eswareinmal | Log: At the Thorns

Entry tags:

Log: At the Thorns

Characters: All
Open? Yep
Where: At the edge of the Devouring Thorns
When: The 16th of Rebirth's Height
What: The heroes gather at the thorns to get a first hand look at the problem.
Warnings: None

There was a solemn sort of quiet at the edge of the thorns, the looming mass of twisted brush seemed to shift and creek as it was observed, sounding almost like the rocking of a boat at sea. Here and there a keen eye could catch a glimpse of what might have been a house, or an inn lingering in the harsh grasp. A sign post. A length of wooden board. Like the sea, it had swallowed it up, curling around it all and splintering it all into fragments almost unrecognizable. Now and then, there was a flit of motion. A small brown bird camouflaged by the thick branches, made visible only by it's head tilting this way, then the other, before it flew off.

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The parallel is even more apt from above. Deeper in, the crumbling spires of a church can be seen, half devoured by the twisting mass, the ruins of some lofty manor house just barely treading above the sea of greyish brown. The thorns continue on for miles and miles. A bird could grow tired before he reached the other side of it...

There's only the ever present creaking and groaning as he approaches. The snap of a board succumbing to the pressure of the ticket around it. A sound like a breath. A soft, faint laugh from deep with in the wood.

A laugh; that, now, that is something Loki would follow. He pivots on one wing, head tilting to catch any noise over the rush of the breeze in his ears, over the rustle and crack of wood and leaf.

There is nothing for a long moment before a soft, light voice drifts up from the brush.

'Little bird, little bird, for what do you fly?
Come to me, come to me, I'll bake of you a pie....'

He flaps his wing, climbing enough to drift in slow, slow circles. And he casts the illusion of voice, though the bird-throat can make no such sound. (Both spells at once is strenuous, and it may be dangerous to divide his concentration between magic and flying.)

"And if you do, you will find my flesh poison," he returns. "Chaos or not."

The only answer is a light, airy laugh.

"I am not your enemy," calls Loki. "I call myself neutral, here. See: I have brought no weapons against you. Will you speak with me?"

"What would you speak, little bird, oh little bird,
What would you speak if you had the words, oh, have the words.
A voice is but breath, breath is but air
and form naught but images those hath painted there..."

"My image to choose," says Loki, "my voice to call. If I land, will you choke the life from me?"

Again, the light airy laughter.

"Ask the Wind not to move the Earth,
Ask the Earth not to move the waves.
The wood is not what hides the trees,
the voice is not what digs your graves...."

"The wind moves the waves," says Loki, "and the waves, the earth, though it be slow."

He descends, carefully.

"This land will crumble into nothing," he continues, "beaten and shivered apart by your thorns. Why do you want it this way?"

"So cries the farmer, o're the crops he hath lost,
As the fire ravages the land he so loved,
But from that ash, see how the Earth doth feed
When blessed with water from above..."

If the leaves do not threaten him, he lights on a twig, delicately.

"Would it not be more pleasure to nudge this world," he says, "spin it out of control slow as a tempest -- isn't it too simple to consume it thus?"

They creak and shift, but otherwise treat him the same as the other birds that occasionally flutter through it.

"A delicate balance, a blow for blow
When all is hung on scales, only then doth the results show..."

The voice seems a bit closer here, now that he's lighted in the thorns proper. It's still coming from below him, as if under the mass of woody branches.

He finds that he does not fear them. He uses caution, yes, but there is something in the despicable wildness of them that makes him want to stay.

He spreads his wings and lets the wind soothe aching joints.

"Will you toy with me forever?" asks Loki. "I wish to speak. Truly."

Again, the airy laugh.

"What truth is there, in your gilded tongue?
What answer can you find so thusly hung?
Words are but form upon which lies are stung
In the tones so richly the little bird hath sung."

There is no truth of Loki. Seek it, and it flies through your fingers like smoke...

But if there is truth of order, then there is truth of chaos.

"Am I your creature?" he asks, soft. "Would you want me as your creature?"

"Another has laid its hand upon you,
Another has dirtied you with it's touch
Would you to become mine once more
Cleansed you would have to be much...."

He chirps, in bird-tongue, that he is a wild thing, that he is not a creature to be placed in boxes, and that the corners of this role, this title and duty as wizard, do chafe so terribly. Rather that he would be a prince and a sorcerer, a warrior and a spy, sly and cunning and nothing and everything.

Could she change that, for him?

A moment later a small brown bird peeks out from the bramble. "If you cannot change it yourself, what good at you?" it chirped in return.

Ah, but aren't influence, cleverness, slyness much more important than raw power? "Isn't that what I'm doing?" Because finding the right person to ask is effectively the same as having it done himself.

"Asking others to do what you can not,
A far cry from taking charge.
To think one the same of the other
Is the sign of an ego too large..."

"Or a sign that I measure the world in results, not in efforts." A more effective way to measure reality, he chirps.

"Too lax, one has become
To let all others do
What would be the task of that one"

So says the one who seeks to change the fate of everyone in this world, he twitters back. If it is to descend into chaos, shouldn't all contribute to it? If everyone's fates are tied to their actions, that is.

"All have, and all do."

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sorcerous - 2012-04-11 00:47 (UTC) - Expand

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through_fire_be_reborn - 2012-04-11 00:55 (UTC) - Expand

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