Open The Crowning of Leth

[Colombina]

7th Bell, 21st of Fall, 512 AV It was a slow procession led by a woman strumming a lyre. She was the only figure in color, decked in the oranges and golds of a low hanging harvest moon. Some said she was a priestess of the moon god, others simply knew her as the yearly herald of the Crowning of Leth. Women drifted out of their homes to join the pale river. All wore white and bore trembling candles. Even the poor, and the trampled Larks were given nubs of wax, so they could join the quiet parade. White sheaths were set out by landladies to borrow, and white shawls sold for mere mizas the morning before. It was the night of women. There were no horses or litters, even noblewomen were afoot. Strangers held hands in lines and placed the pale, fragrant flower for which the holiday was named in one another's hair. Few spoke, and some sang to the twinkling song the herald released above their heads. A silvery fog lay over them formed by candlelight and feminine sighs, at its crest was the unmistakable perfume of the vespertinal bloom. But for the softly lit parade, the streets were empty. The women were flowing toward the Eye of Syna, where the Pressorah waited in her canoe. It was a modest vessel, but for its inlay of silver and abalone. It allowed the whole shore to see her and send her missives on paper boats. Whatever she chose from the water, she would answer. Women would sometimes bundle flowers and flags in the small wadj boats scrawled with their petitions. Unlike the procession, the Pressorah wore black banded with gold, the heraldic colors of her rank. Crowns of Leth also floated on the water, breathing sweetness and mingling with fragrant star jasmine oft underfoot. Bronze lanterns paneled in violet and lapis colored glass swung low from the palms about the oasis. It was a quiet gathering, most showing reverence to beauty, to the god, to their Pressorah and to the community of women. Men would wait for the bells to pass, then don shades of blue. They would have no procession, but would arrive in shy waves, wondering what passed between the Pressorah and her sisters in their absence. OOCLadies, join the parade and send your boats to the Pressorah. The Gentlemen will have to wait before joining all of you.

[Chiaja]

It had started only half a bell from when she shifted. Someone had given her a white sheath and white candle, left in front of her door. Her hair was loose around her shoulders when she left, but only minutes into the procession, her candle was lit and a stranger was tying up her hair with a Crown of Leth.

Leth.

She had been informed of the tradition - write a missive, a petition, in a paper boat and send it across the Eye of Syna to the Pressorah. If she chose yours, she would answer it. But she couldn't write very well, and even then, only short, simple sentences. But she had written hers, simple or not. She didn't know what to ask for, what they were really 'supposed' to write, so she just wrote what she wanted, and sent it out on a plain boat. She didn't have any bundles of flowers or flags to send.

Petition :

The Pressorah and her boat were beautiful. The canoe was covered in silver and abalone, and the Pressorah herself wore black and gold. Crowns of Leth were floating in the water, with bronze lanterns hanging from the palms around the oasis. Very few people spoke, and when they did, it was in hushed tones and soft whispers.

[Asyriona]

Syri fixed a few jasmine flowers in her hair. They were white and plain, many still in buds and never having bloomed in the past summer season. She had picked them from the courtyard in the morning before venturing into the city to buy a set of white robes and a soft shawl. The merchant had placed a small white candle in her hands. It dribbled onto her fingers, the hot wax hardening in the breeze. Her petition was clutched tightly in her hand, the heavy-duty paper creasing from her sweaty palms. A kindly stranger had loaned her a piece of wadj, an elegant quill and a small pot of ink. She had been unsure of what to write, how much honesty would seem disrespectful toward the Pressorah, how much weight any of her personal ambitions had against such a renowned beauty contest. She stepped up to the gleaming water and set her petition down in a tiny empty boat, laden with floral patterns.

Petition :

For the promise of finding my sister, I would master any art this world has to offer. I would bring the beauty and grace of the olden Eypharian back to Ahnatep.

She knew her words were too bold, as if she were laying a price on the Pressorah, but they were true. She would dance as they commanded, sing when needed, fill the halls with light at any hour of the day.

[Colombina]

The Pressorah's canoe was shared by two female servants holding prism shaped lanterns on poles over the water. The lantern's sides were cut screens of stars and flowers. They cast the moon colored pattern on the water, and speckled the Pressorah_Bashti in trembling constellations. Despite the servants' company, the Pressorah drew the letters into the canoe with her own hands. Some floated past her, forever unreachable. What she could reach was pulled into her lap and overflowed to cover her feet. She drew the many flowers from the wadj's folds and tucked them into her hair until she could fit no more between her circlet and braids Bashti began to unfurl the folded boats and birds, holding them high for the shore to see who was chosen by her hands. The petitions varied. Some were blessings she would raise to her lips and press over her heart. If a name hemmed the encouraging lines, the writer would receive a pot of roses come morning and bottles of sweet elixirs for her home: thoughtful feminine gifts of the kind that would pass between dear neighbors. Other boats were grievances that would draw Bashti's brows and darken her eyes. They were solemnly given to one servant for safekeeping. Gestures would cascade down the Pressorah's raised arms with a dancer's grace. Her poses were ceremonial and heartfelt, mingling Semhu and the moment's inspiration. She would amend wrongs, she would consider pains, she must consult others, but above it all, her hands made the sign for listening. The Pressorah heard them all and would not let a single word fall fallow. Her clear voice was rare in this ritual. Rising only when it could encompass the whole answer. Chiaja's missive was read with a curious look that ended in a satisfied smile. This she could easily grant and would. "I will provide a tutor," she decreed over the water, "To she who seeks to read and write. For nothing is more powerful than knowledge and expression in our marvelous tongue." Here the servant called out the same refrain that followed every royal edict without subject: "She who writes, render our Pressorah a name before eve's end!" More letters crossed Bashti's eyes. Some written by children who would be lavished with sweets and toys come morning. She laughed kind and warm and treated these lines with the same courtesy afforded a noble's request. Asyriona's vessel was admired before unfolded, proving the Pressorah was not spoiled by the luxury of her station. She could see the care lavished on the pattern. It spoke of an ardent word within. The Pressorah read the request then folded it in her lap. Her arms raised and drifted beautifully through poses: I listen, above all, appreciation for beauty, love for the old ways, lack of understanding, the desire to know, a formal invitation to call upon her. The servant's refrain followed and Asyriona's letter became another in a cream colored mountain. When the bell for petitions passed, an indigo strip of silk was unfurled on the banks of the oasis. It led from the water to a pedestal bearing a cedar throne set with pearls and carved with Leth's blossom. In the canoe, the servant in the back of the boat dimmed her lamp and began to row them slowly to shore. In the shallows, the Pressorah stepped barefoot into the water, the hem of her dress darkening with damp. She seemed an Alvina water born and strong. Were Eypharians not once the people of rivers? Pale, moon-kissed feet stepped onto indigo, and the crowd showed the reverence due their Pressorah's passage to her impromptu throne. When she sat her arms raised, casting white petals and honey perfume into their fellowship. Music began and sweet or stuffed breads shaped like crescents materialized in glazed heaps in baskets carried by concubines. Water infused with melon and mint was served and every woman could lay claim to a piece of seasonal fruit if she wished. It was a small repast after evening meals, morsels to make their feet light in dance. Most the candles the women carried had been set in a circle around the celebration, a lambent border protecting the living sea of lilies. Elsewhere, bells rang summoning the men who cared to come.

[Asyriona]

Asyriona cautiously approached the Pressorah, unsure of what her gestures had meant and feeling shamefully uneducated in Eypharian culture. Her golden cheeks burned a dull red, the colour further emphasised by the white flowers woven through her hair and the fair colour of her garb. The indigo silk was soft beneath her feet. Every feeling, sound, scent and sight seemed to be amplified. She could very nearly taste the air. Her heart thudded rapidly in her chest and she could feel pinpricks of anxiety in her extremities. This was her first time looking upon the Pressorah, and for all her preparation and longing, she felt ill-equipped to present herself to her with the dignity and poise accepted of the Eypharian stock.

Stopping some ten or fifteen spans away from the procession, she slowly bowed her head. Tilting her face upward but not daring to look into the Pressorah's eyes, she quietly murmured, "My lady." Her breath seemed to catch in her throat and she let it out slowly, attempting once again. "My lady, my Pressorah, I would ask a favour of you, if it were in my grace to ask. But I have done little as of yet to prove myself to you. Allow me to be made an entertainer of the Garden, of your house, and I will make you proud."

She cringed inwardly. Again, she had overstepped her boundaries. Her mother was always telling her she was too sharp of tongue, not at all befitting a lady. But if the Pressorah was everything she had heard growing up, she would look past the uncouth address and see the meaning within.

[Sebastion]

Shim had been engaged most of the day with an elderly Eypharian about how one defined gender. It was a fascinating conversation to be sure. The Pycon learned that Eypharian were very open to the idea that one's body might portray a separate gender from the one they felt within, that a man in body could have a woman's spirit, and that this was a unique gift and a trial to be embraced. Shim was quite relieved for this older gentleman was one of the first people in the city to not treat him like a circus attraction. Despite the fact that almost everyone knew what a Pycon was, they never seemed able to grasp fully his intelligence and merit being so small and so foreign to them. He was used to this sort of treatment to be sure, but it was still grating on one's clay mind after a certain amount of time, so the old man's conversation, even if his common was rather broken, was quite the relief. So the old Eypharian and him had been debating about what part of the Crowning of Leth Shim should participate in. Shim's argument was that he was technically male by Pycon standards and identified himself as such, yet the Eypharian's argument could not be ignored, and that was because his forms always leaned to the feminine that this probably was some kind of subconscious releasing of inherent female energies within Shim's psyche. Regardless of who was right, Shim missed the initial time meant for the women to submit their messages, so he won the argument by default and perched himself in his newly found Eypharian form on the man's shoulder as he hobbled through the crowd, one hand using a cane, the rest moving younger members out of his way, grumbling in an annoyed fashion about how youth had no respect for the elderly any more. Shim wondered if he would be lucky to meet the elegant Pressorah this evening, and perhaps entertain her as well.

[Colombina]

As custom, the Pressorah did not bid Assyriona rise. The citizen would remain bowed until the Pressorah found reason to speak. If the Pressorah found none, the petitioner would have to creep from her presence with a bent spine. "My mother was one of the Garden," the Pressorah answered, "It is an honor and a burden, and the pageant does not come again until summer. Why do you seek such a role, daughter of rivers?" This answer and the Pressorah's outstretched lower hand, was Assyriona's permission lift her head and stand. The Queen's palm was downward, as if her hand awaited a kiss. It would never come, but the gesture signified a willingness to accept the woman that approached her throne. During the Crowning of Leth, courtly decorum was loosened, so even the unlearned could approach without fear or punishment.

"An Eypharian shaped Pycon!" The outburst shone with delight and was held aloft with a breathless, feminine voice. "You've adopted our shape! What a lovely thing to do." The speaker's timbre betrayed a youth that her kohl lined eyes were trying to overcome. She was wrapped in white with snake shaped bands of gold twisting around her four upper arms. A basket of crescent shaped bread was balanced on her tipped hip, marking her as one of the Concubines. She looked at the old man who carried Shim with a sweet girlishness. "Would you like some bread, gray father? It is said to bring good tides and happy thoughts." Her eyes flicked to Shim again, full of smiles her mouth tried to restrain. "The flowers would be charmed by you."

[Sebastion]

The Pycon vaguely wondered as he gazed upon the simply elegant concubine, if he would ever tire of the Eypharian's inherent beauty. They prided themselves on their elegance and grace, a trait the clay man sorely tried to match when mimicking their form. He liked the fact that his natural red clay color did not hamper his form, two of four slender arms covering his mouth politely as a deep chuckle escaped his throat, bangles that looked as if they should be moving frozen in place. A simple shift covered a curvaceous form. His feet were bare and even though his jewelry and clothing were all the same color as his skin, he had been provided the minute amount of kohl it took to line his eyes, adding a very stark contrast to the otherwise monochromatic palette. The flowers would be charmed by you. Shim could only assume she meant other concubines, for didn't they reside in a garden somewhere? Well he had been the delight of many of these foreign and elegant creatures thus far, and after the relatively pleasant company of his elderly companion it certainly couldn't hurt his ego to be an entertaining lap dog a bit more, could it? The male Eypharian grumbled something about not needing any more thoughts happy or otherwise, but still accepted the offered bread, and as he reached over Shim dashed down his arm and up onto the concubine, careful not to damage or squash any of the confectioneries on the way by. Nimble actions like this Shim found, were considerably easier when one had an extra set of arms to keep you balanced and it took but a tick before he was up and onto the woman's shoulder, scouting around with two dull colored eyes to survey the scene. It took a few more ticks to realize he was being rude...like he always was. And as always to make up for this, the rush of common flooded out of his mouth like the water from the Eye of Syna. "Begging your pardon m'lady, Shim has terrible terrible manners, he forgets to ask before he acts, this lady is taller than his older friend, however, and he just wanted to get a better view, pardon him please?" The older man had had more than enough of the talkative little clay man by this point and gave an apathetic grunt at the proceedings then slowly made his way further into the crowds, munching on the remainder of his bread.

[Colombina]

Belying her jaded trade, the concubine's laughter twirled and turned the air sweet as Shim traipsed to her shoulder. "Oh, you are bold! I should have known." Her smile was a little worldly, "This one," she mimicked without derision, "Is used to providing a view and called Semira." Her head bowed graciously, "You are a guest at my Pressorah's invitation. All are tonight. As her concubine, I am a lesser hostess. So come with me and I will show you all the lovely things of the evening." The woman pulled some of her hair aside from the shoulder Shim adopted. Her hair had been dusted in crushed mica and tinted reddish with henna. It was a compliment to the earthen tones of the Pycon. "We look a made pair, almost," she observed happily, "If you wore a man's kilt, they might think you my Gardener. There was a Pycon one once. Had a talent for magic among other things." A few guests grinned at the concubine and her passenger as she offered them bread and smiles. Most treated her with an odd combination of admiration and boldness. She was an object to them, but one of great price. Stares and almost ribald flattery were flicked away with the flutter of her lashes and clever little flirts. There was a learned lightness to her touch. Nothing offended and much delighted. Until a man's hand was careless about where it grasped not once but twice. Semira was quick to slap it away, jostling her basket. "Foysha," she pronounced with a little scorn towards the cruelly smiling man, "I am not here to be touched thus." "Your whole purpose is to be touched thus," he countered. His braveness hinted at some measure of standing. "Not by you," she pronounced coolly. "Mind yourself or my friend here," indicating Shim, "Will wither that hand with magic."

[Sebastion]

"Sey-mee-rah." Shim let the word roll off of a thick tongue like caramel, enjoying the way the combination of sound made the beautiful creature's name. Two hands lay cool against her trim neck for balance, the other two relaxing in the air as he watched the world rise and fall before him, letting his guide show him the way. "Shim greatly enjoys name's, and yours is as wonderful as they come. His own is Sebastion Hyacinth Isabella Mordecai, but perhaps Semira can see why most call him Shim." He could almost leap up and down with glee when the woman mentioned a Pycon inhabiting the garden of concubines. A gardener for a garden...would that not mean someone to look after the flowers? Even as he thought the idea he knew he was right, guardians and protectors, and to think one was a magic wielding Pycon! He had a most dire urge to ask the woman more, yet was too distracted by her form and manners with the other exhibits in the party. When the handsome man, dressed in fineries Shim could admire even if his little form was not envious, pushed a bit too far, a deep rumble like thunder in a clay pot emerged from Shim's mouth. She was full of energy and life, this concubine, and Shim was so pleased with his choice of escort. He stared long and hard at the man, for he lacked severely in being able to hold together male shapes. That being said he wished to do it for his new friend, and so blank eyes drank in the details of the man. How his hair looked a bit wind swept, yet the glint in it clearly made this a purposeful maneuver. The nature of his adornments, simple, yet clearly made from gold with the infrequent garnishment of precious gems, even the way he stood, his hips angled almost like a females in a coy cat way. It took a moment, but Semira's gardener formed perfectly upon her shoulder, a striking copy of the figure harassing her. Shim angled himself as the man did, looking on with great amusement as his eyes widened at the little joke. To add to what she said he shook his head a little at the Eypharian male. "Shim wouldn't wish to harm him dearest flower, but if he leaves me no choice..." Here was a required flare for the dramatic that Shim possessed in full. he was not sure if the trick would work, slowly regretting the fact that the only magical form he knew was alchemy at the moment. That being said he concentrated on that feeling within, the way that when he created something the circle of djed was formed, within himself and within his constructed circle, bringing one element to another. He tried to recreate the tip of this process, just the collection of djed within that would otherwise be brought to the materials he used. He felt that lightness well up within him, a strength that made him feel as large as the giants who surrounded him, and focused this tiny amount into the palm where his gnosis mark lay. As he did so he casually exposed the appendage, almost as if the act was unintentional, and as he hoped, the glowing alchemy circle, the only true color on his body that normally pulsated a faint blue glow, surged to life for the briefest instant. It faded swiftly, for he had taken only part of the steps required to expend djed in an alchemical way. There had been no severing of his body, nor contact with any creation. Even so the moment was long enough for anyone in the vicinity to catch sight of the intricate symbol, and Shim couldn't help but let out a deep giggle of delight at his trick.