Pretty as a Picture

[zaviar]

Zavier was all in his usual colors. Though for the festival, he had gone with the palest clothes he had. Which included a warm white jacket and modest silvery slacks, as well as tall pale gray boots. Around his neck a scarf of charcoal gray hid the collar of the white dress shirt underneath, but white on white looked tacky anyway.

The nimbus was aware that he was far too focused on looks, but as an artist, he could not help it. He had his easel and a huge pad of paper set up some distance away from the tent, and a charcoal pencil in one white-gloved hand. He watched. He sketched. There was no need to pay attention to the steady chewing sound behind him.

The giant creature of orange and tawny brown loomed behind him. The ungainly neck allowed the mantel to reach the uppermost branches of the snow decked trees to chew on the last remaining leaves there. Big brown eyes of enormous vapidity were focused on the swirl of faerie life just ahead, and the giraffe's legs were comfortably splayed.

The creature looked unbelievably unlikely in the winter countryside, far too bright and big. And it was the main reason that Zavier stood back and sketched rather than risk the beast following him into the crowd and causing all sorts of havock.

[Marat]

Imbolc had always been one of his favorite times. The coming of spring is to be celebrated for it is the month of my birth, the month of nature’s birth and the re-gifting of the magic back to the land of the faerie. In earlier times, Marat heard that the Imbolc festival meant a great deal to the Celtic people, they would honor their gods, the faerie, with gifts so similar to the ones the faerie themselves celebrated. Wreaths of galanthus flowers and bouquets meant to appease the gods. It has always amused him that humans believe such idle materials are valued by the gods the same way they are valued to them. Faerie are a different breed, and humans would never understand.

He stands, leaning against a tree with a cup of warm eggnog, milk, cinnamon, and alcohol infused to create one concoction that he fancies in small amounts only. Marat never drinks to feel anything more than a slight buzz, because in order to get truly drunk (a feeling he has only ever felt once in his life) he would have to drink to the point of gluttony, and any man of his dignity and pride should have sworn off such vices.

Marat holds the cup to his lips, not drinking but surveying the crowd over the brim. It was an interesting lot, but he had noticed his queen had not arrived yet and due to the lack of fuss going on he also assumed the monarch of the Unseelie had not arrived yet either.

He is dressed in all white, per the event; with a flowing cotton shirt unbuttoned from the chest up. His breeches are white as well and on his feet is brown leather boots to match the belt around his waist. His scabbard hangs loosely at his side, his trusty bastard sheathed. It was not his only weapon but he had chosen to leave the rest of his artillery behind, he figures he would have no such use for things here.

It doesn’t take him long to notice the giant creature standing separately from the crowd, the bonded fae very close by. He makes his way over, cat-like stride slinking towards the point of curiosity. His eye peer at the best as he takes a sip of his ale. He gestures casually to the beast. ”Quite the creature you have here.” His voices resonates, somewhat loudly, it is a masculine voice, one that could be mistaken for arrogant but was simply very confident. He smiles brightly as he pulled the cup away from his mouth, waiting for the faerie to answer.

OOC: Done, though I'm not sure what difference it makes.

[Skylla]

OOC: Marat, though I don't believe your writing to be lacking in any way, for the sake of thread flow and readability, could you possibly switch to 3rd person? Some RPers have requested it. Sorry if these impedes you at all. :-\

[Tok]

There was a wonderful quality about Imbolc that just made the pixie want to take to the skies, maybe do a barrel roll, and just scream at the top of her lungs. Spring was, in her opinion, the most wonderful time of the year. She fluttered and twirled about the many other guests, a light beating of her wings in time with the music just barely keeping her feet on the ground. When she wasn't whirling about, she was surveying the other fae, perhaps looking for a dance partner or the next victim to infect with her insanity.

She spotted a well-dressed, gray-skinned gentleman at the edge of the crowd, and smiled to herself. Who would want to stand so far away from such a delightful party? She half-strode, half-skipped toward the man, her high-heeled white ankle boots barely touching the ground. Tok looked like the epitome of gothic lolita fashion with a sleeveless, knee-length, overly-frilly, lacy, white dress. A large white bow was tied across her chest, accented with black lace, the only other color on her frock. The dress hugged her waist tightly, the only sign of her slender figure. Her shoulder length hair was a giant mess of auburn curls, the only sort of control was the white headband that was only a few inches back from her hairline.

Tok stopped about a foot away from Zaviar, her own height coupled with the boots putting her eye level with the nimbus. She smiled sweetly, her black lips parting to show glistening white teeth. She noted the giraffe behind him, its presence immediately giving away his court. "Pretty, pretty Seelie, whatever are you drawing? Wouldn't you prefer to dance?" She spoke as if she were almost singing, every other word a different pitch.

And yet, as she talked to him, her eyes were focused on the other. The faint smell of cinnamon coming from the man interested her. She stared at him, wide-eyed, as if to beckon him to move closer.

[zaviar]

Zaviar had just put the final touches on his first sketch of the 'kitchen' tent and the whirl of ganlangers employed there when Marat approached. He wiped his fingers on a rag to make sure the white glove stayed white, then tucked the cloth away again as he regarded Marat blandly. "Indeed it is. A creature that demands attention even on the most serious occasion."

Then Zaviar quirked a bit more of a smile when he noticed Tok, and included her in the courteous bow he offered to Marat. The giraffe also bowed with a distinctly pleased look on its face, like it was happy to have a chance to show off. Of course, the way its neck caught a branch on the way down would scatter partly melted snow on the trio and make Zaviar curse in a low monotone at the damage done to his freshly finished sketch. His temper is soon sheathed again, for he had long ago found it did no good to berate the creature behind him.

"I would love to dance, lady fair, but you see my mantel is quite clumsy, and it follows me everywhere. Twas not such a problem when she was small, but now you see the chaos she causes in even the simplest of actions." Zaviar admitted more gently as he tipped his hat to Tok with an approving look for the way she dressed.

"However, if you two would care for a portrait, that I can do. In celebration of Imbolc, I try to offer as many portraits as I can during each festival."

[Marat]

Marat notes the dryness of the man and then the sketch he has in his hand. Artists are often so introverted, he thinks as he takes another sip of the eggnog he has. His lips smack together, the drink rather strong and very filling. If he was not a faerie he would be drunk by now, but as it is he is only a little buzzed and with a belly that felt like it contained a watermelon that he had swallowed. He lowers the drink, holding it nonchalantly at his side, no longer having any intention of finish the glass. The fun at the festival could be enjoyed without a mind altering drunk and he didn’t fancy puking in the bushes, such times were never enjoyable.

He watches as the giraffe shakes a bit of the snow loose, an upturned eyebrow his only response as he side steps much of the larger chunks of snow that had fallen. Still he manages to escape the snow fall almost fully, only a few flakes having landed on his shirt and due to the color of it, it didn’t matter much. His gaze falls to back to Zavier and then to the woman who had approached them. Though he finds it rude that she did not offer him any type of acknowledgment other than a strange stare he says nothing. Marat has little knowledge of the Unseelie and would not commit a social faux pa by asking for a polite “Hello” when the Darklings might not be accustomed to such things. He was no ethnocentric.

He strokes his chin a bit, sizing up the man’s offer for a portrait before uttering, ”Why the hell not? My name is Marat by the way, Lord of Slight Illusion and Seeker of the Seelie Court. And I’m curious as to what your name is.” Marat turns back to the woman, the strange pixie still eying him up. His lips spread into boyish smile that is aimed in her direction. He might not have been an ethnocentric but he is honest, and whether the culture of the Unseelie allowed this sort of thing didn’t matter, so he leans toward her. ”Stop staring at me. It unnerves me. I have a very low tolerance for things that unnerve me.”

[Tok]

Tok twirled and giggled with delight as the snow fell about them. She thought the giraffe was absolutely adorable, and she was tempted to fly up and pet the dear thing. However, in her last twirl, she reminded herself that she was currently in the midst of a conversation, and turned her attention back towards the Seelie gentlemen.

She was slightly disappointed in Zaviar's refusal to dance, but also saw it as a challenge. He would be dancing with her by the end of the night, and she would make sure of it. For now, she focused on the one named Marat, whose words seemed to show dislike towards her. Not that she minded, it was inevitable that she would meet a Seelie that she didn't like. The behavior that Marat had considered "rude" was, however, unique to the pixie. Had she been in her own court, she would have been far more polite to her Unseelie peers.

She was tempted to continue staring at the stockier nimbus out of spite, but there was no need to cause trouble in neutral lands. Tok had heard terrible stories about the fae who had broken this rule, and angering Skylla was simply not on her to-do list. Instead, she blinked a few times, before curtsying before the man. "Ah, my apologies, Sir Marat. I did not mean to offend you. It's just, the smell of cinnamon was wafting over from your general direction, and I love cinnamon. Do tell me the name of that wonderful drink."

She waited for a reply before turning back towards the other nimbus, offering a friendlier smile, "I fear I am not photogenic enough for a portrait. You'll pardon me if I decline your offer. However, my skills might be useful for your darling pet there. If I could have a few of those dead leaves he's been feeding on, I promise I'll give him a better meal."

[zaviar]

Zaviar's smile for Tok is amused and pleased, and he gives her a gesture of acceptance for anything she wanted to do to or with his mantel. He would not wish to interrupt when she and Marat had things to talk about though.

Zaviar tilted his head, looking at Marat critically, trying to decide on the best post for the fae. It did not take him long to begin once he had the right angle in mind. A fresh sheet of paper, and the artist was sketching away with his favorite charcoal pencils. Tok would make it into the picture as well, though as little more than an abstract swirl of ruffles and lace topped with and ideal of a face without the definition that would betray her identity.

He would pay more attention to Marat, making sure that the stockier fellow was clearly shown and in a rather relaxed pose with the glass in his hand.

The nimbus talked while he worked, a frown of concentration creasing his brows, "I am Zaviar, Seeker of the Seelie, Lord of Roan illusion. That ungainly beast behind me is Shawnie, if you wish to call her by name while you play with her, Miss. I'm afraid I never caught your name."

If nothing else, Zaviar did try to be polite to everyone, garlanger or not. He just didn't see the point of trying to make them feel bad for what they were.

[Marat]

Perhaps he had been too coarse with the pixie, he thinks as she relays her words to him. For a moment he feels a pang of guilt, his conscience tapping him lightly on the shoulder as if to remind him, ”Marat, you should know better.” And he does know, for he frowns and bows to the pixie in an effort to appease her, right his wrongs.

When he speaks it is genuinely remorseful, a recant of his rudeness. Oh how ironic it was that Marat had chided her for lacking manners when he, a patron of good faith in all those around him, now stood, the jack-ass. He held his cup out to her, ”I apologize, dear pixie, for my rudeness. This drink, the name escapes me but it is quite filling, and I have drunk my fill. You may have a taste if you like.”

Zaviar’s introduction of his mantel should have prompted Marat to introduce his own bonded. Yet Marat is a tactful man, his creature is not so awe inspiring as the giraffe. In fact, he has noticed that his mantel, the gormar scorpion has the opposite effect. Not just because the large black scorpion appeared menacing, but because of the venom that it could elicit from its stinger. Thus, the nimbus had reserved to keep his bonded in a linen satchel that hung from his waist, and in this moment, there it stays.

He simply regards the giraffe with a smile and then settles in his posture, as he understands that Zaviar’s portrait of him would be easier drawn if he remained still. Yet his eyes move, the shade of his ever changing oculars syrupy amber mixed with pink and blue. He watches Tok and speaks without moving his head, ”The pixie magic, it works even in the dead of winter?” Small talk, something he hopes will wash away the rough start to their conversation.

[Tok]

Tok's eyes sparkled when Marat offered her the drink, her demeanor changing to that of a small puppy, eagerly wagging its tail as it waited for its treat. The nimbus had offered her, a simple garlanger, a gift. How could she refuse? She reached out with both her hands, accepting the cup. "Many thanks, Sir Marat! You are too kind!" She placed the cup to her lips and took a sip, the concoction's flavors tingling on her tongue. Her head throbbed almost immediately, "Ah, the taste is absolutely splendid, but I'm afraid I'm am no good with alcohol." She held onto the cup, slightly away from her body, unsure if Marat wanted his drink back.

She turned so that she faced both of the Seelie as well as the giraffe, forming a bit of a circle, "Oh, right! Introductions! Forgive me, I never was too good with formalities. I am Tok, Seeker of the Unseelie Court, Pixie Garlanger, although it appears that last part is a bit unnecessary. Sir Marat, Sir Zaviar, and Shawnie... What wonderful names! I am honored to be in your company." She bowed towards all three, noting to herself that perhaps the Seelie were not as terrible as the rumors about her court say.

She giggled at Marat's question regarding Pixie magic, "Our magic works year round, silly! Have you never wondered how the royal gardens are always so pristine? I'd imagine the Seelie gardens are a sight to behold!" She reached towards the lower branches of the tree with her free hand, pulling a few of the dead leaves, "But perhaps a demonstration would be more useful."

She closed her eyes and concentrated her magic into the leaves, wishing them to return to their usual chlorophyll-filled goodness. She opened her palm, and held it outwards to not only show Marat the product of her magic, but also to offer the food to Shawnie. "I'm sure the magic of a nimbus is far superior than my own, though." She smiled sweetly towards the other two, any sign of the earlier animosity completely forgotten.

[zaviar]

"Thank you for the treat, Miss Tok." Zaviar said seriously. He winced a little at the sight of Shawnie leaning down and probably slobbering a on Tok's hands as the giraffe claimed the leaves. Indeed, the pixie might have to be extra careful not to get bitten by accident.

He had never had any skill with plants at all, so it was always a marvel to Zaviar that he got a mantel with such a huge appetite for growing things. As well as a great annoyance, since the beast was clumsy as well as being voracious.

He had not been surprised at Marat's manner towards the pixie though. After all, many nimbus and sidhe saw the garlanger as being far less than themselves. It was perfectly normal then, and Zaviar's own inclinations had no bearing on how he felt about the other man.

Hence, the sketch is well executed, and done soon. When the pad is shown to Marat, Zaviar tells him simply, "I'll do a full painting based on this sketch in the coming days. If there is anything you wish altered, now is the time to tell me, before brush touches canvas." Not that he couldn't change a painting once started, but placing the deadline for alterations did cut back on certain vain fae being overly fickle and pestering the artist to death.

[Marat]

Marat does not acknowledge the drink, for having passed it off he no longer considered it his. Perhaps his actions were all too similar to passing a problem onto someone else, but Marat had become a master of passing the buck. The drink had been unpleasant after initial tasting and the nimbus did not particularly like ale mixed with the viscous concoction of eggnog and cinnamon. If Tok enjoyed the drink, then he was doing her a service, if she did not then she would have to discard it herself. Yet he does not let her know this, simply paying more attention to the conversation than to the drink that was once his. ”I had heard the pixies tended to them though I never witnessed it with my own eyes,” his words are accompanied by a step forwards, moving to examine the leaves.

His eyes linger on the leaves even as the giraffe takes them in, his interest piqued. Without looking at Tok he responds to her comment about the nimbus magic, ”I can only change my appearance slightly.” Like most nimbus had only been gifted with glamour magic, though Marat aspired to be much more than a nimbus. As of the now he lacked any Hands of Power.

His attention is drawn towards the sketch done by Lord Zaviar. He looks it over with a smile before clapping the man on the back lightly, ”It looks excellent. I shant rush you though, take your time with the painting.” Marat is a patient man and waiting for a painting, something he doesn’t necessarily need, will be an easy thing to do. Truthfully, he just assumed Zaviar was sketching him and not dedicating a work of art to him.

He adjusts his belt, gazing towards the grandstand where the queen is seated. ”I have yet to meet Queen Annette. I’ve heard she is fierce as she is beautiful. What is the Unseelie King like?” His words are cavalier, idle conversation to some but to Marat the information could prove to be useful.

[Tok]

[OOC: Sorry, gonna control Shawnie for a little bit. Hope you don't mind. =)]

The pixie giggled as the giraffe's tongue touched her hand, an odd tickling sensation spreading from her palm to her arm. Miraculously, the creature had managed to take only the leaves, without leaving too much saliva on her hand. It appeared that Shawnie had noticed her bonded's worry over accidentally biting the hand that fed her, and responded accordingly. The pixie used her wings to let her hover a bit, so that she could pat the giraffe's nose. She landed again, facing the Seelie, nodding slightly to acknowledge Zaviar's 'Thank you'.

Tok grew tired of holding onto the cup, placing it on an empty tray as a servant hurriedly ran past. She noted Marat's lack of pride in his own magic, offering only a small, rather deadpan comment. "Some magic is still better than no magic at all."[/b]

It was Marat's later question that seemed to alter the pixie's mood, however slight. Her eyes seemed to show a mixture of emotion between delight and fear. Tok glanced about the crowd furtively, as if speaking about the king would instantly summon him to her side. Eventually her gaze settled upon the same person Marat was looking at. "Your Queen seems to have the perfect balance between beauty and fear! I'm sure it would be an honor to be in accepted in her court. I have yet to meet my King. The servants often talk about him -- some sing minstrels, others are bitter and critical. From what I hear, his young age occasionally leads him to make questionable choices, but gossip is worthless! I believe that he has lead our court well thus far. He is also known for his love of bloodshed, a quality that he has in common with mysel..."[/b] She paused, her tongue lingering on the roof of her mouth as she reconsidered her words. There was no reason to reveal too much about herself to rival court members, and certainly neither the time nor place to discuss such things. She closed her mouth, gently placed a hand over her lips, and cleared her throat. "Excuse me. My peers. He has a lot in common with my peers."[/b] She smiled innocently, hoping that they didn't catch the world she almost said.

Tok quickly turned to the artist, "What about you, Sir Zaviar? Have you had an audience with your Queen yet?"[/b] She barely waited for an answer before attempting to take one of his hands in hers, her other hand reaching for Marat's. "And perhaps, now that you're done sketching, we can all dance!"[/b] She tugged at both of their hands slightly, intending to force them all to prance in a circle.

[Skylla]

With the coming of night comes the pounding of drums who direct a procession of faerie dressed in flowing white robes and cowls. Horns sound a triumphant call as each member of the procession surrounds a large pyre. One by one each fae takes their torch to the pyre until the tower of lumber is a blazing inferno.

The Imbolc bonfire symbolizes the melting away of winter and the warmth associated with the spring. The light of life can be seen for the first time since the past summer in burning pyre embers. The whole festival is bathed in warmth and a powerful brightness.