i am a reaper whose muscles set at sun-down
all my oats are cradled
but I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them
and I hunger
imogen / 34 / dryad
( FKA Twigs, cis woman, she/her ) — Look what the werecat’s dragged in! If you take a look at our records, you’ll find that IMOGEN KNIGHT is a 34 year old FOOD TRUCK OWNER that’s been in Cromerth Woods for A SHORT TIME. According to this file, they’re a DRYAD hailing all the way from AETHYREA. That must be why they’re SWEET and NERVOUS. If you ask me, they remind me of sticky sweet kisses, honeybees humming a song, and the warm scent of maple syrup. They are allied with AETHYREAN REFUGEES.
ABOUT
Imogen is the spirit of a maple tree, and as dryads tend to be, is extremely shy and skittish. She always preferred the company of the fat little bees that landed on her trees branches to the company of other humanoids.
She was eventually seduced out of her solitary, arboreal life by a demigod; but this ended badly for Imogen and she still feels rather scarred by it.
When Aethyrea fell, she had time only to grab one fragile, dry little samara from the tree to which she is bonded, and fled with the few other refugees that made it out.
Her survival depends on her tree, and it is currently growing healthily. Imogen has a poky little studio apartment, which she rented because it has a poky little balcony -- she had no hope of getting somewhere with a proper garden, but on her balcony she was able to put a pot with her samara in it so it can grow outside.
Was able to buy a fairly run down old truck, and with the help of her then-girlfriend, do it up into a very cute food truck called Sugar Sap. There's a lot of maple syrup theming, and business is going quite well: the whimsical vibe of the food and drink she sells are quite trendy, it turns out.
POWERS
As a dryad, Imogen has the following abilities:
Ecological Empathy. The ability to sense the overall well-being and conditions of one's immediate environment and natural setting stemming from a psychic sensitivity to nature.
Supernatural Beauty. The power to possess beauty that surpasses the boundaries of nature. Any who observe these beings will be supernaturally affected to see a perfectly envision and idealized form of beauty unique to the user due to their increase appeal, apparel, action and even choice of words, all of which can cause awe-inducing effect to others even by sheer presence alone that can have a number of mental and emotional responses from others without negative effects making it impossible for them to look terrible regardless of the situation.
Zoolingualism. The power to talk to animal life forms and understand their reactions.
Plant Manipulation. The power to manipulate plants. This is how she obtains much of the syrup and berries and so on used in Sugar Sap. Her apartment is always full of sprawling plants, and the insects they attract. They are friends to her! Especially bees, and she also has a pet Mexican Redleg tarantula called Boots. Landlords hate her!
Wood Mimicry. Power to transform into or have a physical body made up of wood. Her tree form still retains the shape of her human body, just made of the matter of a maple tree. Even when in human form, Imogen retains some aspects of the dryad. Her hair changes with the seasons, like leaves: in summer it is a rich black, turning orangey red in autumn and then white blonde when the weather grows cold. Her saliva is thick and sweet as maple syrup, and when cut she bleeds sap. She is vulnerable to aphid infestation.
he's pleasantly surprised by her disagreement. not for the sake of it, of course, but because it's a refined thing to say and it's been some time since he's talked to anyone about the specifics of tea. most people here are abominable about it. even now, without his human senses, he finds it disrespectful. iced tea? are they mad? the obvious answer seems to be, yes! "you're not wrong," he admits, shrugging a shoulder. all in good nature. "s'pose i should have said, i can't go wrong with it. s'long as it's done right.."
taste is subjective. even ezra, who fully believes his is elevated beyond the rest, can at least take a moment to acknowledge that. even his tastes have changed over time. in death, for the worst. ugh, does he have to think about that again? difficult not to when he can see every opportunity to strike. instead, he accepts a seat wherever he can find it and watches her work.
"very long way," he says, nodding. "across the sea." everyone in this realm knows that crossing the sea is a terrible journey—the electrical storms make aircraft a joke and shipwrecks a common occurrence. "nice to come across something a little more like home," he adds, offering another unpleasant smile.
Imogen's shoulders relax, imperceptibly even to herself, when Ezra is not annoyed by her disagreement. "Okay, good -- I've never made a bad cup of tea in my life so we should be alright, then." It's one of the few, small things she's proud of.
Once it has brewed, Imogen hands Ezra a cup (cardboard, but compostable, naturally), and takes her own cup as she hops up to sit on the narrow countertop. Seating is extremely limited; space in general is at a premium. Because Imogen can never turn off that worried little voice in her mind, she thinks how little space there is between her and Ezra, how trapped and vulnerable she would be if he turned out to be one of the bad ones. "It's just a food truck," she grins gently. "But I'm glad it feels homely, even a little bit. What was it like? The sea, I mean. I've never been sure if I trust it." Or any large bodies of water, really. She can manage a river but on the whole, anywhere Imogen can't reach her roots in to the ground beneath her makes her uneasy.
The idea of a whole journey by sea is an adventure she thinks she'd never be ready for; but then, she would also once have said the same of fleeing to this realm, and she'd survived that.
"Sorry, um... do you mind if I sit here? I just told a guy in the queue that I'm here with a friend, but that was a lie, so..." Imogen trails off anxiously. She'd just wanted to have a nice casual lunch at a nice cafe (it's so rare for her to eat something made by someone else!) but the guy behind her had been coming on very strong, and not picking up on Imogen's polite cold shoulder. She's never seen Suni before but is hoping girl code will make space for Imogen to sit with her. @okiesuni
"i don't know," he admits, sighing. it feels like a longshot that he even try. everything in this world is so... malicious that being out alone at all feels like painting a target on his back. to say nothing of looking different from most other people in this world. "i don't think i can prevent anything. there's just... too much out there that..." he trails off, grimacing. too much darkness, too much evil. it's not just him—it could happen to anyone. maybe he just got unlucky, too. wrong place, wrong time. it happens. he can take other routes. get mugged on them, too. "i don't want to make any extra trouble for you..."
"Danny..." Imogen sighs gently, hand gently rubbing up and down his arm. "Forget about whether it might be trouble for me -- which it wouldn't, incidentally -- would it be helpful? You can't just keep waiting for the next terrible thing to happen, that's no way to live." Her words are as soft as ever, but she is stern with it. Imogen refuses to watch such a good friend lose himself to these dark feelings.
"you're shitting me," he starts, face splitting into a grin—it's not a particularly pleasant expression, coming from him, but it's genuine. it's rare that he meets someone over here as interested in this as he is. or... well, was. the cheer of the moment falters at that thought. is it too much to ask that he be able to forget once in a while? "that's always been my favorite, too. can't go wrong with it—'course, you won't hear most people saying that, will you?" some are weaker-willed or deprived of taste—not their fault, even! virtue is rare in this world. rare enough that he almost regrets that he has to take advantage. in a perfect world, they could both leave unharmed. shame, that.
the selection she has on hand matters little. that's a shame, too. he would have liked to sit and chat and compare tastes, rather than gulp down whatever steaming cup of shit he'll get and hoping for a bite afterwards. he hopes that, somehow, he might taste it in her blood. that happens, sometimes. mostly with alcohol, mostly in large amounts. can't he have a bit of hope for once, even the wrong kind? "i'd love a plain black tea. not to knock your seller—i'm just simple that way."
Funnily enough, Imogen does not put much stock in 'pleasantness'. She finds pleasantness in odd things, sometimes: the hungry creep of rot across a fallen bough, skin angry red from a stinging nettle's bite, the fleshy bulb of a poisonous mushroom as an unsuspecting creature steals a bite. Nature is not always pleasant, the circle of life is not always pleasant, but it is always honest. All to say, she finds she quite likes Ezra's grin in spite of, or perhaps because of, its unpleasantness.
And maybe that's why she finds the courage to disagree with him! "I wouldn't say that-- you can go wrong with it quite easily. The smokiness is already not to everyone's taste, so oversteeping can be a disaster." It's a very gentle disagreement, of course. And the cynic in her bets it's not always been his favourite and that's just a line. The trouble is, even if she's aware of it, Imogen rarely minds when people use lines on her. She's easily flattered.
"Plain black it is. I can appreciate a purist," she says, grabbing the necessary items. The water was already heating so she could set up more easily once she parked. "So you're a long way from home, huh?" If the passion for tea didn't give it away, the accent would have. Imogen wouldn't usually ask, but she always feels a wistful longing with other people displaced from their homes.
There's something in the winds, something sad in Cromerth Woods. It's almost as if the steel sings, but in a way that is foreign to Will himself. He sees the sharp beauty of it all still, but it doesn't agree with his body it seems. Much like too-tight shoes or an ill-fitting shirt, his senses all but put against the unnatural feeling of his surroundings—he misses the grass of his old grove, of the wood that sings, but he'll have to make do with his plants, he supposes.
Or so he thinks, as he feels a twinge in his chest as he looks at the woman in front of him. Like tuning forks to the other, Will simply stares, trying to figure out what's happening before he talks. "I—no. But I think I understand." He tilts his head, frowning and taking a step forward, "He—hello. I've—were you with the refugees?"
So strange. And made stranger by the normalcy of Florence trotting happily around their ankles, sniffing with the placid happiness of a dog nearing the end of its walk. But he gets it too; he understands. It's not in Imogen's nature to trust men blindly, but right now she does. He says he understands and she knows this to be true; he takes a step forward and Imogen doesn't take a step back. "Yes--" she says faintly.
Shifting her senses to the natural world around them, Imogen silently asks of the flora what to make of this. Stooping, she touches the earth. Shifting through dark, damp soil, a fairy ring mushroom pushes its head curiously through the ground, then another beside it. A sparse circle forms around Will, and Imogen knows they are fond. "Marasmius oreades are very good judges of character. But you're not a dryad." It's a question; an indirect one, because Imogen is rarely direct. Though there is something so comforting in Will's presence, she is still caught off guard, and feels for the moment like a skittish sapling, tender roots reaching out for sweet fresh water -- tentatively, in case the taste cannot be trusted.
Imogen can't get a dog of her own, not in her small apartment, but she's found an app that partners her with dog owners, and she gets to walk them. It's nice, because she gets to go outside and be with an animal, and the owner gets a break. She's particularly fallen in love with a young couple's king charles spaniel, called Florence, who she is currently walking. Imogen is chattering happily to Florence, focusing mostly on her, until the dog stops, sniffing-- sniffing very intently, and Imogen looks up. Florence found a man! And for some reason, Imogen feels... staggered. Homesick and welcome at the same time. "Oh. Are you..." she doesn't know how to phrase it without sounding weird. It's like something in his blood sings to something in her's. "Do I know you?" her voice sounds a little weak. @ofconnell
just like that, the ice melts and the walls tumble down, his shoulders following close behind. of course he doesn't want to hide from her, of course. she deserves better than to be left out of things just because of what he thinks might happen. sure, she'll worry. but she's right—she worries anyways. and probably worries more when he doesn't give her something clear-cut to worry about... "i'm sorry," he says, leaning against her. she always knows how to bring him right back to where he wants to be, warm and safe and home. "you're right. it wasn't anything serious, just... i had to ditch my check. i could have fought, but i'm tired of fighting, you know? it's just a check. i'm not hurt, i promise."
Danny leans against her, and Imogen immediately wraps an arm around him, warm and soft. Boots, on her other arm, is deposited carefully onto the bedside table so Danny can get her whole focus. "I get it. I don't like to fight, either. Will you be able to prevent it from happening again? Maybe I could pick you up after work to make sure you get home safe, at least on pay days?" If he doesn't want to go into the details of why he had to ditch the check, that's okay; Imogen hopes he'll tell her if he wants to, though. And if he doesn't want to talk about, the least she can do is help figure out how to prevent a recurrence.
laughter is a good sign, both from the standpoint of a concerned citizen ( of which he has nothing in common with ) and anyone who finds themselves dismayed at the pain of a beautiful woman. ezra doesn't quite fit that description either, but thinks that in this moment he could probably be persuaded to hitch his horse in their stable. or... whatever they're calling it, these days. "brilliant," he offers a low whistle for the gun show she's put on for him; "'course, you look plenty tough to me as is. between the two of us, i know where i'm placing my bets."
as if she couldn't be any more perfect, some tea. oh, he wants to say, oh, you should have been here months ago! then he might have even been able to enjoy it. gods, will nothing cease to remind him of everything he's lost? "would love a cup," he says, toothier than he intends. "what's your favorite?" not that it matters—it's all mud water to him, now. oh, well. maybe he can wash it down with something else? "i'll warn you, i'm a connoisseur of the stuff, myself."
Another painfully conflicted reaction in Imogen: his enthusiasm for the tea makes her happy, but she's also nervous because now she's committed to spending more time with this man. Which, obviously, is what she'd offered. It's just hard for her to not find something to be nervous about.
"A connoisseur? Gosh, I hope my selection is up to scratch! My favourite depends on my mood but I suppose I reach for lapsang souchong the most," she replies, opening the door on the back of her truck and gesturing for Ezra to hop up in before her. "What's yours? I don't have the biggest selection here but I'm sure I'll have something you like... my best seller is a london fog latte but it always makes me happy when people just want plain black tea."
it occurs to him then that he should have been more careful with his complaints. not that she shouldn't know when things happen to him, just... he prefers, whenever possible, not to worry her. or anyone. it's easier that way, when nobody is more worried than the jarring move between dimensions has already been. "i'm okay, it really wasn't... i mean, it didn't matter." has it been hard? absolutely. still easier than some of his easiest days back in the ice-choked world he was born in. "i made up the difference. i squirrel some away for things like this. you don't have to worry about me."
Imogen tuts, lovingly. "Oh, Danny, of course it mattered. Please don't hide from me. I know we've lost our home, but that just makes it more important to stay close, right? I've lost all my dryad sisters but when I look at you I can still hear the rhythm of your hooves, on grass in the moonlight, and that is home to me now, that memory. You're my faun, if you don't let me worry over you then I'll do nothing but worry over my little sapling out on the balcony and she finds me very overbearing as it is."
Maybe her reaction seems a little melodramatic, but there are so few of them left: it's Imogen's greatest fear, that the few true friends she has left from Aethyria will pull away from her. It frightens her that Danny could keep something like a lost paycheck from her. Of course he must have privacy, but it just seems an awful thing for him to have chosen to bear alone.
thankfully—for him, he thinks, more than her—she seems fairly responsive his good attitude. she's certainly been more than apologetic enough for the incident. wait, incident? oh, right. yeah. almost forgot about that little tidbit. ezra has never claimed to be anything less than easily distracted, and that goes double for whenever he's flung into a situation where someone pretty is involved—less like a stammering, lovesick fool and more like a professional schmoozer. as far as he's concerned, he is one!
"don't even worry about it, love. working here comes with a bit of risk, everyone knows that." and it's true. everyone does know that. ezra had known that before his fateful move across the sea and had welcomed the chaos of cromerth woods with open arms. now more than ever. and in many ways, less. funny how that happens when everything you've ever wanted actually falls in your lap... but that's an internal discussion for another time. already distracted again, is he?
"imogen," he continues, tapping his number into her phone. he isn't too presumptuous about it. doesn't add a heart or a wink as he might in other settings—just first name and the circumstances. funny, really. ezra collision. she'll remember that! "lovely name, that. certainly worth the scratch, i'd think. 'course... none of them are on me. s'pose i might feel differently if i was the taxi." right. concern. bodily injury. decency. all that. "you're alright yourself, yes?"
Imogen's face feels very warm; Ezra is being so nice, as if he hadn't been ready to curse her out. That alone is nerve wracking enough, but Imogen is extremely vulnerable to sweet talk. There is a fine line between anxiety and butterflies, and Imogen never was any good at telling the difference.
So yes, she probably does laugh a bit harder than is strictly called for at Ezra's joke about feeling differently if the scratch had been on him. She's anxious in both directions right now! Taking her phone back (Ezra Collision is certainly memorable) she sends him a quick text reading 'Imogen, from the accident', punctuated with a waving emoji, so that he'll have her number too. "I'm okay, really! I--" turn into a tree when I panic so in the fleeting moment before I might have collided with anything solid I became entirely wooden is not the sort of thing one says to a stranger. "I'm tougher than I look." Imogen flexes a not-very-impressive looking bicep. She does have a lithe, athletic build but she's so petite it doesn't look like much under clothes.
"Do you, um-- I mean, you seem very calm actually, but I'm a bit rattled, so I'm going to have some tea before I get back on the road. Do you want some, or coffee or a snack or anything?" She gestures nervously over her shoulder at her food truck, hoping Ezra won't take offence at the suggestion he might be rattled. She's really just trying to be hospitable, and to appease in any way she can. With Imogen, that usually takes the form of refreshments.
even the plants. danny nods sagely, already somewhat aware of this himself. fauns don't have quite the same connection to nature that dryads and other such folk do, but he's always been in-tune with his surroundings. he knows how to tell the difference. everything here seems shrouded in... evil. "i've already gotten into a little trouble," he admits, thinking on recent unpleasant encounters. and less unpleasant ones. everything is a mixed bag. "nothing serious, just... lost a paycheck. it doesn't feel safe like it used to." before every bit of green was choked out of home, there had been peace in the woods. not always safety, but always peace. this is not home. "so... i guess i'd say i don't blame you. it all feels so... wrong."
"What do you mean you lost a paycheck?" Imogen sits upright abruptly, though careful not to dislodge Boots. Concern is written all over her features. "What happened? Are you okay? Do you have enough to eat and everything? I can lend you some money if you need, till your next check." Not that Imogen has much; but she'd give the clothes off her back, for a friend.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Imogen asks -- not of Adam, whom has been dragged out for a woodland walk, but to the little bug that has crawled onto Adam's shoe. She pauses for a moment, listening, and then puts a hand on Adam's forearm to ensure it doesn't move. "Oh, Adam stay very still! This fellow thinks you're a very excellent tree, and I won't be the one to break his little bugkin heart." She won't take it personally that it has taken Adam for a tree, despite Imogen being the one that can actually become a tree. She is, after all, a maple, and bugkin prefer oak. @sureadam
"all the time," he admits, sighing. it's been hard to adjust to something so... different from everything he knows. at the same time, everything he knows has unwaveringly just fucking sucked. war and torment and death and... why can't he just be happy that he's somewhere better now? why can't any of them? he doesn't mean to feel angry at her, though. just himself. scolds himself for even thinking about it. sighing, he adds, "i mean... it should be, right? there's nothing left back home. but i don't know. it's... hard."
"Even the plants are less happy here." Imogen frowns, looking at the many flowers and plants and fungi growing in her apartment. "They feel strangled." Her frown softens as a familiar, fuzzy leg tickles her arm, and her beloved spider crawls onto her arm, and Imogen strokes Boots gently with her little finger. "How are you getting on with the woods here? I'm not sure I trust the trees out there." Of all the other refugees, Danny understands woods better than any, Imogen thinks.
safety has never been one of ezra's number one priorities... or even among the top ten. why bother with all of that when being dangerous is so much more exciting? now that he's dead, he even feels less responsibility about himself—it's not like a motor crash is capable of killing him, anymore. it's that kind of behavior that almost certainly makes it his fault when the two cars grind into each other. oh, boy!—what, like he cares about the taxi?—without passengers, he's free to pull over and engage in one of his favorite pastimes, road rage. it's like opening a box of chocolates—you never know what you're going to get! if he's lucky, they'll be crazier than him.
rolling his neck from side to side, he gives himself a quick ( vain, even ) glance in the rearview mirror and then bursts from the driver's side. "bloody hell," he starts, fully prepared to unleash some great display of anger... only to fall flat when he sees exactly who he's managed to clip. insurance payments seem so far away, now... "this just isn't my day, is it?" he asks, shifting gears. friendly, now. ulterior motives? almost certainly. "don't worry about the damages. isn't my car, see. just the company's. they're used to shite like this." they'll be furious, but it's nothing some charm can't get him out of. or into? that's his hope. "'course, i should probably take your number just to be sure. insurance, and all that." holding out a hand, he continues; "and a name, if i can be so greedy. i'll even meet you half way—mine's ezra."
Short lived as it is, Ezra's brief explosion of bloody hell makes Imogen frightened. Actually, the way he suddenly switches it off frightens her the most. It's not totally unusual, because the beauty that is part and parcel of being a dryad does mean that people often react more kindly to her than they might to others; but she's also seen it before, the ability to explode with rage one moment and then turn sweet and soft in the next.
But survival instinct says to keep him in this kinder mood, even if she distrusts its sincerity. "Yes-- yeah, of course--" Scrambling in her pockets for her phone, she opens it up to the contacts page so he can put his number in, and puts it quickly in his proferred hand. "I'm Imogen. I really am so sorry, Ezra, I hope the company doesn't give you any trouble over this. You're not hurt, are you? I do have a first aid kit in my truck, if you need it."
"Do you ever wonder if life is really... better here? Better than home?" Imogen asks, sleepy. The gentle music accompanying the credits of a movie plays on her laptop in the small confines of her apartment. Things always feel very easy with Danny; easy to be honest, and vulnerable. It's late in the evening and she's feeling pensive, in a way she can only really express to Danny.
It's something she often feels guilty for feeling: that this realm is better than the last. It's embarrassing, like admitting that home isn't enough. But it also haunts her, and she rolls onto her tummy where she lies on the bed, chin in her hands, looking earnestly at Danny for an answer. @woodstangled
