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Post by Firelizard on Aug 9, 2024 18:58:17 GMT
Artificial sounds of a once very real time and place echoed throughout a myriad of briar patches. Thorny bushes enveloped a series of brightly colored and patched tents. People walked to and thro, some garbed in cargo pants and flower laden Hawaiian shirts. Others in threadbare dresses and breeches, tunics and leather as far as the eye could see. Animals neighed and humans ate, turkey legs glistening with sweat as they descended into hungry maws of teeth. What had once been a sleepy Irish village had been turned into a rendition of a time all too medieval. Chords and notes that may have once emitted from the all too real strings and callused fingers of traveling minstrels or bards emanated from cheap speaker stands.
“Tickets still available for Shakespeare’s King Lear! Watch the Traveling Midsommar Acting Troupe in their thousandth rendition of a fabulous clas-”Amora turned her ears and attention away from the overly dressed and tomato debris laden ad hoc town crier. She could have admired his obsessively perfected medieval garb were it not for the Timberland boots peeking out from beyond his breeches and the digital watch around his too pale wrist. Even the Asgardian’s disregard for the authenticity to his dress paled in comparison to her loathing of his voice and the play it announced. To think that humans to this day revered the vulgar and peasant coddling lines that playwright oaf had concocted made her blood boil. A merchant she had been wooing had taken her to a show so long ago, and he had seemingly been more enamored with the theatrical idiocy than the all too stunning woman upon his wrist. “His loss, I reckon.”The sorceress giggled at the thought. She remembered how the merchant had seemingly vanished from public life. It could have been due to their affair becoming the talk of the London gentry. That or his own wife coming down with boils and a tongue of fur that could only speak in the infuriating scribe of that damned Shakespeare. Amora had not thought of him or his ilk for centuries. Perhaps his descendants still suffered the curse. She had not been too careful in its application, after all. Amora took her mind off the jaunt back in time. She clicked her fingers, a chair of tree and leaves responding upward from the ground at the gesture. Nobody seemed to pay much mind to the spell, as if their very eyes were commanded to look away from the sight. A university aged boy came running forth, fermented grape juice sloshing around the edge of the plastic cup he held in a dual handed grip. He fell to his knees and offered the vessel above his head toward the blond headed woman. Her reflection sparkled in those glazed over spheres, offset by the red upon his chubby cheeks. “Thank you, my dear. Run along now, you mustn't keep your lovely paramour waiting.”The man lifted up from the ground, not even deigning to swipe the dirt and dust from his knees. His cheeks went from blushed to pure crimson as Amora blew a kiss his way. The simple gesture almost had a power all his own, sending him back in the direction of an all too angry girl who shared his age. Amora looked down at the cup in her hand and grimaced. A moment later energy rushed from her fingertips and ran across the vessel’s surface. The red liquid inside it seemed to suspend in the air before flowing back down into a golden goblet. Jewels and runes ran across the new vessel’s surface, a hint of a smile gleaming in their glittering surfaces where a grimace had been but moments before. Amora took a sip of the wine within, lazily sweeping her gaze upon the hastily put together renaissance fair set before her. She had sent out a flare of sorts, magic seeping into the roots and stones of the Irish landscape. Perhaps those she might even call her equals would arrive in response, though they were already late. Or maybe she was early. Amora cared not for the difference between the two. |
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Post by BijuuGuy on Aug 21, 2024 17:52:49 GMT
Once upon a time lived a maiden most fair. A princess said to be one of the greatest beauties the British Isles had ever laid eyes upon. Skin kissed by the sun, flowing hair of walnut shades, freckles as if placed by hand, striking hazel eyes. A story most knew as one of the great romances. Naturally, her tale had known many variations, yet none shed light on the truth. It mattered not for those who merely wished to revel in the legend. The numerous portrayals of her worked splendidly to keep hidden what the princess truly was. Or rather, what the queen became. But in a place like this one, the parts of history were hand-picked to paint a palatable picture. The jesters, plays, costumes, and theatrics were its bread and butter. The queen found this to be most amusing. She couldn't help but play the part.
A long, flowing dress, layered with white and eggshell. Embroidered roses, swirls, and similar intricate patterns made it all look much more complex than something this simple would be otherwise. While not seen, hidden behind the dress, she wore similar slippers of eggshell. Most noticeably, however, was the basket of pink roses nestled on her arm. With a light, effortless stroll, she made her way through the crowds, handing the flowers to anyone willing to accept. Their scent was sweet, resembling a comforting spring morning.
The queen was nigh impossible to look away from. The grace in her step, her gaze most warm. Were she to say she was a fae, not a soul would doubt her. People stopped in their tracks to take in the beauty that had appeared in front of them. It was a display of intoxicating thespianism. One of the many boons she was bestowed with during a chapter of her story so few are privy to.
However, as validating as her display had been, Guinevere's arrival to this affair carried a purpose. Though she would've called it more an excursion to satisfy her curiosity. These lands were her domain. It would've been foolish for any new arrivals to expect to be hidden from her all-seeing eyes. The blonde vixen so leisurely sat in her timber throne was certainly no exception. The Dark One sensed immediately that the magical echo was meant to invite, perhaps even provoke. How could the once fair queen live up to her infamous reputation if she didn't investigate the newest pretender of godhood.
Graciously coming to a halt in front of the makeshift throne, Guinevere reached for a rose in her basket. With a light hand, a kind gaze, and a delicate voice he extended it to the horned sorceress, not about to stop her dramaticisms even if the recipient knew who she was face to face with.
"A rose for the queen in emerald?"
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Post by Bixir on Sept 13, 2024 4:08:50 GMT
Not far from this chance encounter - nay, more like several paces hence - another stranger stood about, his back against the trunk of an old tree that was neither old nor a tree, truly. This entire fair was itself artifice, reminders to the genuine articles gathered here of their fleeting worth... in the eyes of mortals, anyroad. The stranger was not dressed in finery nor baubles as these women were, even if there was something about him that one could not quite place. He dressed as one who belonged, well-furnished though not ornate leathers and cloth, somewhere between a knight and a traveler. Perhaps both. He said nothing to these women, though he watched them intently. The play had not even begun... and he did not mean King Lear. |
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Post by Firelizard on Oct 24, 2024 2:18:23 GMT
“A kind gift, to be sure, my chocolate haired beauty. Alas, ‘tis not my color.”
Amora tilted her head, blonde hair falling to the side as she took in the newest arrival to her impromptu court. A kind gaze and an even kinder gift, yet draped in faux modesty obscuring a most dark and wonderful power that lurked beneath the surface. Many a mortal had fallen to Amora’s whims with the help of a kindly accepted gift, flowers or otherwise. Tempted as she was to accept and see the magical web woven within, ‘twas not a good first impression to be seen as so…gullible. She took another drag of wine from the goblet coiled betwixt her elegant fingertips. The last to be had, it seemed. The emerald sorceress made a face at the sight before letting the jewel encrusted vessel vanish into the cool air. A light breeze followed, the scent of magic and trickery seeping into the very wind itself. A display, more power than this hovel in the countryside had seen in many a generation. And somewhere thousands of miles away, a rather confused corn farmer in Nebraska with a hunk of gold and gems worth millions.
“I must say, I do so treasure your arrival. These mortals are not what I would term pleasant company, even at the best of times.”
The Enchantress lightly tapped the dual arms of her makeshift wooden throne before sauntering to her feet. The chair exploded into a drove of butterflies and moths, thousands of newly created creatures of varied beauty streaming over top. Fair tents and poles were obscured from the renaissance attendees below for but a moment before the insects vanished into the foliage and trees beyond. A smile reached the blonde beauty’s lips, though it barely traveled upward into her clover colored eyes. They gleamed as she took in this potential foe, one who had responded so suddenly to her magical declaration of…well not war, but certainly not peace. Her horned crown shimmered as she took a step toward Guinevere. She extended a gauntlet covered hand, the pale flesh of her hand and fingers extending forward as if inviting a kiss from a noble knight.
“Those who would not call me a goddess often settle for the name Amora. You may call me either.”
Amora looked past Guinevere, eyes resting on the stoic and mildly dressed knight just beyond the periphery. Power emanated from the man and his artificial post, clothes and being well worn by a long and bumpy road. A road traveled in more ways than one, and with the scars to prove it. The Asgardian sorceress flashed a warm smile in the stranger’s general direction, eyes crawling up his form until they reached his own.
“It would appear we are not alone, dear friend. A gentleman admirer. A most handsome one at that…”
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Post by BijuuGuy on Oct 28, 2024 23:41:58 GMT
She had attitude. Not unwelcome. At the very least, the sorceress was someone she didn't mind exchanging wits with. Most of her victims and adversaries were terribly dull. Their sense of righteousness masking anything she could've deemed interesting. Her rejection of Guinevere's gift was expected. Indeed, who could've known what she may have hidden in the delicate flower. In an instant, the rose was gone from her hand as if never there. Guinevere straightened her posture, still retaining the act, holding herself that fitting of a princess. She took glee in the emerald woman's pleased demeanor. A slight chuckle escaped Guinevere, with underlying tones of mockery. This stranger in her land thought of herself as a ruler. Amora wasn't the first to think of herself as such. The storied history of these lands told otherwise. Guinevere had been present for a good many of such stories, whether in guise or her dark glory. This one was no different.
"They offer amusement every now and then. Particularly when they're desperate."
Her brief words spoke of a long history. The similarities of which Amora could've been privy to when it came to her own tale. People like them were always viewed as saviors to some, wicked to others. The myriad of reactions from commonfolk never ceased to entertain Guinevere.
She watched the sorceress perform her own theatrics, not to mention the magic she displayed before. Not too dissimilar from her own, striking a chord of knowing. Guinevere's prevailing theory of who this woman could be was confirmed shortly after. As if the crown wasn't a dead giveaway. The witch glared at the extended hand, forcing every bone in her body to not cause her to burst out in laughter. Oh, this was to be a delight!
As soon as Amora's eyes fled Guinevere, the witch was nowhere to be seen. Blinked out of existence for a brief moment. An indescribably swift moment later, the Dark One's visage came to, dangerously close behind to Amora. Her guise now shed, green, blemished skin in its place, accompanied by her usual cloaked attire. Her hood was down, revealing her braided, dark auburn hair. Guinevere's piercing eyes looked at Crucible for a moment, then returned to follow her fingers as they playfully walked down Amora's leathered arm before being pulled away with a swift motion. Her hand remained in the air, fingers fluttering as she chose to be courteous with providing a name of her own.
"Amora. What an enchanting name. Alas, the Dark One bows to no deity. Though frankly, could Asgardians even be considered true gods?"
Guinevere had wished to ignore Crucible entirely. Alas, Amora was naturally curious of the entity's presence. Her mentioning of him caused Guinevere to glide past Amora, placing herself somewhat in-between the two. A noise of veritable disgust and annoyance was made evident by the Dark One. A guttural "ugh." The Crucible was a nuisance to say the least. Finding himself necessary to appear everywhere she was these days, it seemed.
"I don't see it."
The briefest of comments aimed at Amora's last utterance. Guinevere would've stopped there, but knew that she had to get a word in before the mighty Siege Perilous began to spout his "ye olde oration."
"An admirer he is not, dearie. A mouthy nuisance if anything, really. Yet one with, admittedly, great power. The Crucible."
Her words began with her gaze on Amora, then gradually shifted to Crucible proper. Guinevere saying his name was laced with venom, said through almost gritted teeth. All, of course, with inflections and gestures befitting of a Dark One who had the mannerisms of her predecessors to pull from. She couldn't ignore the trio they had formed, however. All beings of nigh-primordial power. Two natives, one tourist. Intriguing indeed.
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Post by Bixir on Nov 21, 2024 0:28:16 GMT
THe man was increasingly unsubtle with his attention towards the two women. It was not leering in any way, nor predatory. There was a sincere curiosity about him, these parties drawing interest in one another, towards one another. In an artifice like this, it was all the more mysterious, illusive. The three of them all were defined by these things, so too would they comport themselves in this manner. It was with this in mind that this stranger who was not quite stranger moved from his position to join the two women at the table. Once he reached them, he smiled, and curtsied to the women. To Amora, in particular. She was a new, though familiar, presence in these parts.
"Enchanté. I am indeed he, Crucible. Though, perhaps a mortal sobriquet is more appropriate. You may call me..." He pondered for a moment, then smiled, his face smooth like his voice. "...Roy."
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