event: a gentle festival

[thestewards]

we're all just working pieces trying to fit somewhere
We wander 'round in circles and we talk in squares

► The OOC plotting post for this event can be found here.

► Direct all questions to the mods at this link.

► All NPCs except for Queen Fayura can be met at this event. Use their top-levels in the plotting post if you'd like a thread with them for this event. For your convenience, you can reach out here: Allairavar, Verim, Loren, Niall, Grejor, and Raya. They may choose to wander into your threads should you not plan anything out with them, too.

PARTY PLANNING
Dawn arrives and brings with it another group of Strangers. Unlike the first group, you wake to a comfortable bed and cheery birdsong. Unlike the second group, you are expected. As you rise, a vase with spring flowers appears on the table beside your bed. Tucked beneath the vase, you find a message of welcome inviting you to join the Queen and her residence for breakfast.

Following directions given by footmen throughout the residence’s winding halls, you make your way toward breakfast, only to find that breakfast is a beautiful disaster.

Maids and footmen rush around you, choreographed by a red haired witch standing on a chair in the middle of the entry hall. She wears an apron and a look of fierce concentration. Beside her, a list floats in the air. Pinned to her hair, her Tiger Eye Jewel flashes and swirls with power. You suspect you should just sneak out, but she’s too observant.

“You there!”

You freeze. Maybe you had a mother with eyes in the back of her head who always knew where you were. Maybe that was a teacher or some other kind of mentor. Regardless, you know this voice. You know this tone. This is a person harried and pressed, and she probably doesn’t care that you haven’t eaten breakfast yet.

“Yes, you! Stranger!”

You turn toward her and abruptly find your arms full of banners. Closer inspection will reveal each flag sewn to the cord bears a different symbol: one for the Guilds (a hexagon with circles at each joint), the Ebon Council (a pair of Jewels side by side), and Fayura’s Court (a strange, spiraling spear against a mountain peak); a sun and a moon; a cloud flush with rain and lightning; and a sprouting plant.

“Make sure those get hung on the eaves outsi—no, I haven’t seen the Lady, Carlisle, but if you—”

A Blood male has distracted her, but you’re left with the distinct impression that if you don’t hang these banners, the Head Housekeeper will hunt you down (you would be correct). Not to worry: you’re not the only Stranger living in the residence, and it takes you little time to locate someone else with an equally bomb-blasted look on their face to help you help the residence prepare for the spring festival! There are flags to be hung, simple breads to be baked, stalls to be built in the Bazaar, and so much more. Your hands work, and so you work.


HOPE BLOOMS ETERNAL
At sundown, the festival begins in earnest: people take to the streets in every section of the city, pouring into the Old Town Bazaar with rosy cheeks and broad smiles. The spring festival will last for the next six days. Three days to celebrate, and three days to work.

All around the city, banners hang from and between homes and businesses. Some fluttering banners bear flags emblazoned with only the Guilds’ symbol or the Council’s or the Court’s, and there are far more Guild banners than any other—a result of the Strangers’ providing support to the Guilds no doubt. But mixed among them are flags bearing both the Queen’s mountain, too, just not as many, and the only place the Council’s flags hang are over Blood homes.

As you make your way through the Bazaar, you hear…

A young landen man: I’ve heard the Queen is going to honor the Earth Mother and Father Sky during planting in a few days, and—
His companion, an older woman: The Blood honor only death and their Darkness. What does she care for our beliefs?

A Blood farmer: …kind of gift. Don’t quite know what to make of a Queen giving anything.
A landen farmer: Anything to help the crops grow. The Guilds mean well, but the land is overworked.

An excited little girl: —ride the unicorn, mommy! There’s a unicorn and a dragon and a centaur and a—

Near the pavilion at the heart of the Bazaar, the landen Guilds have erected technological wonders. A carousel of glittering bronze and metal lights up the night with rainbow colors. Music spills out of it, cheerful and bright as its three rings turn in lazy revolutions. Unicorns and dragons and centaurs and mermaids stand as mounts for the young and old. Nearby, the Elektriline Guild prepares a light show, projecting fantastical shapes in dazzling colors on the sides of buildings and into the night sky itself. Around the park to the south of the Bazaar, the Transport Guild has set up a racing track for unicycles and tricycles.

Booths with games line the streets. Knock down the glass bottles! Throw the ring around the spoke! Win prizes to dazzle your loved ones and delight your children!

While food has certainly been scarce, the bakeries and charcuteries have brought out their best fare at surprisingly reasonable prices. This is a time to celebrate the end of winter and the beginning of spring, and celebrate the city will.

While the Blood dress in nice clothes, the landens bring out costumes. As is tradition, some dress as Father Sky, wearing crowns of gold and flowing robes of white. Others cloak themselves in the vestments of Mother Earth: wearing costumes of green and brown, painting vines over their faces to disguise themselves and crowning themselves in garlands of crocuses and tulips. Whispers through the Bazaar say the Queen is among them, disguised as Mother Earth.


SOWING THE FUTURE
The fourth morning of the festival, the entire city rises with the dawn. Over the past three days, a strange rumor wound its way through Draega: Fayura will join the planting to give a gift unique to the Queens of the Blood.

Members of the Ebon Council and the Guilds organize groups, directing the bodies of the entire city to go to this farm or that as they step out from behind Draega’s tall, protective walls. But before you are dismissed to help till the land or plant grain seeds, you join a larger crowd at a nearby farm. The Blood airwalk, standing above the landen crowds to gain a better view.

At the head of a recently tilled field, Queen Fayura stands with a landen farmer. He grasps his hat, wringing it fiercely in his hands as her Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort stand guard behind her. Dressed in greens and browns, crowned in a garland of crocuses that drips dried stalks of wheat down her hair, she kneels before a bucket. She calls in a knife. When she speaks, she doesn’t raise her voice, but Craft projects it across the assembled onlookers. “Blood sings to blood. This is a gift: freely offered,” she says. “Freely given.” Bright red blood blooms across her palm as she drags the blade through skin. Vanishing the knife, she closes her fist and squeezes, allowing the blood to fall into the bucket of water and mix with it.

Her Consort heals her wound when she holds out her hand, and then he steps back. She rises, picking up the bucket and taking hold of the ladle on the ground beside it. Her voice lifts in song. Though the language is unrecognizable, the melody is beautiful and full of the vibrant hope of spring. She sings as she walks along the furrows, sprinkling bloodied water on the land. Blood and Strangers alike feel the pull of magic as something in the earth itself unfurls, shuddering awake at the call of the Queen’s blood.

For the next three days, nearly every man, woman, and child in Draega assists with the planting. Children do small, simple tasks, and the older children watch over the younger ones. The adults drag plows through the warming land and spread seeds in the furrows the plows create. Queen Fayura visits each field in turn, and planting doesn’t begin until she’s sprinkled her water over the earth. Throughout the day, her vibrant song echoes around the city, and a few Blood girls, too young to yet wear a Jewel, take up the song and hum along with it.

You would do well to help the farmers. You may not have a strong arm or strong back, but there’s planting to be done and people to organize, feed, and care for.


AIR TIME
Whether you catch the news on a Far-caster in the city or you’re spinning the dial on your own device, you’ll hear…

etiquette with evandra and aren
[Evandra's voice is a little bit rough and a little bit husky, the kind of voice that gives bad ideas to young men and headaches to fathers.] …do we make of a Warlord Prince’s reaction to his Queen’s blood?

[Aren, whose voice is typically chipper and bright, sounds today much more seriously than usual.] It’s a dangerous thing. Elemental, you might say. Like a storm. Every Prince is dangerous when his Lady’s blood spills.

[Evandra:] So, are we in danger when the Queen does whatever ritual she’s doing?

[Aren:] No. The Blood put great importance on, well, blood. It’s the memory’s river. Power sings in blood. It carries strength and Craft. I’ve never seen a Queen do anything like this before, but her Princes—and her court—treat it like ceremony. And it probably is.

the weather
[A soft-spoken man’s voice rumbles out of the Far-caster. He’s pleasant to listen to, with a soothing cadence to his voice.] …continued rains with intermittent sunshine over the next few days as the days grow steadily warmer. Remember that rains coming out of Askavi are dangerous to your health, and salves for lesions from exposure can be purchased from the Medicos at…

the news
[Garret speaks at his brisk pace, hurried and harried as though he has too much to say and not enough time to say it.] A new development in the story of the young landen man who shot and killed Councilwoman Vera last month: the Strangers have influenced the Queen to bring together a Tribunal not of other Queens—

[Wilt, as usual, is put upon and nasally.] As though there are many of those to go around.

[Garret, continuing as though Wilt didn’t interrupt him:] —but of the landen man’s peers, both landen and Blood.

[Wilt, sighing:] That’s correct, Garret. It seems this Tribunal of three landens and three Blood will listen to the young man’s account, as well as the stories of other witnesses, and determine a suitable punishment. This will be presented to the Queen, and she will carry out the sentence.

[Garret:] Looking now to the warming weather and what that means for trade with the mercenary settlements outside of Draega—

Comments

[garmr]

He’s ready for the first swipe, moving cleanly and quickly with the strokes. His footwork, at least, would be as agile as it always was. Guts recognizes the intent behind the strikes, providing enough resistance to defend himself, but is mostly feeling out the reach and movement of Allairavar’s weapon. For all that he’d been irritable and restless in the court, he is entirely calm with grinding metal and sparks surrounding him.

He doesn’t intend on staying on the defensive for long, though. At the ending point of one of the arcs, he lets the warblade slide off his sword and steps forward with a strike aimed for the shoulder. From there, he’d attempt to apply his own pressure, aiming for the head and upper body to make the most of the blade’s length.

[agentlenpc]

Allairavar has sparred with many people and trained more besides. The relaxation that a good fight can bring is a welcomed thing for him too. There are no complicated questions inside the ring, just the familiar rhythm of clashing steel and measuring one's opponent. He's pleased when Guts counterattacks, with the strength needed to wield such a weapon.

Moving to the side, Allairavar moves to the knock the sword aside with the warblade in the hopes of creating an opening. He doesn't expect it to work. It's too soon for such an attempt to be entirely effective. Drawing his weapon back, he aims for a short jab that will keep him from over extending.

[garmr]

The greatsword grinds against his warblade as it's knocked away, but is rapidly whipped back into place to parry the second attack. Guts very much notices the cautious nature of the jab. It may be reasonable considering the state he arrived in, but to him, that just won't do.

He responds with a much more aggressive offense, punishing the weapon itself more than strictly aiming to strike his opponent's body. He'll take openings where he can find them, but he's curious to see how the warblade might react to a barrage of heavier strikes - even if it is with the dull-edged training sword. He first aims for the center-edge of its blade, then the odd stick-end, then any interconnected joints or weak points he could find. The blows would send reverberations where he can manage a clean hit, waking a dull ache in his forearm. For now, it is minor enough for him to ignore it entirely.

How well could it handle stress? Time to find out.

[agentlenpc]

It is less how the warblade reacts than the man wielding it. The heaviness of the greatsword should give it the advantage against the pole of the warblade in repeated strikes, no matter how well made the weapon might be. Once Allairavar sees Guts' tactic, he extends the shield to cover the pole of the warblade, lending the strength of the Red to weapon on instinct alone. Still, there is the slightest glint of approval in his golden eyes.

In return, Allairavar calculates with all due care. A strike high on the warblade he meets with turning into the blow and lashing towards vulnerable places - like elbows - with the pommel of the warblade that's capped by thick round of steel just for this purpose.

One thing is certain, Guts hits hard and swift. Each strike is felt, speaking of the kind of force that could break bones under serious conditions. Catching the greatsword against the blade of his weapon, Allairavar pushes forward in one, calculated burst to try to knock the other man out of his rhythm.

[garmr]

The pressure from the pommel keeps him at bay, forcing him to adjust his attack to let the steel land over his metal prosthetic rather than the softer bone of his elbow. A makeshift shield, of sorts. He was plenty open for Allairavar's rush once his blade is caught, the twisting of the two weapons sending another lance of pain up his arm. Ordinarily, he would attempt to counter-attack, but the brief moment of weakness makes him disengage altogether to free himself and his weapon from the tangle.

Well, shit. What now? His window of opportunity to split that pole down the center had closed. Even newly arrived, he can recognize the strikes no longer doing damage due to those shields. Should've gone all in with a surprise blow. Time to switch tactics. That warblade wasn't all too different from a halberd or a poleaxe - maybe a little shorter. He could work around that, though things may have to get a bit dirty.

Guts raises his sword again. This time, when he moves to attack, it'll be a feint - the long blade will retreat when the two blades touch each other. His real attack will be diving in close and personal, almost within grappling distance. Now, the length of his greatsword didn't lend itself to close-quarters combat, but that wasn't the only thing he can hit a guy with. He aims one good slug to the gut with the heavier metal fist - to knock him back, if nothing else.

[agentlenpc]

If Allairavar hadn't shielded them both at the beginning of the match, Guts' punch might have knocked the wind right out Allairavar. The meeting of a Gray shield against another wasn't without effect and sends spidery cracks through the weaving around them both. The force is enough for Allairavar to feel and for Guts' as well though the shields absorb most of the impact for both men.

His lips quirk just a bit at the corners. "If you learn to wrap the power of your Jewel around your fists and stay shielded, you'll hit even harder." The advice wouldn't help against those of darker Jewels than what Guts wore, but most of the Blood, at least, were not.

As if to demonstrate, Allairavar turns fast and the end of the warblade aims at Guts' thigh. The Gray shield will absorb most of the impact, should it land, and Allairavar adds just a touch more power to show the gravity of the impact. "Your quicker with that sword than I thought."

thank u for waiting

[garmr]

Guts sees the spidering cracks, taking note of how the shields react to stress. There is no way he could have gotten that much damage in without the equivalent Gray shield, that much he is beginning to gleam. The arc of his blow ends with his iron hand resting back on the pommel of his weapon.

He'd been expecting a counter-attack, which is why he levers his sword in place to block the blow to his thigh, but it doesn't spare him from strong reverberations sent up the metal blade. Oh yeah, he feels that extra weight. It forces hims to take a step or two back rather than try to absorb the full brunt of the strike. He could feel the grip of his hand faltering, too - way earlier than it would at full health.

Not quite up to snuff..

"Magic really ain't my thing," he says. There was one thing he knew how to do, whether he was entirely aware of it or not. Some of the Opal's power is drawn into his body, willing that injured limb to grip the hilt as it should. Unlike his difficulty with the other lessons in Craft, this came completely naturally, like an base instinct. There is one way he knew how to go harder - even if it may not necessarily be with a shield.

This time, he comes back with a renewed vigor. Stronger, faster, aiming to get in close past the warblade's edge.

[agentlenpc]

"Practice shielding until it becomes second nature. You wear a Jewel; if trouble comes your way it will be because they expect you to use it even if a weapon." Allairavar advises. It is a part of his job to make sure the Strangers don't wind up dead. A brow does arch when Guts comes at him again. Allairavar hadn't missed the other man's faltering grip.

He'll have to show Guts how to layer shields as well, Allairavar decides.

Leveling the warblade in front of him Allairavar meets Guts advance with the same calm expression that he had before. Meanwhile, a little timer ticks by in the back of his head, measured to the clang of blades as they dance back and forth around the field. Thirty minutes later, Allairavar holds up a hand, halting the activity that has drawn of small crowd of onlookers.

"And now you rest," Allairavar declares. "There's only so much pushing any body needs in a day."

[garmr]

Thirty minutes wouldn't be the longest he's forced himself to go beyond he should, but it is enough time to work up a good sweat and forget about all the annoyances outside the ring. Much like Allairavar, his focus is set entirely on the interplay of their weapons. The sparks of metal on metal with each blow. To his credit, he does manage a meager shielding or two on the edge of his weapon - but he is far from proficient at it. They'll have their work cut out for them in that regard.

When the Master of the Guard indicates Guts should stop, he does, but he looks a little disappointed at the fact.

"That's it? Just got myself all warmed up."

All said and done, the point of that greatsword does lower and touch the ground for the first time that day. He doesn't seem to notice the small bit of blood seeping through the wrapping of his right arm - much less the crowd looking at them. It was nothing serious, but definitely a sign he shouldn't be pushing himself any further. Anything less than a broken bone doesn't bother him much, but that just means the reminder is exactly what he needs.

[agentlenpc]

Guts doesn't seem to notice but Allairavar does. He motions to Guts arm as Allairavar vanishes his warblade. "Perhaps, but at least one of your limbs would like a break and if I don't give you one Lady Jesiree and Lady Fayura will have my hide." He seems quite serious about this.

"Once you're fully healed we can go until we both drop." And it sounds as if Allairavar welcomes the opportunity. It's rare that he gets the chance to really let loose. Perhaps Guts will give him one. Assuming all of Draega doesn't catch on fire again and provide adequate other tasks as a result.

"You certainly know your way around a blade." Some of the Strangers did. Others did not. Both circumstances made Allairavar curious about their worlds.

[garmr]

Hrm. Allairavar doesn't sound like he's going to budge from that, no matter how much Guts insists he can keep going.

He opts to rest the greatsword next to the other weapons, and takes a proper look at his right hand. The combination of relentless solo sword training and sparring had left even his calluses looking a bit raw. There is no need to mention the little dribble of red seeping into a crease his palm. It isn't the worst thing he's suffered at the end of a sparring session, but he supposes he can deal with a break.

"Lookin' forward to it," he closes his hand into a fist," Maybe I'll bring my sword in here next time - if that doesn't break any rules."

He rolls back his shoulders, far more at ease then he was that morning. He was curious how the Dragonslayer would match up against shields. It certainly did well enough puncturing through apostle hide with its sheer size and weight, but this magic stuff was another thing entirely.

[agentlenpc]

"The only rule on this floor is that you don't seriously injure or kill anyone," Allairavar's voice is light; his eyes say that there have been more close calls than he'd like. Miles of distance could exist between the ability to fight and discipline. Draega has plently of the former and not as much of the latter.

"I'm curious as to why you're out here working yourself so hard, though." Walking over to the table off to the side, Allairavar touches the pitcher of water. A bit of craft cools its contents enough that sweat beads on the outside of the. He pours two glasses - one for himself and one for Guts. "Habit?"

[garmr]

Guts takes the water quietly. The cool refreshment was certainly appreciated, though he seems more intent on nursing the offered glass than answering the question for the first few moments. Eventually though, he does speak, with a cold determination in his eye.

"When this is all done, there's a fight I gotta finish back home. That's all."

Calling it a fight would be overly generous when what he's trying to kill can simply unmake a mere human like him. The impossibility of it all never stopped him before, but the nervous combative energy in his limbs was the only thing that could assuage the existential dread, sometimes. Cleaving things with a sword was how he always dealt with those feelings in the past.

[agentlenpc]

Allairavar cants his head just a bit to the side, studying Guts through steady, golden eyes. His wings fan gently in the breeze, reflecting over how many times he'd worn the same look and how resistant he'd been to anything that didn't compliment the feelings that accompanied such a look.

"A broken body cannot swing a sword," Allairavar says after a long moment of thought and he sets aside his cup. "And I've seen many a warrior who refused to listen to what their body tells them die or be crippled. Sometimes it's necessary and circumstances won't allow for less." The corner of his mouth quirks up in a faint grin. "But sparring isn't that circumstance, yeah?"

[garmr]

Allairavar is entirely correct in assuming he'd be resistant to his advice. He's heard it so many times before, and he knew it is entirely reasonable, but he thing that drives him to keep going wasn't based on reason.

Guts gives a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgement, more accepting that the session was over than the fact that he should be resting more.

"The healers do some good work. It let me get a bit careless."