OPEN;

[wandbreaker]

When; Saturday, January 28th, nighttime
Characters; All are welcome! Open log, just specify if it's an open thread or not or if there are 4th wall rules for your character in the comment or subject line! (4th wallers also welcome~)
Summary; The Blue Light's one chilling hangout; good music, good food, and a spectacularly crabby owner who is even letting in under-18s for the 4th Wall weekend.
Log;

Edmund is actually at work tonight - he hopes a member of his family might show up, but he's also wondering who else might show up. He's made sure that he's well staffed for the extra crowds and well stocked, no less.

He just hopes nothing gets out of control.

And of course, that a member of his family shows up, looking for him.

Comments

[lone_must_stand]

It's not so much that she wants to sit; she has the sense that she must. Whether it's her own curiosity or the command of the Ancient's shattered pearl is anyone's guess. Either way she nods, looking back up and slipping into the other side of the booth with palpable relief. Even if this is merely the illusion of belonging here, it is better than being entirely lost.

"I have been in taverns, before," she adds, "but never one such as this." It's too big, too new; the people unfamiliar, the trappings all wrong. The air here is too rich; it leaves her lightheaded. Sitting in the booth she folds her hands in her lap, sparing a quick glance at the crowded room.

"I should not have stared-- but, tell me, please; are you from Pirs?"

[and_identity]

"You don't need to worry," she answers with calm authority, not a single ounce of hesitation in her voice. The powers she commands are admittedly dampened in this City between the worlds, and are every time she comes here, but one doesn't fill the role of the personification of Life itself without retaining a few perks, and the ability to make and enforce that promise is one of them.

People tend to invoke implications of death in veiled threats. Few recall that there are plenty of fates worse than death, and every one of them falls within Life's province.

"And the easy answer is no," she adds, because sometimes playing technicalities leads to the most efficient solutions. "But I know who you are. You've got a big job ahead of you, don't you?"

[lone_must_stand]

More than anything, Aeriel would like to say no to that. And the truth is she has not yet been charged with her task; but the warm ebb of the pearlstuff within her makes her nod. For tonight, though, she is only Aeriel (which is not much of an only, really.) But she is not accustomed to questioning tasks, or prophecies; and so she does not argue, though (selfishly) she thinks she will go to Irrylath, and stay with him. That if there is more to be done, they will go forth together.

"Is that why I've been brought here?" she asks, though the thought unsettles her. There is no helpful whisper from the Ancient's memory within her; though there is something-- maybe the stillness of the air here-- that makes her think of the duarough and his caves and rivers. Here, daughter, there is life. It's a calming thought, even if she doesn't quite understand it.

[and_identity]

"Not exactly," she answers in that same knowing way, because she does know things even if this place isn't technically her domain, like plucking a thread from a grand weaving and examining it to see its colors. "Consider this a respite from everything you've done, and all that still lies ahead for you to do. Sometimes it's worth it to stop and smell the roses."

She traces her fingers across the tabletop, the index finger of her left hand making a slow, deliberate circle, and gradually a thin green stem begins to sprout and unfold, reaching taller and beginning to list to one side from its own weight as it grows, gangly and fresh and young, until at last it spins a miniature rose into bloom.

[lone_must_stand]

To draw life from dead wood is no mean feat; Aeriel has seen it happen before, but not with such ease. What the connection is, between this green-eyed stranger and the ancient-lady's rimes, or the holy fire of the Sibyl's temple, Aeriel cannot fathom. Talb, the little mage, would know; of that she feels certain; but knowing that is of no help.

"There is never time enough," she murmurs, though in truth she's had her times of rest; in the desert, among the nomads... crossing the Sea-of-Dust... but even those, always, were in service of her tasks. The idea of a true respite... needs only Irrylath, truly, to make it perfect. Still she feels some of the tension go out of her, star-marked eyelids fluttering shut for a moment, before she slides her palm across the table slowly, towards the flower, looking up at Elle again.