Private Tales Moonlight Meeting

[Ziggy Steele]

Nighttime, a few years in the Past, somewhere in Northeastern Falwood.​

​

It was the good year 365 and Ziggy had just completed their 364th birthday. The day had no importance for the nomad merchant, who spent most of last decade or so dancing around with elves and fae, moving from experience to experience, learning and improving their own skills further and further past the limits of common men and practitioners, for there was much under the sun to be learned if one had no regard for their own sanity. Or well being. Or were particularly weak towards boredom.

Ziggy hated being bored for reasons they never could understand; the sheer idea of standing still and doing the same thing day after day like most other people lived is something that filled the changeling with existential dread of the likes they couldn't ever explain. And thus, seeking to chase boredom away, they were jumping through the forest, wearing their Face. A pale humanoid of uncertain gender and raven-black short hair, plain black clothes and a massive backpack of the likes not even a Orc would be carrying, a composition of hardened and soft leather that should've taken so many large animals to craft it would be better classified as an aberration against nature out of the dreams of a maddened necromancer. But it was a backpack. A very nice backpack. Padded, too.

"Such a good night, isn't it ~?" Ziggy's voice went unanswered by the forest, but they knew the spirits, tricksters and fae alike had heard it one way or another, there was simply no reason to answer. It was just mere courtesy from the changeling's part.

And there it was, what the Still-Not-Quite-A-Witch had been looking for this whole time: A rather large clearing with a small water stream crossing close to the mind, tall blueish flowers growing around a rock near the river, some with five large petals and others with six petals; a single one, taller than the rest, had seven petals. For someone with any sort of magical attunement or affinity, the silver aura the flowers had were noticeable.

"I have come to prepare some tea, ok~? Everyone is invited, I have stories to share and delicious food too." Proper etiquette is very important when dealing with spirits of the forest, no matter what forest or where it was located.

As they set down their backpack and somehow removed a... Tea set from there, together with some cast iron pots, small pieces of wood and a fluffy tapestry to be set upon the ground, Ziggy couldn't imagine how close they were to a group of people suffering in manners that few deserved to suffer, or how the spoken invitation would be accepted by a creature that didn't belong in such woods.

---

OOC: 1-on-1 Thread with Dingo, and no, I have no idea how to tag.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

There was the sound of fire crackle, the feeling of warmth all around him. "I don't offer this up easy to you, you hear me?" Old Sinns warned. His voice hard and cold with sobriety. There was the undoing of latches, the creak of old hinges, and from a great chest he pulled the old relic. Pale and white as bleached bone, but it caught the fire against its surface, like the iridescent shell of a beetle. The old monster hunter turned about, and the empty gauntlet laid in his clutches, much like a cat, and its single pale eye seemed to stare into Garrod. "This here, holds a power, old and dangerous, I only give it to you now because I've caught wind of where you are going, boy,"

Garrod reached out, and took it. Felt the cold kiss of the shimmering bone metal. Heard a feint whisper in his mind.

"Its name is Belephus, and I will give you the cant to call it forward, should the need ever come."
----
You walk toward your doom, oh bearer mine. Came a voice so sickly sweet, from deep within the darkest depth of Garrod's mind.

"Garrod?" Jonik asked, his brown eyes wide with worry. "Are you well?"

The spell-sword came back to the waking world, blinked and nodded to his companion. "Aye, just a little weary."
----

"Harodin! Why would you do this?!" Cried out Qubeley, though for all her strength, she could not break free.

Harodin said nothing, only smiled, wire thin, with eyes so large they looked to swallow them all up.

Garrod growled and fought and try as he might, he could not break the spell that bound him.
----

Purple and red and black was the light, and it tore and it took the magic of soul and life from all it touched. One by one, their flames went out, and Harodin turned his gaze onto Garrod, pale and periwinkle as they were.

The spellsword bowed his head, and whispered a cant beneath his breath as Harodin's eldritch light touched him, and he felt his coil wane.

Wise you are, oh bearer mine, to take my hand indeed. The demon in the jewel whispered, and a pale green glow wreathed around the swordsman, and the gauntlet's eye did burn with wyrd light. For now is the hour, dark and terrible and grave is your need.

"Belephus," he said. And out went the sight from his right eye.
----

Through dark halls he ran with broken sword in hand. Life still intact, though his soul had been frayed, and his mind felt so cracked. Every step he took made one more piece to fall free. Frantic, he drew breath, and more frantic still he willed himself to flee. All while Belephus, who he could feel now, cooed and chuckled small and to himself. Blood ran warm down Garrod's face, flowed from the shut lid that hid the price he had paid, a ledger of sorts. A record in flesh. Of the deal that happened in that space betwixt.
----

Out of the old temple grounds Garrod did fly, ragged and worn, tattered and torn, he flew as fast as his legs would take him, for as long as his flesh would allow him. His mind raced as fast as he and faster still as all that occurred went on to repeat. And so he wandered, aimless and astray, as whispers filled his head and the long hours passed him by.

Mindless, eye wide with terror, he happened upon the clearing, and the backpack, and the tapestry, the teapot and the person. He blinked at the sight as blood went on to drip from his chin. He laughed.

Belephus laughed too.

Ziggy Steele

 

[Ziggy Steele]

Places like the Falwood, and similarly massive forests, had their own rules and etiquette. Walk through one without knowing these and mischief would happen, or worse.

The blue flowers, that Ziggy mentally called 'blue courts', were one of these things subject to proper etiquette; first, one must water the king, which meant giving one's life essence to the tallest of flowers. That would require one to spray it with a mixture of water and their own blood, but since Ziggy was not only knowledgeable in old magic, they also had permission from the spirits. Thus, all it took was for Ziggy to focus their own magic, feeding the King with pure energy. If that step is done right, the King would lose a number of petals, showing his permission.

"Thank you, great blue king." Ziggy vocalized, slightly tilting their head as three petals fell from the tallest flower. That meant the changeling could harvest up to three of the Courtiers, the smallest flowers with five petals each. Which they did with precision and care, for disturbing any of the Daughters, the flowers with six petals, would bring down the wrath of the King and remove it's permission. With that done, Ziggy went to the stream to wash the freshly harvested flowers and start preparing the tea.

---

The wind had stopped and the forest became dead silent. When such things happen, you stop and listen. You stay quiet. As such, Ziggy placed their tea cup down, quickly tracing a rune in the ground near the tapestry, working a delicate but simple spell that would give it's eyes night vision, so they could see clear as day and be ready.

So when the scent of blood filled the air and a battered, broken mess of a man walked into the clearing, Ziggy understood it was not a menace that had come, but something the forest wanted out of there, with some rush. No wonder the Blue Court had been so generous. The changeling got up from their seat, pupil-less black eyes staring at the man without betraying any emotions. Patiently, they waved a hand, as if trying to catch the man's attention.

"I am friendly and so is this clearing." Crystal clear, androgynous voice filled with not confidence, but a certainty that made it hard to not believe the changeling.

"You may wash yourself in the stream, these waters are also safe to drink." They gave a friendly smile, unsure the other could see it, wind once again flowing around them. To punctuate their words, Ziggy once again sat down, taking a delicate porcelain tea cup and sipping from the beverage within.

Black eyes focused on the man again. Taking in his appearance, the lack of an eye and the dangerous gauntlet on his hand. At that, Ziggy stared for a moment longer, before once again focusing on the man's single eye. "Are you lost? I know my way around here and will be glad to point you towards wherever you need to go. If your body is too wounded, I have some herbs and salves to alleviate the pain." Another sip, eyes closing for a moment as Ziggy delighted in the flavor.

"If your mind is too wounded, I can offer you some tea."

---

OOC: Care for some tea, Garrod Arlette ?

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Friendly? Asked the voice of Belephus. And Garrod heeded its words. He stood still, his eye wide with a cracked smile spread across his lips, and his broken sword still gripped in his hand. There is no one friendly, oh bearer mine, count only on me.

Yet, there was a coolness in how the person spoke. A knowing that cut through the haze of fear and the flame of hurt. It quelled the burn that he felt in his limbs, eased some of the drain he felt in his chest. If only because it was a voice outside of the nightmare he had escaped.

Garrod took a step forward, a step into the clearing, toward the person. Half his mind worried he would find fire catching on his boot, or burning through his flesh, and his eye was wide with that worry. But there was nothing. Nothing more than the press of sole against grass, and the soft sound that came with it. He let out breath a little easier, a little lighter but not by much.

They mentioned the stream, and his eye looked to it, saw its running water, heard its rush through the rocks and the bed. It sounded cold. He stepped again, and again, toward the stream, and the sword fell from his hand, bloodied and cracked, it thumped against the earth. He rushed then, toward the stream, and crashed onto his knees by its bank, as desperate sounds escaped him, he dipped his hands into the waters and splashed them onto his face, again he dipped and again he splashed, desperate for the sense of cool, the sense of clean.

Again he splashed the clear water of the stream against his face, and kept his hands pressed there against his eyes. Overwhelmed by all the light of stars and moon that bounced and danced against the surface of the stream, as if to mock him and all he had been through.

For a moment, he knelt there, huddled and low as he wept into his palms.

You cry? Belephus asked, and his voice was hot with offense. You cry even though I saved you from your fate? He laughed, deep as shadow and cruel.

So full of fracture and feeling, he did not hear the offer for food or healing, nor the question of his place between the found and the astray.

He did however, hear the offer for- "Tea?" He parroted, and opened his eye, still burried in the darkness between his hands, and he rose up and turned to see the stranger with their dainty porcelain cup.

Poison most like.

Garrod made it back onto his feet, his eye still bled, but the trail of ichor was thin, fresh flow. He trekked back toward the stranger and their set.

Did you not notice her eyes?

He sat before her, the pain that burned from the end of his finger tips to the tips of his toes ebbed some. "Tea sounds nice." He said, eerily calm despite all the otherness that swirled within him.

Fool. Belephus laughed. Don't say I did not warn you.

 

[Ziggy Steele]

'Poor fella. These woods are no place for someone this broken.' The changeling thought, sipping at their tea with the ease of someone who had been in much more dire, or weirder, situations. Sure, the man in front of them might have had the worst day of their lives so far, or perhaps they had conquered something at a cost much greater than they had anticipated. His body told the story of someone who was only alive through sheer willpower and a good amount of luck. For Ziggy, though, this was Myadæg. Or Fjórðadæg. No way to tell at this point of the night, with the moon so centered in the sky.

"Doesn't it? There are very few better times for tea than Now." They gave the man another friendly, welcoming smile, expertly setting another tea cup in front of them, letting the moonlight show that the cup was empty and immaculately clean, not even a speck of dust or suspicious fragment loose in there. With sure, but slow movements, as if one was taking care to not startle an animal, Ziggy poured for him a beverage that had the aroma of running water and moonlight; ethereal and refreshing. While flowing, it looked like crystal clear water, with no blemishes nor additions.

"Care, it's hot." Ziggy poured for themselves, eyes always going from the visitor's single eye to the gauntlet he had. That thing seemed like the key for this whole situation, but the man did not look like a warlock of any kind.

"This is tea made from the petals of a Blue Court Flower. Consider yourself lucky, for finding this ingredient is extremely difficult. Very few people alive right now have enjoyed this sort of tea. Much less prepared by me."

As Ziggy spoke, the liquid on Garrod's tea cup seemed to go through a transformation; water no more, it became a silver liquid with a blueish tint, as if one had liquefied the moon and condensed it into a warm beverage. "It came out perfectly. I'm proud of myself." With a cheeky smile, Ziggy drank from their own teacup, taking a long sip from it. That tea tasted like no other experience could ever taste; it was the flavor of sneakily swimming under the stars as a teen, sharing immature affections with a loved one. The flavor of feeling the comforting breeze of the night on one's skin, of being refreshed and satisfied with a long day of productive work. The flavor of night escapades and intimacy, the flavor of restful sleep. It would do wonders to one's mind, bringing clarity and relaxation.

Ziggy let out a justified, satisfied, sigh. Black eyes opened to look at their companion, waiting patiently for the man to sip the tea at their own pace. And wait they would, not speaking again until the man had drunk the tea and recovered a little. It would be a faux pas to demand a name from someone in such setting, thus, the changeling went for the most important question.

"So, what happened with you, my lost one?" Ziggy wasn't looking at the man's eye when they asked that question, seemingly interested and curious about the gauntlet, and how not right it looked. When you lived for a couple centuries or so, and dealt with the likes of wild fae and forest spirits, it was almost obvious that someone carrying a single piece of mismatched armor or out-of-place accessory wasn't doing it as a fashion choice. 'So what are you, young one?' Ziggy thought; seeking an answer for why the forest had thought it a safe idea to leave the changeling with this situation.

---

I hope the tea is of your liking, Garrod Arlette.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

There was something about the person's voice. Coolly, it invited him in, their smile, disarmed him, even though his nerves burned to react, raw at the ends, they searched for any reason to spring, away, into action, there was no way to know. Not yet. Not now. Not as she poured him tea, clean and pure and painted by the light of moon and stars. It perplexed him. Why did she poor him tea?

To lure you into a trap, oh bearer mine. To take you, as HE tried to take you.

Her ceremony kept his single green eye wide with wonder, where fear was already so full there in. Wide as it watched the small delicate cup fill with the clear drink. And he thought aloud. "Am I the cup?" nonsense, utter and mindless. "Or am I the tea?"

You are but a fool. Belephus laughed.

Garrod winced at the demon's barb, almost looked away. But she gave him warning. Told him of heat, and to take care. He kept his eye on her, as his other bled, no, as the wound left by it's taking bled.

Belephus purred, pleased as a cat. He took that too.

Garrod kept his eye on her eyes. Bottomless and large. They looked to swallow him up. But she went on speaking, and his world frayed at the edges, as his racing heart slowed.

A Blue Court. Be lucky. Very few people alive.

"Yes," he admitted. "I am lucky," and he smiled, pathetic and broken as he sat there in that clearing, before the moon and the stars and the wild wood of the fae, and he heard no demon's laugh but laughed himself.

She spoke again, but his eye, downcast, was enticed by the cup of tea before him. From clear it turned pale and blue. Into moonlight. His eye was wide then, and he stared at it in awe.

Do not drink from it. His demon demanded.

But she said it was perfect. She smiled proudly and drank long, pleasant drinks from her own cup. And he felt thirsty. He wanted to drink, as she did. From the perfect tea she brewed and was so proud of.

So, he took the cup in hand, his bonewhite gauntlet clinked against the delicate class, a small sound of stress, but the vessel held. He gulped, nervously, and then he drank of the cup.

A small sip at first. Pleasant to the tongue, quick and bright and of all the breeze and butterflies. Astounded, he stopped, and pulled the cup away. Looked at it, looked at her. Knew not what to think or how to feel, for inside he was a storm, a crash between the swirl of hot sharp painful hurt, and this... this cup. Cool and clear and a joyous raw that poured out of him. He gulped again and looked down at the cup, where in the Blue Court Flower's tea did shine, and he heard no voice, and felt no laugh. He drank from it again. Deeper, fuller. He gladly swam in the sensations that filled him up so paradoxically warm and cold and air and electric as it did away, no, salved against the agony that would still be there after. If only duller, and less red.

How long he swam in it, he could not say. But her voice pulled him back to the present. Back to the clearing and the stream and the woman with the pitch-black eyes. He set his cup down gently, sat there a moment with his eye fixed on the small porcelein vessel, and then looked up at her, calmer now, with some semblance of mind.

"I... I survived," he told her, with some guilt there in his voice. "I lived when the others did not," he clenched his jaw and bared his teeth. "Could not," he spat and his hands clenched into tight fists, and his eye fell to regard the pale jewel that gleamed so eerily upon his arm beneath the moon's light.

You live because I allowed you to live. Belephus said, voice so full of pleasure.

---

It was lovely, Ziggy Steele

 

[Ziggy Steele]

Black eyes studied the man, missing no details even under the low light. As he was distracted by the relaxing, almost transcendental effects of tea, Ziggy analyzed everything, from his wounds to his mannerisms to the gauntlet, with cold eyes and a clear mind.

'No side effects.' The changeling noted mentally, slowly infusing their eyes with mana, a basic trick that every magical practitioner learned early in their training; the ability to see auras was a default for every Elbion-trained mage. While mostly useless outside of allowing an apprentice to better visualize the energies they call upon, it would let Ziggy know if the man was placed under any particularly dangerous spell or hex. The results, when the changeling focused their eyes once again, was beyond expectation; a mangled personal aura, together with remains of dark, taboo magics of the likes few people dared to play with. Things Ziggy could only recognize thanks to their almost compulsive obsession with acquiring as much experience as possible, for most people wouldn't even recognize what they're looking at. 'But... This...' There was a small, almost imperceptible nothingness right in the middle of the man, like a hungering void waiting in silence for the right moment; what could that be or what could've possibly caused that were subjects that Ziggy couldn't even start theorizing about.

Ziggy focused once again on the man in front of them.

"You lived." With a sigh, the changeling offered him that same impeccable smile from before. "Losing is never easy, never painless...." They trailed the sentence, eyes looking up towards the moon, a tiny, pale hand extending as if attempting to reach the far celestial body. "Only time can heal these wounds. But."

With a arm still extended, body slightly tilted upwards, Ziggy threw their head back, hair moving as a curtain on either side of their head, black eyes unflinchingly staring at the man's single eye, commanding attention in a way that came from sheer experience.

"It's now your burden to keep surviving. Once you become a survivor, you are not allowed to stop being one." Breaking away from the theatrical pose, Ziggy reached for a small porcelain container that had been neglected so far, moving it towards the man. "We need to get your wounds cleaned, and you must leave this forest as soon as possible, this is no place for someone in your situation to be. But first, we must wait for the day to come. You're safe here, for now."

"But first..." Ziggy poured more of the tea for both of them, letting the aroma fill the air, before lifting the lid of the small container, revealing neat little biscuits, simple food made of honey and flour. "Biscuits go very well with tea." And there was nothing special about them, just unremarkably sweet treats.

---

OOC: Garrod Arlette There we go ~

 

[Garrod Arlette]

The stranger's voice echoed that of the jewel's. Softer, more delicate, it caught him again and brought his eye up to meet those dark and bottomless pools. And for a moment, he wondered if he were falling into them. Her lips slipped into a smile, and her voice went on, offering some soft sense of succor. Her eyes panned up, and her small hand reached out toward the moon. His eye followed, and he heard her still, and watched her still as her eyes drew his back in to their gaze.

No. Belephus echoed, sinister and bright as the edge of a knife. You are not allowed to die, oh bearer mine. For I do not deem it so.

Garrod blinked, and when she moved to handle the small bright container, that did shine beneath the light of celestial bodies, he looked away, as if stung, he winced and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

Wounds. Leave. Day. Safe.

Her voice came and went.

There is no place that is safe, oh bearer mine. He could feel lips of shadow and void spread and curl and bear bright teeth that shined through the dark of his own mind. Do you not feel Him? Do you not sense their stirring? A laugh. Cruel in its humor.

But before the demon could go on with its torment, that sound came again. The pour of water. The softest whisper of steam that was never truly heard, but felt. The smell of the Blue Court tea filled his breath, and he felt at ease once more. If only enough to hear the tea pourer clear once more. His eye came up to see his cup full again, with that clear and beautiful drink. He looked up at she who offered it to him, and the golden cakes she gave in company.

"Th-thank you," he said, timidly, and reached out to take the gifts once more. He saw his hand, bone and white, and his other, in its bloodstained steel. Panic stabbed at his heart, and he nearly flinched away, the cup and the plate rattled and flinched, nearly knocked to the ground. Instead he rushed to grab them, and his gauntlet, grabbed too hard, cracked the small plate which held the tea, hair-line, the sound, so sharp and distressed, was like ice through his veins and his eye went wide.

"Sorry!" he exclaimed, and nearly jerked back, as if he had touched fire. But instead he settled his nerve. The smell of the tea, the glow of its wisps, inviting him to drink, and her great deep stare, all seemed to pin him back to place. "I, I am sorry, truly," he said, his eye down cast as he took the gits into his lap. He looked down at the fine porcelain plate, how it still held together, and the small cup atop its surface, still full and not a drop spilled, and the cakes, gold and appetizing.

"Why help me?" he asked. "Why offer me this safety, this care?" He looked up at her, and his eye pleaded for answers.

---

Ziggy Steele , he seeks answers, but are there any to find?