Re: The Wretched Rite - Round One - The Rose Ring
07-12-2011, 10:16 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.
Poran looked down over the edge of the branch as he continued plucking away at his instrument. Sure enough, there beneath him was Taelia, and she seemed to be enjoying the music. Well, that’s an excellent start. If nothing else, I can probably safely contact her. Then again, he was pretty sure what’s-his-face, Barnabas or whatever, had mentioned something about her… He’d been a bit distracted by the sheer spectacle of the whole thing, to be honest… anyway, she looked fine enough, if a bit large. Nonetheless, caution would have to be the order of the day with just about everyone involved, it seemed; to have an apparent friendship, only to be stabbed in the back for your trust of it, is surely the bitterest of all sensations. On that same hand, though, not being an oracle, doctor or anything of the sort, I have no way to glimpse into someone’s mind and instantly presume their true intentions; the only thing I can do is take what she says at face value.
He paused his music for a moment and frantically drew out the poem he’d quickly composed, not wanting to waste paper; in his hurry, he absentmindedly knocked the harp from the branch, where it landed on Taelia’s head with an almost unnoticeable thunk. He tore off the paper beneath the poem, and wrote a quick letter:
“Hello, madame! I am Nempelio Poran kala-Sun, sixth child of the Sun clan. I see that you are enjoying my music, which is a good thing; truly, this lends credence to the fact that music is the universal language, pleasing to all ears that hear it. Regardless of that fact, I am afraid that while I know your name, we have not been formally introduced, and it would greatyl greatly soothe me if you should declare your name, intentions, etc. etc. so that I may feel safe to reveal myself.
It was only upon completing this letter that the bard realized he had lost his instrument; he hastily appended Oh, and I fear I have dropped the instrument that brought both of us such great joy in life. If possible, please locate it and return it to me. I am in the branches above, and I have no doubt that you shall be able to make yourself heard to me, so long as you keep your voice above a whisper. Thank you, madame, and good luck in this unfortunate arena.
He double-checked his work and, seeing no remaining errors, smiled and dropped it off the branch; it lazily floated down next to Taelia. He then quickly scurried closer to the center of the tree, where he felt it was less likely that he would be detected; it was only at this point that he realized their languages were almost certainly totally different—it was said that the incomprehensible babbling of other species was their own language, and he had noted that even within the Leskrin, the dialects of even neighboring areas were often utterly distinct—and it was unlikely she could recognize anything that he had written, not to mention she would probably have to have very good eyesight to read something so small even with his characteristically large handwriting.
He sat down and sighed. On the other hand, Barnabas or whatever it was had spoken to them in his language, correct? Which seemed to imply that they could all understand the same language, or at least that there was a system in place so that they could understand each others’ languages as their own. He sat down and hoped with all his might that his missive had made its mark.
Poran looked down over the edge of the branch as he continued plucking away at his instrument. Sure enough, there beneath him was Taelia, and she seemed to be enjoying the music. Well, that’s an excellent start. If nothing else, I can probably safely contact her. Then again, he was pretty sure what’s-his-face, Barnabas or whatever, had mentioned something about her… He’d been a bit distracted by the sheer spectacle of the whole thing, to be honest… anyway, she looked fine enough, if a bit large. Nonetheless, caution would have to be the order of the day with just about everyone involved, it seemed; to have an apparent friendship, only to be stabbed in the back for your trust of it, is surely the bitterest of all sensations. On that same hand, though, not being an oracle, doctor or anything of the sort, I have no way to glimpse into someone’s mind and instantly presume their true intentions; the only thing I can do is take what she says at face value.
He paused his music for a moment and frantically drew out the poem he’d quickly composed, not wanting to waste paper; in his hurry, he absentmindedly knocked the harp from the branch, where it landed on Taelia’s head with an almost unnoticeable thunk. He tore off the paper beneath the poem, and wrote a quick letter:
“Hello, madame! I am Nempelio Poran kala-Sun, sixth child of the Sun clan. I see that you are enjoying my music, which is a good thing; truly, this lends credence to the fact that music is the universal language, pleasing to all ears that hear it. Regardless of that fact, I am afraid that while I know your name, we have not been formally introduced, and it would greatyl greatly soothe me if you should declare your name, intentions, etc. etc. so that I may feel safe to reveal myself.
It was only upon completing this letter that the bard realized he had lost his instrument; he hastily appended Oh, and I fear I have dropped the instrument that brought both of us such great joy in life. If possible, please locate it and return it to me. I am in the branches above, and I have no doubt that you shall be able to make yourself heard to me, so long as you keep your voice above a whisper. Thank you, madame, and good luck in this unfortunate arena.
He double-checked his work and, seeing no remaining errors, smiled and dropped it off the branch; it lazily floated down next to Taelia. He then quickly scurried closer to the center of the tree, where he felt it was less likely that he would be detected; it was only at this point that he realized their languages were almost certainly totally different—it was said that the incomprehensible babbling of other species was their own language, and he had noted that even within the Leskrin, the dialects of even neighboring areas were often utterly distinct—and it was unlikely she could recognize anything that he had written, not to mention she would probably have to have very good eyesight to read something so small even with his characteristically large handwriting.
He sat down and sighed. On the other hand, Barnabas or whatever it was had spoken to them in his language, correct? Which seemed to imply that they could all understand the same language, or at least that there was a system in place so that they could understand each others’ languages as their own. He sat down and hoped with all his might that his missive had made its mark.