to: everyone.

[mullerian]

( a couple nights spent sleepless staring at the stars in the green grass of a ditch in solvunn's primary settlement have left him wanting, curious, but a constant glitter of flashing correspondence beneath eyelids and in the sky has spelled out one thing very clearly: off-worlders can communicate amongst each other. near-instantaneously, in fact. how convenient.

eventually he's ready to try it, perched on a branch with his legs crossed and one finger weaving an invisible thread through the air in front of him. children passing by to pick up wayward apples for the coming rites must find him insane. )

Now, I did my own bit of research amongst the plucky citizens strolling about Solvunn, claiming us graces of God, and found quite the wealth of history beneath these streets. Enough to pen a couple more tomes worth, really, but I didn't fathom the discourse in this country would run so deep. It almost makes sense that they'd look outward for help at this point, to usher in a new era, but...

( research means spying, but. details. no one needs to know of days thus far spent just circling behind the shoulders of scholars in their libraries as a miniature. it wasn't all that exciting.

the next few sentences are quickly scribbled and without signature, running closely together as if to drive someone dizzy. there's a foreboding air to his text, whether on skin or parchment on wood, as if it's starting to fade the longer one stares. )

Anyhow, it left me curious, and so I'm posing a question to those more privy than me:

When and if the curtain rises, whose blood would you want spilled? Who deserves to "win", in your eyes?

Comments

[mullerian]

Oh, you know. About a week ago or so, give or take a couple of days. Why, it already feels like they're running together.

( he's waving a hand about dramatically whilst transmitting these words that float and sear. the children picking up apples beneath tread cautiously since they have... no idea what he's doing up there. what a weirdo. )

[gynvael]

[ A vague week or so is good enough, and he means to leave it at that. Then the final sentence comes shimmering across and, mm— ]

You can't keep count to seven?

[ Get back to him when you've been jailed underground for 12 weeks. ]

[mullerian]

Not when those seven days spent are the equivalent of watching grass grow.

( aaand, he bounces back! the crowd goes wild. 'fairy' king oberon is STILL IN THE GAME... )

Geralt, was it? One can only watch so much tilling of the field before the mind starts to wander. No offense to the kind people of Solvunn, of course.

[gynvael]

[ Uh-huh. Geralt sidesteps all the fluttery bullshit, including confirming his name, to get to the heart of what catches his attention. ]

So they summoned you from another world and laying about is all they've asked of you.

[mullerian]

( ... something whittled yet relentless clacks together like the jaws of a centipede in oberon's chest at this reply. a tinge of agitation, maybe. it's too bad emotions don't travel. )

Mmh, well, not exactly. Though it did take a couple mornings of tireless demands until they were a little more comfortable with me. The laying about came later.

[gynvael]

Let's hope it stays that way.

[ And that's about all the information he's interested in. He's staying out of the rest of it. ]