Closed [Semele Park] Silent Poetry (Kaie)

[Trisa Miroy]

4th of Summer, 516 AV.
The 19th bell in Semele Park.

For the longest time there were only a few events that could force Trisa out of the safety of her home, with the least formidable scenario being that her house had burnt to the ground around her. As such, she had become very familiar with the layout of her home. She was familiar not just to the point that she could navigate the house blindfolded (not that she'd ever want to), but also to the point where she could partner creaks with their individual boards and groans with their specific door hinges. She was absolutely unified with and at peace in that house.

This condo, however, was a whole different story. Despite the fact that it was only a single room (two if the garden was included), Trisa knew it about as well as she knew the look of the back of her own head. If the doors creaked, she jumped. The plants rustled, she jumped. Her own damned foot scuffed against the floor, she jumped. Every little thing flung her into moments of brief, yet intense, anxiety. Being alone didn't help matters either; her mother was no longer there to talk her to sleep, and her sisters couldn't scan their room for threats. Now, it was just Trisa and the plants.

The darkness was the first thing to go. The young woman switched to an almost nocturnal schedule. Though she wasn't a fan of wandering in the dark, she was super not a fan of trying to sleep in it. The second thing was her spare time. Since she was trying to lessen her anxiety's grip on her life and her home was already nothing short of awful, Trisa had taken up going on walks whenever she didn't have something she needed to do. She treated it like a necessity. She'd tell herself: go on a walk or you'll crack your head open on the tiles or you'll die alone in this apartment with nothing but plants as friends if you stay here. It was dramatic, yet oddly motivating.

And so that afternoon, Trisa woke of from a strangely restful sleep and threw on her shirt and pants. She tried to ignore the charcoal smudges that littered her clothing as she loaded her bag with her supplies. "Charcoal, book, water, pants-shoes-shirt..." She bulked the last three items together in her checklist because, honestly, did it matter which one you were missing if you were missing one? Trisa didn't believe so. After double and triple checking that she had everything, the girl transferred a kiss from her hand to her mother's apron. Patting the apron gently as it hung over the back of her chair, Trisa smiled. "Bye mom." With that, she was out the door.

Though she was still a mess, Trisa found it easier and easier to make the journey outside every day. She didn't trek far; she had carved a nice little territory for herself that stretched from Nevar's Tower to Semele Park, with her condo lying pretty close to in the middle of those two. Today, she was headed to the park.

When she arrived, she scoped out the trail for a good spot. Trisa wasn't very picky, but if she was going to sit in a place for an extended period of time then it needed to check a few boxes first: no sun, no loud noises, not very many people (bonus points if there aren't any people at all), no apparent signs of bugs or slimy creatures, no moisture, no nearby smoke, no offensive odors, and, of course, it had to be a flatish surface.

It took a while, but it was well worth the effort. Trisa plopped down on the corner of a bench located towards the back of the park. A nearby tree offered her tattoos protection from Syna's affection while the surrounding flowers provided good material to sketch. Tucking her legs beneath her, Trisa opened her sketchbook to the page she had been drawing on before and got to work.


Tukant Common

[Kaie]

In just a few short days her life had changed. It was a cliche thought to be sure, and yet no matter which way she looked at the recent events that had lunged from obscurity as of late, it was nothing short of fitting. A spontaneous, casual expression of intimacy had resulted in a deep and everlasting bond between herself and a Kelvic. Even as she wandered the streets while Syna began to plunge toward the horizon, she could feel Skyard as if he walked beside her at present. It was a strange feeling to be one and yet two all at once. To be apart and yet always together. The benefits and burdens of a bondmate were not all that rested upon her.

Yesterday she had found her young sister arriving upon the docks of Riverfall to embark on her own pilgrimage to the barbarian world, just as Kaie had done many years ago. Feeling the warmth of kindred flesh in her embrace had been a blessing from the Goddess Queen herself. Yet Jeida's arrival had also violently torn open old wounds. Their relationship was nothing short of complicated Thus, Kaie chosen to attempt to find solace in an evening stroll. Perhaps if nothing else, the simple sounds of boots crunching gravel and sheathed gladius thumping upon hip could soothe her troubled mind.

Sunkissed fingers reached down to brush along the length of rope that sprung up upon entry to Semele Park, separating beautiful, native plants from the Myrian prowling along the garden's walkway. The genius of the local gardeners was plain upon singular glance. Here and there sprouted cleverly placed splashes of color, giving rise to a landscape with an almost perfectly balanced palette. The park was fell short of the intricate designs and unparalleled beauties one might enjoy at the Cliffside Grotto. However, there was comfort to be found in the simplistic beauty the vista provided. She was equally grateful the approach of nightfall had thinned the usual crowd of its visitors.

It wasn't until Kaie rounded a sloping bend deep in the park that she found something of true interest. Seated upon the corner of a bench sat a curious young woman. The tick bright amber eyes set themselves upon the figure, a smile had threatened to switch at the corners of her lips. Between the collection of tattoos and piercings characterizing flesh, Kaie had thought the stranger was a Myrian. It was the paleness of skin and blonde hair that quickly alerted Kaie of her grievous mistake.

Rather than enjoy the last rays of sun before the goddess vanished from the sky, the pale woman hid herself among the shadows of a looming tree. The Myrian tilted her head as she took a short tick to study her. The fearsome-looking woman did not brandish steel or sport any apparent scars that testified to meddle tested. Instead, with charcoal clutched between focused fingers, she drew upon a paper-filled book that rested upon her lap.

"Nice ink," the Myrian woman offered bluntly in the Common tongue as she approached. "It is rare to see a woman not of my people covered in tattoos. You've even collected more art upon your skin than most men across the Suvan I've met." Kaie coupled the compliment with a flash of teeth. Meanwhile, her curious gaze onced-over the woman again now that she was closer, picking up the true shapes of the darkened lines that colored the woman's flesh. "It is...refreshing."

[Trisa Miroy]

Trisa was immediately drawn to the sharp edges of a nearby dark purple flower. They were clean and distinct, much like the tattoos that Trisa chose to carry on her skin. She was attracted to the sharpness of straight lines and the simplicity they offered. Curves and circles were not only so easy to mess up, but they also reflected the ways of life that scared the girl most. With a line, one could see the end and everything between them and it. Curves, however, provided mystery, and mystery was no friend to Trisa. Circles were just as off-putting; Trisa was trying to change her life, not loop around back to the beginning.

The girl pressed the corner of her charcoal into the paper, dragging it along to outline the five-pointed shape of the flower before her. She was careful not to disturb the trail of black dust left behind. When she was finished, she lowered her hand in order to inspect the shape she had created. It was a little lopsided, but that was alright; flowers weren't perfectly symmetrical. Not that it mattered at that point anyway. She didn't have an eraser and charcoal wasn't removed easily. If she made a mistake, she just had to deal with it. Deep down inside, Trisa was infuriated with the immovability of her medium of choice. It drove her to perfectionism, and perfectionism only fueled the anxiety that already firmly gripped her life. Perhaps that was why she chose charcoal: to slowly erode her need to have everything just right. In the long run, she needed to let go of this obsession. There was no eraser for the skin and her future clients weren't paying for a tattoo with a side of nervous breakdown.

Satisfied with her work, she gently swiped her finger over the excess charcoal. The flower before her was dark purple on the outside, but nearly white in the center. In order to mimic this transition, she smudged the lines in towards the center of her drawing. Trisa was a repeat offender when it came to over-blending, so she tried to restrain herself as she smeared the dust. During one of her periodic glances to her subject, Trisa heard someone speak nearby. Common. Again. She sighed as she translated the woman's words into Tukant and formulated her response.

As she thought, Trisa took a quick moment to survey the voice's owner. The slightest of smirks came to her face as she noted the stark contrast between her and this foreigner. While Trisa was pale all over, this woman was various shades of coppery-brown. Scanty clothing revealed toned muscles that Trisa didn't even know existed. Suddenly the artist was grateful for her seemingly abundant clothing.

"Thank you." Trisa nodded as she spoke softly. She cautiously eyed the weapon that hung around the woman's waist and wondered what it was that she wanted. "Refreshing?" It wasn't a word most would use to describe tattoos. "Who are your," It took a moment to fetch the correct word, but she eventually got there. "People?"

Tukant Common

[Kaie]

The Myrian woman cocked her head as her gaze drifted down to the page upon the other's lap. Even from her perspective she could make out the beginnings of a flower, its shape distinctly pointed. Each line had a clear beginning and end point upon the page, and a key role to play in the overall creation of the bigger image the artist had started to conjure. At first it seemed as if the image had accidentally bled into itself. Her brow furrowed. A mistake? she thought to herself even as her gaze moved beyond the paper in search of subject matter. A purple and white flower nearby seemed to hold the same sort of shape the artist had created, and upon a quick inspection of her art again, she discovered the bleeding was perhaps a substitute for purple to indicate contrast.

Kaie noted the accent in the woman's response with a bit of curiosity. Most Humans she had met were fluent in the Common tongue, save for the Svefra and Drykas people. Yet the Myrian did not recognize pronunciations or other oddities that matched that of either sub-race. Instead it was more in line with the Akalaks that roamed their sacred city. A Tukant speaker? The Myrian's lips twitched in a bit of amusement. For once it seemed her traditional clothing had not given her so completely away. "My people are the Myrians," she stated bluntly, working a bit more consciously to ensure her words weren't butchered by her own harsh accent. Amber eyes settled firmly on the face of the other woman, carefully gauging her reaction to such a declaration of heritage.

She extended a finger west toward the sound of the roaring falls and the bright light of sunset. "My people are from the western lands beyond the Suvan Sea. Our city, Taloba, sits within the jungle where Goddess Queen Myri reigns." Kaie stepped fearless forward toward the bench, dropping her arm to her hand could instead be extended toward the stranger. She had always found the barbarian gesture to be ridiculous for the sake of simple introductions, but with accumulating time abroad, the woman had seen it easiest to conform to social norms to navigate unfavorable aspects of her race's reputation. People always seemed more ready to do business with a "civilized" savage. "My name is Kaie. What is your name, artist? Are you a breeder for the Akalak?"

Her last question was perhaps insensitive, invasive, and poorly phrased. Yet, she was never an accomplished actress. Time in Riverfall had taught her a bit about the Akalak's necessity for willing wombs due to their lack of females within their own race. The women generally seemed to be treated relatively well in Riverfall and greatly respected for their sacrifice and aid. Still, her own upbringing in a world of matriarchs still manipulated her perspective. She would sooner see the Akalak race die out than the exploitation and submission of females. Her disdain for the city-wide practice was silenced only by something resembling indifference over the fate of barbarians without personal meaning to herself.

[Trisa Miroy]

Trisa placed her charcoal into the fold of her sketchbook with careful hands. The stuff was moderately expensive (especially when one is in between jobs), so Trisa never risked breaking or dropping it. She would have placed it over her drawings so that this woman's view would be blocked, but charcoal was a pain in the arse: it would've left an obtrusive trail of smudge through the sketch. Instead, Trisa just casually fidgeted with the top of the book in the hopes that her arm covered enough of the drawings.

The girl combed through her mind for some sort of information on the Myrian people. Aside from hearing the name used as the butt of some jokes, Trisa couldn't remember anything valuable. Coming up empty-handed, she just looked to the woman and slowly nodded once. Thankfully, her newfound company expanded. "A jungle?" Trisa squinted into the distance as she tried to visualize it. She wondered if the buildings of Taloba were built into the trees just as Riverfall's were built into the cliff. "You must be familiar with all of this climbing, then. And I guess it is green enough here." She spoke as she looked at the greenery around them, shrugging. She wasn't sure why she needed to justify the foreigner's stay out loud. She didn't look like the kind of person that stayed in one place for aesthetics anyway.

I don't touch people. Trisa's brain declared as the woman--Kaie, apparently--extended her hand. She eyed the hand briefly before deciding against resisting Kaie's polite gesture. It seemed even her hand was muscular, so Trisa wasn't taking any chances. Shaking the woman's hand, Trisa laughed lightly. "I am Trisa, and I am not a Nakivak." The shortness of Common phrases was especially cringe-worthy when directly paired with a Tukant word. Often times, she felt the need to add extra words into sentences just for Common to sound normal. Trisa winced lightly at the brevity after dropping her hand. "Do not tell any of them--" She feigned paranoia, looking over both shoulders before leaning in and continuing. "--but the falling water will have me before I 'breed.'" She couldn't take care of herself, let alone a nuisance of a mini-me. End of story.

"And what of you? Are you a 'breeder?'" Trisa joked. "No, but what are you doing in this city?" The girl readjusted herself, resuming the protective posture she had held before.

OOCIs this red font too hard to read over the green?

Tukant Common

[Kaie]

Kaie was never one who truly understood art. Judging by the way the other woman seemed to wish to hide her work from view, the Myrian could only deduce that she was either embarrassed by it or it was deeply personal. Kaie was a completely different sort of artist in an abstract way. Her brush was her gladius and her canvas the world about her. Like the other woman's deliberate lines, the savage's "brush strokes" were just as sharp. The edge of her sword slit open her medium to sprinkle bright red smears, droplets, and pools in her wake. The aftermath was never the same and the product had a tendency to herd coin to her purse. Of course this was not exactly a form the Myrian was about to try to bond over.

It didn't take a trained eye to notice the uneasiness the artist tried to hide when Kaie offered her hand in accordance to barbarian customs. The lightness of her grasp certainly betrayed her acting. She found herself wondering why it was she needed internal motivation to execute the handshake. Perhaps she, like most that were told tales of the savages of Falyndar, feared her. Whatever it might've been, it did not phase her. Racism and stereotypes led to a mistreatment and subtle bigotry she had become well-versed in addressing over time abroad.

"Trisa," the Myrian woman tasted the new name upon her tongue, repeated it back to ensure her accent didn't butcher its proper pronunciation. The artist's mock paranoia caught Kaie with a mirthful grin. A Riverfall native female with no interest in being exploited by the Akalak? Her grin broadened at the questions asked of her. "Petch no. I would see their aging, colored bodies to their graves before I carried for them," she spat with more spirit than she had initially intended. She warded the thought away soon after.

"I was making my way home, hoping to catch a ship headed west from these docks. Fate had other plans. Though I hope I do not remain here long..." Kaie seemed to remember herself for a tick, clearing her throat. "No offense." Curiosity pressed at her again, encouraged by the insecure posture of Trisa over her work. "Does it take time? To learn to...draw well?"

OOC:I could read it fine.

[Trisa Miroy]

Trisa's eyebrow raised in slight surprise as Kaie energetically responded to the rhetorical question. Well that's a little excessive... Children weren't her thing, but that didn't mean she'd kill people for her preference. In all truthfulness, she didn't know what she would kill for. Trisa liked to think that if she ever had a child that she'd kill for it, but she doubted that to be true. After all, she did nearly pass out any time a bug came too close to her; how could she ever be strong enough to kill a person when she couldn't even kill an insect?

First Orin, now this woman. Trisa wondered what it was with these foreigners and letting their minds slip through their lips. Every word that Trisa spoke was weighed and judged carefully before being sent out. Speech was all too powerful to be taken to lightly, especially when it was so easy to mess up whatever she was trying to say. And with this recent trend of her company only speaking Common, Trisa had to be even more conscientious.

"No offense." She repeated back to Kaie reassuringly. With that, the pair's attention was brought to the book in Trisa's lap. To Kaie's question, the artist impassively shrug-nodded. "Like anything, it does depend on how hard you work with it." Of course, Trisa had picked up drawing much faster than she had picked up unarmed combat. Judging by Kaie's appearance, it would probably be the opposite way for her.

"It was not like learning for me. I just do." One of her hands ran lazily through her pale locks. "And drawing 'well' is . . ." Trisa paused for a long time, scrunching her face as she fumbled around the darkness of her brain for the right word. Internally, she repeated the Tukant form of "subjective" over and over again. After too long of a pause, Trisa just settled for a less impressive alternative. "It is personal."

Tukant Common

[Kaie]

The Myrian woman could practically read the shock and perhaps discomfort the other woman felt in the face of such enthusiasm. The raising of brow suggested as much. However, not that she had made the bold suggestion aloud, she couldn't help but wonder just how long an Akalak lived. Were they like humans, here for one tick and gone the next? There was such a diversity of age throughout the city it was plausible they lived even longer than her own people. The protection of the city and lack of apparent enemies seemed to help their longevity. Truth be told, they'd see her to her grave long before the first lineage died out.

Kaie's mind settled back to the current, relevant conversation. In hindsight, the answer seemed obvious and her question dumb. Nonetheless, it was an appropriate one to ask for the sake of pleasant conversation. The Myrian wandered closer toward the drawer. Her eyes sought out the page again, searching for the likeness of the purple flower. She couldn't help but wonder if Trisa's "just doing" of drawing was like her practice of combat. When the need came she'd wander to some sort of competing space for a spar. It didn't matter where she was, homeland or otherwise. She'd get in there and either she won or her opponent beat her senseless. While the beating more often than not allowed her to return with more finesse to avoid past mistakes and losses, she doubted the discipline of drawing was remotely as punishing.

"Personal," the Myrian repeated quietly, more so for opportunity to reflect on what the Common word meant in the context than for Trisa's ears. She folded her arms. Could this be likened to combat again? Person style? Personal form? Personal learning curve? She glanced from the sketchbook and charcoal toward the purple and white flower, and then back again. It couldn't have been that had, she had decided right then. After all, it seemed one only needed to find their subject matter and then duplicate what they observed.

Suddenly the Myrian fished into the coin purse that hung from her side, procuring moments later a piece of charcoal. It was an odd place to keep the object. She didn't need to be an artist to figure that much. The Mizas within her pouch were certainly now coated in the black stuff, and it was a wonder the stick didn't break. When she'd met the little boy Adyel in the marketplace and bought a whole host of art supplies for him to utilize, she never thought she'd find further use for them again. Yet here she was...awkwardly clutching the charcoal in her fist before a superior artist.

"It looks easy enough. May I try?" It was a bold move from a bold woman, but she gestured apologetically toward the woman's sketchbook nonetheless. If she was going to compare the finesse necessary to wield a sword to that of a flimsy piece of charcoal, she would need paper to produce something to exhibit the results.

[Trisa Miroy]

Trisa glanced at the flowers once again. They looked like they were poisonous. Of course, the artist wasn't at all knowledgeable when it came to flora, or poison. But nevertheless, the way the middle of the flower raised as if it were reaching out to you, ready to take a bite of a too-curious finger...it was intimidating. A small grin twitched at the corner of the young artist's mouth as she drew parallels between the flower and herself. Trisa wasn't deadly--not in the least--but the whole point of her extensive throat tattoo was to appear as if she was. Even if she the ink resting beneath her skin didn't fool anyone, Trisa had hoped that it would at least prevent them from messing with her.

As the woman next to her seemed to be momentarily lost in her own world, Trisa returned to her sketching. She liked the idea of being a delicate and beautiful flower, however cliche that was. It'd be so nice to just be able to sit in one spot, do nothing, and be admired by a bunch of people. Of course, she'd have to be as mindless and dull as a flower, too, in order to get all the perks.

Trisa shrugged lightly as she scribbled inside the outline of the flower's outline. She pushed firmly in small circles towards the peak of one of the petals, creating a small pile of dust. At the sound of jingling coins, Trisa raised her head. Her thin fingers curled into a small wall around the dust, protecting it from any sort of breeze as Trisa's attention was elsewhere. Easy enough? Trisa pursed her lips in agitation. The sting of someone calling her work easy was visible across her face.

"You may." Trisa spoke bluntly and nodded. Gently, the artist ripped a clean sheet from the middle of the book. Since the pages were sheets that were folded in half then attached to the spine in that fold, the page was large and "easy enough" for a novice artist to handle. "You will want to be sitting." Trisa gestured with the blank paper. The pale woman swung her legs over the edge of the bench and turned her body so that it was more open to Kaie. "What would you like to be drawing?"

Tukant Common

[Kaie]

Kaie didn't need to be some sort of gifted aurist to know she had struck a nerve. It was in the movement of the other woman's lips, the tightness in her eyes. A "civilized" woman might've immediately tried to make amends to the wounded ego of her conversation partner. The Myrian would not have her opinion wavered by the delicacies of another's feelings. After all, it seemed all drawing entailed was a careful eye and a sure hand. If her work with her gladius over the years attesting to nothing else, it certainly did to those skills.

"Thank you," Kaie greeted Trisa's generosity and gently took the paper offered to her. She watched the tattooed woman make room along the bench beside her, and after a tick of deliberation, the Myrian conceded to try out the bench rather than the earth. The discomfort was almost immediate. She positioned the paper flat upon her legs, yet when she dared to let the charcoal hover toward the paper, she realized it would bend to fill the gap between her knees. Her brow furrowed. Legs were crossed instead and a smaller surface was yielded. Well petch. It would have to do.

"I'm not sure yet," the Myrian admitted. Her back bent over the paper, charcoal fidgeting between fingers unsure where was best to grip it. Eventually she settled. How hard could it be? The words echoed in her mind before she allowed it to go blank, eyes roving the world for subject material. It wasn't long before her eyes settled upon something of interest. A glance was stolen toward Trisa before her time of focus truly began. Charcoal hovered over the paper. Brow furrowed with concentration. Then the fateful attempt was made. Kaie pressed the charcoal against the page and began to slowly maneuver it about to create a mirror image. Her tongue probed the side of her cheek, hand pausing when her eyes tried to refresh her memory of the object. After a chime the Myrian pulled back to observe her work.

The page was suddenly and violently crumpled up between her hands. All she has seen for her short labor was an incomprehensible series of lines and accidental smudges on the page. The grotesque copy of the Akalak guard meandering ahead of them along the path looking like nothing more than misshapen stick figure. Her own words entered her mind again. How hard could it be? The Myrian seemed to remember herself suddenly, and with an apologetic look toward her tattooed companion, humbly uncrumpled the paper. She cleared her throat and casually flipped it over to use the other side. "Your art does seem to require...practice. Any advice?" It was all the Myrian could do not to snap the charcoal between her fingers.