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TDM: April
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aefenglom's test drive! All threads can be considered game canon, should you choose to do so; regardless of if you pick specific threads to remain canon to the game, the prompts and test drive itself will be. This will be touched on later in-game, so it's fairly important to note! Aside from that, here are some quick reminders:• Reserves Open Today! If you're interested in securing a spot, put one in! We accept applications without reserves too, of course. Reserves will expire three days before the end of the application period, on the 28th.With that taken care of...
• Applications Open The 24th! These will last until the end of the month, the 30th, with the game formally beginning on May 1st. The application page can be found here.
• If you have any questions about the game or the world, please refer to the FAQ page; if you still have questions, feel free to ask them! For questions specific to the test drive, please ask them on the appropriate thread.
• For the purposes of the test drive, your character will have access to all magics taught by the Coven if they're a Witch, and as much of their shifted form as you'd like if they're a Monster. Feel free to play around and experiment with each!
• Test drive threads can be used as samples for your applications!
You feel like you're floating. Around you, colors and sounds and smells swirl as if trapped in a whirlpool, vibrancy and hue ever shifting. The more you watch them, the less solid they are; they only become clear out of the corner of your eye. The area around you begins to feel more solid as well, until your feet are on the ground, the wind brushes playfully against your face -
and you know one thing, and one thing alone: this is a dream, and an incredibly realistic one at that.
The Tea Party
The air turns a sweeter smell, almost like a bakery; the gentle laughter and chatter of living creatures filters in through leaves that brush against you, hanging from winding vines that hang from above. Flowers in shades of orange and red glow faintly among the greenery, their petals curling in shyly once they're paid attention to. As the area comes more into focus, the shadows of insect-winged forms become clearer, flitting about - talking about some kind of party, about a Queen, about the Courts meeting on neutral ground for the first time in a thousand years.
You're not entirely sure what's going on, and it doesn't seem as if anyone's noticed you've arrived - but three different paths unfurl in your mind's eye, vague in shape and meaning.
 A Taste of Faeryland... Following the voices, you find them: smaller-than-average humanoids with thin limbs, a variety of wings (prismatic butterfly, fuzzy moth, delicate bee - all of it), large, glittering compound eyes, antennas fitting their winged insect-type... Those familiar with the tales of the fae might recognize these Monsters as something similar. They greet you as if you were an old friend regardless of your appearance, inviting you to sit down at the table - which seems to go on forever in the large dining hall-esque canopy of nature they have set up, lined with elegant porcelain tableware and shimmering orbs of magic. The food is similarly endless, ranging from the familiar to the unusual, and careful observation (or just plain digging in) shows the following effects: breakfast foods make you glow and emit colorful sparks, brunch foods get you floating as if filled with bubbles, lunch foods will make you feel as if you've taken part in happy hour, dinner foods will make you insatiably hungry, and dessert will make you feel as if you should simply stay in Faeryland forever... It's possible to mix and match these with effects, but do be careful. The creatures present speak in high, lilting voices about nothing in particular at all - if asked anything serious, they merely give the character a curious if disproving look and say it's impolite to speak of politics over a meal. Ask something a little more lighthearted though, and they laugh and still... don't quite answer, patting your hand and asking if you'd like an extra slice of buttered bread and jam. The tables aren't exactly the best place for eavesdropping and learning what's going on, it seems - but there are plenty of exits out of the dining hall. Large, beetle-like Fae stand guard at the entrances of various hallways outside of the hall in the castle though, preventing anyone from entering them. When asked, they simply reply these are to private quarters that ordinary guests aren't allowed into and refuse to budge on the matter. |
 A Coalition of Interests... The Seelie and the Unseelie Courts of the Fae - whether you know them or not, evidently it's a big deal that they're meeting tonight. Or over several days and nights; the Fae themselves seem to be in a bit of an argument over how long they actually want to stay in the same company as their counterparts, neutral ground of the Dewaint Forest. Regardless, there are no marked differences between the two physically, and they all speak of a singular Queen heading them; behaviorally, though, that's another thing entirely. Those of the Seelie Court are quicker to engage in conversation and prefer it one-on-one, hardly allowing a word in edgewise and getting irritated when interrupted; their pranks are usually mildly malicious, with spells causing uncontrollable laughter, color changes, and charms to make the charmee fall in love at first sight with whomever they see first peppering their repertoire. Returning to their good graces is fairly easy - the gift of something pretty as an apology tends to work, but each Fae has their own very particular gift they like. If it's messed up even a little bit, they won't accept it, and will merely play another trick upon the giftee. Those of the Unseelie Court, meanwhile, are a little harder to talk to; they prefer to prank and trick first to test those they might be interested in as a group, not unlike children trying to get the attention of someone they like by pulling their hair. Their pranks usually range from genuine hurt (such as pulling hair, stinging nettles, or simply beating them with bound vines) to curses (losing one's voice, the head of an ass, or full-scale animal transformations). Withstanding these, or standing up to these Fae, earns as much of their ire as it does their respect - the truly respectful human will be subjected to headpats and collars, like a pet. |
 A Treacherous Adventure... As beautiful as it is outside of the main dining hall and newly-grown castle (just for the momentous occasion itself, going by the rumors!), Faeryland as a whole is mired in danger. The wrong step sends one tumbling down a rabbit hole full of interesting sights, landing in a wide field of drooping flowers that snore softly and scream bloodcurdling loud when awoken. No matter how long one walks, discovering both familiar and unfamiliar sights, never ends in finding the castle again. In fact, it's much easier to find yourself accidentally going deeper into the woods. The exceptionally tall trees of the Dewaint Forest show hints of decay and rot, the smell of the dead barely covered by the flowers desperately growing across the blackened bodies of Fae and other animals that wandered too close to the growing infection in the area. What look like corpses will tremble and rise when they sense someone is close by - their eyes and mouth are pure white, contrasting with the darkness around them, and throughout the shell are cracks of a similarly pulsing whiteness; it smells magical, it feels incredibly heavy and overpowering, and it might just be too powerful for those most sensitive to the corruption and to magic. The shadowy creatures' wings are larger than normal and monstrous, with their bodies held up by the dew-crying flowers that simultaneously hold them back yet sneak their roots closer to grab those who awakened them and drag them closer. Where the monster begins and ends with the corrupted nature it's made its bed in isn't completely clear, but one thing is: it's very, very hungry. Thankfully, it's a good thing some of you have new abilities at hand, and some of you have a few neat changes to help. Teaming up makes things go quicker, and once defeated, these creatures bleed white magic and disappear in ashy smoke, shell breaking off in bits to reveal a dried-up corpse of a Fae. Nothing else remains, not even a hint to their identity, and the more of these monstrously-turned Monsters characters meet, the bigger and more terrifying they get. |
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[Because he is indeed dressed as a humble traveller, not shabby so much as makeshift.
He makes an open movement with his arms and shoulders, halfway between a beckon and a bow. It expresses: if he would like to accompany him, he would be welcome - and if he doesn’t, that is fine too. Then without further ado Solas proceeds to approach the frog-fae.
The frog-fae’s friends have left it alone; it remains floating in place, legs crossed as though it were sitting. As Solas approaches the frog-fae, it revolves in place to regard him. Its bulbous black eyes are limpid and twinkling, and it wears a single daisy on its head as a hat.
After a beat, in a tone of thoughtful regret, it says, “It’s rude to laugh, you know.”
It sighs. “What is yoooour name?” On the long vowel, its vocal sac expands to full.
If he chose to come with Solas, the frog-fae will turn to him as well and say, “And yooooours?”]
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none of the books that francel has read have ever advised him not to give his name to members of beast tribes, and so he gives it freely, unthinking.]
I am Francel — [a sudden flight of fancy overtakes him; there is something about the frog's daisy that reminds him of the archbishop's mitre] — Your Eminence.
[the frog's eyes bulge. it seems to be attempting to do something, but there is nothing that it can accomplish with only one of francel's forenames, and it soon becomes distracted by its new title. "hmm. hmmmm. eminence. yooooooour eminence. a fine sound. better than featherdane — less than her highness. your eminence — indeed, indeed."
solas's incessant laughter rouses its attention — its head swivels towards the sound. "is he having, shall we say, a good time?"]
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[Easy enough. In Solas’ world names are not known to have particular power. But if Solas is his true name, perhaps it is so many millennia of nuance, meaning and essence removed from what it was that it no longer can function as such; that, or perhaps his intrinsic nature as an elvhen blocks it. In any case, he suffers no immediate consequence for his indiscretion.
But Solas is vulnerable to laughter at the moment, and Your Eminence has the effect of escalating his quiet chuckling to open snickering. Francel’s inspired nickname does succeed at mollifying the frog-fae, though. When it looks back at him his expression is open enough Solas thinks he can do without preamble.]
Not especially, no. I believe I have caused offence to one of the fae numbering among you, and thus been stricken with this compulsive laughter. I seek to have it dispelled.
[It squints at him. “Ah, yes… yes. An enchantment. I thought you only strange and offensive, but you are, indeed, strange, offensive and cursed.”
Solas tries for ‘conciliatory’ and achieves merely ‘elated’:] I understand the effect is likely trying, Your, pffheeheh, Eminence –
[He breaks off to cover his mouth, shoulders shaking with repressed laughter. It sighs again.
“Well, there’s noooo hope for you,” it informs him morosely. “No, none, for I myself was cursed with this -” it gestures vaguely at its head - “at a moon gathering three midsummers ago, yes – and suffered terribly since! Look at me.” It sheds a single froggy tear. “I’m hideoooous.”]
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Hideous? Why, not at all, Your Eminence! Otherworlders we may be, perhaps, with a different sense of aesthetics — but I thought to approach you for how wise and composed you seem, compared to your peers.
[the frog blinks, wipes its massive froggy tear from its froggy cheek. its eyes glisten with moisture, bulging once more as they focus on francel's display of compassion. "truly?" it croaks, punctuating the question with a ribbit. "wise, you say?"]
And composed.
[the frog sniffles, its aura of serene melancholy returning to it once more. "balderdash," it proclaims. "but very kind balderdash. alas, i've not the means of dispelling your friend's curse. he will have to petition the fae who blighted him, and if i have lived in the duchess's disfavooooor for three midsummers, why then, soooooolas has no hope, i say — none at all."
then it pauses, seems to reconsider. its clear eyelids blink over its eyes. "perhaps i might sway your miniscule chances by a thread, a hair, a string," it relents, after a moment. "which was the fae that cursed you? gooooo on — point them out."]
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...That would also likely be decidedly unhelpful as his condition (such as it is) begins to edge closer towards ‘hysterical’. He is therefore relieved Francel is here to take this interaction firmly in hand, with the charm and deftness of a courtier.
(And that is nostalgic. It has been too long since he has seen an elf of such pride and charisma. What life has this man led? He is not one of the elvhen, but he might as well have stepped into this dream from one of the memories of Arlathan.)
As prompted, Solas scans around for the fae again with as much focus as he can muster given that his eyes have filled with tears. It seems an impossible task - but there!]
There! I see it watches us – over, over by the – ha – the winged badgers ahaha!”
[The bee-fae has been spying on them; when Solas makes eye-contact with it, it darts behind the badgers. It forgets about hiding its wings. The frog-fae swivels to see. Upon doing so, it falls into dismay once more, as Solas doubles over laughing loudly now. (Winged badgers! he despairs inwardly, Why must it be so hilarious!)
“Then the cup of hope does runneth dry," intones the frog-fae, "there is nooooot one drop, as I suspected. For that is the very same villain that disfigured me! Think of it. First lie out the bait, the hope of restoration - but it is a trick, a snare, the cruellest jest. For it requires completion of an entirely impooossible task.”
“Yes, in return for a gift, a tribute, the curse would be lifted: yet it is impossible.” It closes its eyes, and between gritted teeth (or gritted gums, if that is the amphibious equivalent) delivers the grave news: “For the gift must be a sprig of roooosemary...”]
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Why — but whatever could be so impossible about a sprig of rosemary?
[he does not mean to cast doubt upon the frog-fae's words, but now its moroseness seems to have approached a point of absurdity.]
Is rosemary not to be found in these parts, Your Eminence?
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“Why else? Because it is repugnant, revoooolting, repulsive and quite impossible to hold aside, with all its beastly thorns. It weakens our magic, stings our soft hands,” it puts out its hands and wriggles its long, human-like fingers to demonstrate their softness, “and I'd be washing its nasty oooodour out for seasons.
“Oooonly those Seelie fae, with their hardened hearts and carapaces, desire such – they positively reek of it, indeed. Why, they even bring it to these shared feasts! I think it's meant as insult. Oh, loathsome, detestable roooosemary!: gentlefae such as I, and gentle mortals such as you, must surely ever avoid it. That is oooonly wisdom.”
Solas inhales deep, puts his head up sharply and, gathering himself, manages firmness.]
That is entirely absurd. At any point -- over the past three years [a laugh] you might have just -- [he breaks off as giggling overcomes him once more, and he ducks his head again.
The frog-fae tilts its head the other way, at Solas now.
And, as it regards Solas loftily, with the same tone of mournful regret as at the start of this conversation it pronounces, “Yoooou are very rude.”]
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Never you mind him, Your Eminence. His curse has made him most disagreeable — I assure you he is a most pleasant and affable man when he is not thus blighted. We shall heed your good counsel.
[the frog-fae croaks. its throat sac twitches oddly as its head swivels toward francel once more — then towards solas, then back again. ribbit. "yoooooou could seek more refined company, lord francel," it sniffs, somewhat haughtily. "a most gentle mortal. yooooou would make a fine offering to our queen. yes, yes — bedecked in lavender and goldenrod. a most luxurious gift."]
I-I am sure such an honor is far above the likes of my station. Pray excuse us for the nonce, Your Eminence. I would like to see if Solas can manage a drink for his parched throat.
[imbued with a confidence he does not feel, particularly as the frog has just either improvised or intuited his title, francel attempts to gently steer solas away from the frog-fae ere more damage can be done.]
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Still, though it’s come at a cost (his self-possession), he’s learned what he needed to – a mere sprig of rosemary, then, is to be his saving grace in this dream-turned-nightmare. A simple task, on which he is keen to set himself upon without delay.
Gladdened by Francel’s unexpectedly careful and gracious treatment of himself, and gladder still at the prospect of being done with this amphibian, Solas is quick to fall in with the plan.]
Thank you, yes, water – haha – would be welcome –
[Manners not forgotten, he attempts a courteous bow, and himself believes he manages a fair approximation – though outwardly it may appear only another spasm.] Ehehexcuse us, Your Eminence.
[The frog-fae remains in its place, not responding now with words – but when it’s clear they truly do mean to stage a hasty exeunt its black eyes all but bulge out of its head. Allowing Francel to steer him if he will, they hurry away: as they do, a round of unhappy, ominous croaking starts up, echoing after their backs.]
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Your Eminen — ?
[by his tone, this was meant to be a question, but his eyes widen before he can complete the final syllable; his throat closes up of its own accord. frustration writ clear across his features, he puts a hand to his neck as his vocal cords strain against the blockage, but no sound emerges.
francel has been silenced.
the frog-fae's eyes gleam once more with angry tears. "yooooooou!" it croaks, past guttural chirps that might be sobs. "nasty, sly, deceptive little mortals! ask a wretched, cursed creature for advice, and then leave it used, and abandoned, and abused!" its clear eyelids squeeze out tears as quickly as it is producing them. "harrumph! harrumph, i say! see now how the egghead fares without his friend's silvered tongue!"
so saying, the frog-fae flits off at once on its dragonfly wings, too small in truth to hold it up. it buzzes off into the crowd of faes; presumably, it seeks its compatriots once more in order to report upon the great injustice these mortals did impose upon it.
robbed of his voice, francel looks at solas with an expression both bemused and terrified. weakly, he shrugs. well, what more can be done?]
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Three beats pass, and he bursts out laughing in his face.
Upon gathering himself once more, his voice intermingles giggling with mortification, while his eyes are widened and remorseful.]
Please. Get rosemary. [a snort.] The feast. With all ha-haste. I will be here. [pause for laughter.] With the b-b-bee.
[He does not attempt to say aloud that he is sorry, though he is. Francel has the social sensitivity to understand the unspoken, and further words at this point can only underline and thus serve to increase the basic ridiculousness quotient of the entire situation. His remaining composure will surely be required for making amends with the bee-fae who started this all.
But he is strongly aware he bears responsibility for Francel's curse, as he was the one to entangle Francel into this farce. He is determined to make up for it by seeing them both out of it, smoothly as possible. Even if he must giggle all the while.
If Francel agrees with his plan, he will nod grimly and go in search of the flying badgers and the bee-fae.]
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mercifully, it isn’t hard to find the rosemary. just as the frog-fae described, the members of the seelie court seem unusually fond of the herb, and a good deal of it has been cultivated along the perimeter of the banquet. careful not to stray too far from the crowd, francel searches the rosemary patches for particularly high-quality sprigs of rosemary — the greenest plants, the most unblemished leaves.
at length, two seem good enough for their purposes.
the sprigs of rosemary in hand, francel carefully tucks one into the pocket of his bliaud. he returns to solas with the other in hand, and silently proffers it to him as he approaches.]
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He approaches them slowly, adopting a sort of wary air that hopefully has the effect of infusing his laughter with contrition. The faery is so excited about this it begins audibly buzzing – then it remembers itself, and endeavours to look annoyed instead. In an undertone, it growls and yips to the badgers. They snuffle back in an understanding way, and flap away to give the pair of them space.
“Oh, you again?” Affecting boredom, it looks meaningfully at its sharp little claws. With an up-lilting, melodic voice it says, “We were sort of in the middle of a conversation? Y’know, it’s really rude to interrupt?”
Solas takes a deep breath.] Yes. And I ought – ha – to therefore apologise – both for doing so now, and for my most - pfft - discourteous dismissal of you earlier. I am remorseful, haha. [An inhale.] Deeply so, even. Such – such unconscionable decorum is ill-becoming of a guest ahahaha.
[It takes time to get through it, with all the giggling. Despite the difficulty, he’s laying it on very thick, and the laughter carries the sarcasm – but the faery doesn’t pick up on it. From its glow, it's clearly relishing this. Slowly, so that it might draw this out, it says, “I doooon’t knooooow...”
He casts his gaze back over his shoulder - and providentially, that's when Francel makes his return. He rejoins him at his side with herbs in hand. The fae watches Francel too, with intent, beady eyes.
In a quick transaction he accepts the rosemary, and then proffers one sprig in turn to the fae.]
Haha, but of course, I would not think to come and beg your for- hehe, forgiveness -- without a suitable gift for you...
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obviously delighted, it floats a short distance into the air, twirling, its glittering faery dust puffing out in small pink clouds beneath its wings. when it lands, it seems to be trying to recompose itself. "well, i guess since you've been soooooo apologetic, you know, kind of like when one of the badgers was playing mini-golf with the teakettle, and then madame featherdane stepped in looking for a bag of sweets, but all she found was a pile of lost balls — and do you know, she really hasn't been the same ever since her husband contracted the cwyld, poor thing —"
(francel accidentally inhaled a bit of faery dust when the bee twirled in the air — he sneezes several times, without sound. his apologetic, mournful sniffling seems to remind the bee-fae of what kind of audience it is entertaining.)
"oh, right." it adjusts the floral circlet atop its head. "well, what i mean is, i don't knoooooow. maybe if you kneel, i can accept your apology even with all that silly giggling."
...it says, as if solas's giggling were not its own fault.]
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Solas needs to speak this ancient, forgotten word now. It comes out as:] Fuck.
[He laughs.] Really?
[It scrunches up its little face: its wings begin to shift perceptibly from ‘happy buzzing’ to ‘angry buzzing’. He hastily holds up his hands.] No – haha, no. You are – right. [He briefly shuts his eyes, finding this more difficult than he himself knows to be reasonable, and begins to descend onto one knee. With still-dripping sarcasm he says:]
I, stranger and, haha, a guest – have imposed [Badly repressed snort.] upon your own g-gracious generosity and, pfft, welcome. I thanked you with - [Hahaha.] with awful rudeness born of my pride. I have just now very nearly committed that same insult again. [Laughing, etc.] Verily, I am humbled. Though a scoundrel such as I scarcely deserves it, I beg -
[He notices he’s stopped laughing just as the cloud of glitter falls over him. The fae holds up its hands, now itself doubling over with laughter.
“Stop, stop, stop! I can’t take it anymore. I was only joking, you doofus! Ooh, awful rudeness born of my pride,” it mimics, rolling around mid-air in hysterics. “That’s what you sound like! Salamander’s teeth, I can’t believe you seriously KNELT to me! Oh, nobody’s going to believe me when I tell them all about this, which I am going to do, in great detail, to everyone I know.”
Solas stands once more, slowly, wearing an expression that often comes over him after he has been exposed to Sera for the entirety of a fortnight-long Inquisition expedition. It says ‘greatly irritated’, yes, but also ‘deeply, existentially wearied.’ Flatly:]
Yes. You got me. Well done.
no subject
presumably, faes have no real concept of gender, but the frog-fae called this bee "the duchess" in passing, and it seems girlish enough. francel has never been especially successful with women, nor does he consider himself possessed of a handsome face, but it's an easy enough thing to step forward in solas's place. gallantly, francel drops to one knee, then reaches to take the bee-fae's hand, pressing a kiss to its knuckles as if it is just another noble lady he has been asked to greet at a banquet.
it stops rolling around in the air, staring at francel almost in shock. "oh?" it asks after a pause, deadly quiet compared to its squealing from before. "oh, the doofus has a friend, that's right. well, what do you want, mortal?"
wordlessly, francel produces the second sprig of rosemary from his pocket, and presses it into the bee-fae's hand before he lets go.
it — she? — stares at the sprig of rosemary, first in appraisal, then in approval. "oh, you've got a favor to ask, too, don't you. cat got your tongue?" its beady eyes squint, the compound texture in them suddenly more conspicuous in the morning light. "oooooh, no, i see it now. frog's got your tongue, hmm? well, i bet you want me to undo that curse of yours, don't you. one for the rude elf and one for the sad one. tee hee! well, maybe i could do that — put a bee in old frogmore's bonnet, tee hee! fine, fine. i accept the rosemary as payment. but do me one more favor..."
francel shakes his head — no. he stands, considering the party; it doesn't take long for him to spot the frog. silent, he points to the frog, then draws a circle around his own face. the frog's head. can't you undo that curse? you're the one who put it on him.
the bee-fae stops short. a bee's eyes cannot grow larger, surely, but it seems somehow stunned. "that curse?" it asks, in disbelief. "you want me to undo that one? not yours?"
francel nods, solemnly. he casts a glance at solas, standing by his side. and solas's too, of course.
the bee seems astonished — perhaps even dismayed. "well, i never," it declares, adjusting the floral circlet atop its head once more. "mortal goody-two-shoes thinks chivalry's not dead yet." its expression does not change, but its shrieking, spiteful voice softens into something formal and dignified as it was when it announced that we are the courts of the seelie and the unseelie, come to convene...
"a mortal has asked of me a selfless act for an unseelie fae not even his friend. very well — this shall not be borne."
dramatically, it spreads its glowing wings, then rises up into the air. with a snap of its fingers, all of their curses are immediately dismissed — solas stops giggling, francel gasps as he finds his throat cleared once more, and across the hall, the frog-fae looks like a dragonfly once more, its eyes wide as it clutches its de-frogified head in disbelief.
"the grand duchess of the unseelie court has rendered judgment!" the bee-fae announces gaily, giggling, and then disappears, in a cloud of faery dust.]
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Thank you. [He bows.] These Unseelie fae are most troublesome to deal with – but you handled that masterfully. It seems you are my rescuer from a most tragicomical fate.
[The
frogdragonfly-fae drifts towards them, holding its cheeks (such as they are) in disbelief. Seeing its approach, he adds:] Let us see whether that will count here for leverage.[Tears are streaming openly from its anthropod eyes. It’s mumbling frantically, “Can this be? Surely my senses deceive me. This cannot be my own beautiful face, restored, returned, resplendent once more. No, it’s another trick – the wicked Duchess, silver-tongued Lord Francel, and YOU, Solas, Lord of Tricksters, have joined in conspiracy against mine sorry personage!”
Solas frowns sternly down at it.]
No tricks, Your Eminence, save for ones imagined by a self-pitying mind. Francel has petitioned the Duchess on our behalves. We both owe him a debt of gratitude. Master yourself, and make the proper amends.
[The dragonfly-fae turns away, sniffling. “To be scolded by one such as you is almost too much to bear.”
It looks at Francel and adds, in a watery voice, “But now I have drawn close, I see your friend does speak true. He no longer laughs obnoxiously, and you reek awfully of rosemary. So you’ve braved rosemary and become my rescuer, even after I stole from you. Thank… thank you. You are a kind soul, after all.”
It fumbles through its overcoat pockets, searching for something. “Now – it falls to me to set things right. Where did I put that voice…? Ah!”
With pinched forefingers it takes out a firefly made of light, struggling to free itself. It lets it go, and it at once zips straight up, across and into Francel’s throat.]
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I... yes. I am gladdened only that you have been restored to your proper form, Your Eminence. Forgive me for the stench.
[taking a moment to flash solas a rare, genuine smile, francel bows toward the dragonfly-fae with a sweeping gesture of his arm, his limbs arranged in practiced angles.]
Three summers cursed is three summers too long.
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"But that was mere restitution, an equaling of terms! A mortal dreamer such as you will not be around long enough to see the end of these festivities, impressive though it shall be. As my curse lingered, it seems right you take from here something that shall linger as well..." It finds what it was looking for not in a pocket but hidden in a patch of his coat.
It proffers its palm to Francel, whereupon sits a small button with a pearlescent gleam. "A token - for you, friend Francel. I insist!"
Solas leans in to examine it with interest, disguising his suspicion that this may be a final trick.]
It is magical, Your Eminence?
[Its air becomes melancholy. "Yes. We are but beings of magic and caprice," it sighs, "our essence mutable, and shifts ever with the seasons."
It perks up with pride. "And so too does this gift of mine! Come winter it glows warm, red as a hearth - by summer the opposite." ]
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I shall treasure it, Your Eminence, as I have treasured our interactions.
["so you should, and so you must!" it answers, in a manner that is both instructive and hopeful.
with its proper face, the dragonfly-fae cannot smile as such, and it has never seemed to be the especially happy sort, but its wings buzz with an emotion that certainly resembles joy. gradually — perhaps for the first time in the three midsummers it has been cursed — it, too, begins to emit a sparkling dust, then turns cartwheels in the sky as it flits off to parts unknown.
pleased with the way everything has been resolved, francel turns to solas, still smiling.]
Well! That was quite the adventure, wasn't it?
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He turns to Francel as well, a matching smile on his own face.]
It would make a good tale, no? It had enough twists and turns to match any fanciful story. [He grins, thinking of Varric.] I daresay an unscrupulous author could write it down and sell it.
And the chance intervention of a kind stranger who proceeds to save the day – those are generally only found in storybooks, too.
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I did not intend to emulate some fairy-tale hero! Only, well... I suppose I just took pity upon the poor creature. Imagine having a frog's head for one summer — much less three!
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But a statement of empathy and fellow-feeling with a strange creature who would generally be thought repulsive – that’s something purer, rarer, and something Solas respects. So, he doesn’t tarnish it by poking at it. He merely inclines his head with an enigmatic smile.]
Indeed? Though if you had, emulation would not be amiss. [says mr posturing is necessary] Having found ourselves assigned parts in such a fairy tale, we’re obliged to act out our given roles well.
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And what is your usual role? You strike me as a scholar — but in another story, I suspect you would be our leading man.
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Perhaps when I was a young man. Nowadays I am content to stay shadowed in the wings, watching those better suited than I take the spotlight.
[This is a tidy way to draw the conversation into a segue, so he adds:]
Unless, of course, narrative conventions of a good hero are different in your lands.
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