but there are timesss where thisss one feelsss closer to their silver ancesstorsss when it isss cold outssside. /Especially/ when it sssnows...!"

The tip of his tail wiggles at that thought.

A talon scratches the underside of his maw. "The Oruch tribe thisss one wasss with wasss very fond of hand printsss asss their warpaint. Every warrior put their prints on every other warrior in the tribe. Sssignify that all kin, alive and dead, are with you in a fight. Thisss one isssn't blooded with them, but thisss one ssstill putsss a gold handprint on themsselves asss a reminder."

It's a good thing that Skiel doesn't mind the contact, as Bryn may have limited concept of personal space. "Ye!" She looks to him suddenly and nods, grinning widly. "Always loved the tales. Listened to 'em all, felt closer to 'em that way. So long as yer 'membered, ye live on with the tribe."

Some further inspiration strikes and she looks back to the bowls; the red, specifically. "Forever Broken Tusk, by blood and deed..." The words are not exactly directed at Skielstregar, but more recounted or recited. Her right hand opens and her palm is put in the bowl and then quickly pressed to her chest over her heart. Recollection, recreation, inspiration, or all of the above. She holds it there for a few heartbeats before pulling it away to leave the print. After another moment, she leans over the tail to wash her hand off in the water.

Skiel chuckles, bobbing his head. "Sssa, being remembered isss very important. The ssstoriesss told help explain much of how the world worksss, even out of the junglesss." He scratches at his breastplate over his chest, the silver amulet of a profile of a dragon clanking softly against it.

He glances over, watching quietly as Bryn goes through a personal ritual. A grin spreads on his face, along with a deep rumble that blends with the river babble. Wordlessly, he rifles around in his own bag, pulling out a metal jar and pops it open. Glittery gold dust sparkles inside, and he dips a talon into the water, then into the dust, before it taps against the side of his face, underneath a dead eye as he scratches out in gold paint some draconic symbol.

Bryn's ritual, or at least what she has intended for that moment, was brief. Her focus expands with the movement in her limited peripheral and she turns her head to better see. She observes his wetting, dipping, and scratching in respectful quiet until the symbol is drawn. After peering at it a moment, she asks curiously, "What's that one mean?" Even if it were actual draconic writing, she wouldn't know it from random dirt-scratch.

"It isss the rune for the sssun," Skiel answers, anticipating the ask. "Alssso can mean The Dragonfather. Or, Daeussss to sssoftskinsss." The jar is clamped closed. "Thiss one endssss up with many over their face and armsss if they are going into danger. But- thisss one figured it would be fun to show."

He looks down at his golden talon, then pokes Bryn's arm with it, dragging it down and decorating the line made with a few dots. "That meansss nothing. But isss shiny!"

Bryn ahs softly as Skiel explains the meaning of the first symbol. Naturally, she then watches his drawing on her arm with rather rapt attention and some anticipation. He must have read her mind, as he shares that meaning (or lack thereof) before she can ask. Her eye blinks once, looks from the line to him and then back before she looses a laugh. "It is shiny, and it looks good!" After giving it a moment for the marking to softset, she moves her arm to make it move. Part of that movement is to point at the jar of golden dust. "Maybe I should get myself some of that." Sparkly is a good 'color' for body painting; it could be interestin in smoke bombs, too.

Skiel laughs with her. "It need not alwaysss be so ssseriousss, sometimes it isss just to look nice!" he exudes. Looking down at the jar, he ponders briefly before tightening it more and plopping it within Bryn's mix of various pants. "Here. Keep it. Thisss one can easssily get more in Mictlan. Thisss one suggestss using more water for softskinsss, otherwise isss too tacky. No scalesss," he snickers.

Bryn blinks anew when the jar is plopped. "Oh! Um. Thanks!" She wasn't expecting that. Then she nods with the instructions before look at the jaw. "More water, less sticky, no scales. Got it." After filing that away and saving, her eye returns to Skiel. "What's a Mictlan? Is that up the mountain where all the fancy folks are? Not made it through the whole city yet."

Skielstregar grins, tail suppressing the urge to wriggle in happiness. "No no, Mictlan isss sith-makari ritual grounds, and isss also gathering hub for makari tribes outssside of Am'shere in Alexssandria. It isss to the north, in the woodsss! It isss very open to outsssidersss."

He taps his chin. "Okay, ssso if you take road into woods, you get to sssettlement in woodsss. Many kin and shamanss- erm, druidsss- make trade there, can get guide easily to Mictlan."

He continues to explain in his broken Tradespeak, occasionally taking colors from Bryn's bowls and randomly putting them on his face and arms. Something about the best spicy food is there.

-End Scene-