@archora asked: " your clothes, " he begins. despite tartaglia's actions, zhongli is not wont to come across as rude nor inappropriate. even so, it nags at him. " is the gap intentional ? it seems peculiar, to let the cold in and still adorn a scarf. "
In reference to this post.
Burnt orange brows quirk up from their formation in the smirk for a brief moment to acknowledge Zhongli and Childe’s own excitement about the topic in question. Despite seeming impossible, he smirks even further as the opportunity to be his delightful self arises to its potential.
“Oh, you mean this?” the Harbinger questions as rises, popping his hip and waving a hand in front of the area to be a further delight. “Well, since you asked so nicely... it’s because I’m sexy. Plus the cold doesn’t really bother me that much so I’m all set.”
He’s giving his shit-eating smile but it morphs into a slightly more serious expression as he properly distributes his weight again. “Also my scarf is more decorative than anything. You have to admit, it looks badass when it flaps in the wind, no?”
i'm not incredible at giving compliments, but i also dislike letting opportunities to let people know i admire them pass me by. i have loved ms ningguang since i met her in game, & you do her such justice. i love seeing your posts on the dash about her both ooc and ic. just very blessed. (๑˘︶˘๑)
Anna Thorvaldsdottir, Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Eva Ollikainen ~ ARCHORA / AIŌN
Over the past decade, Anna Thorvaldsdottir has slowly and steadily become one of the world’s finest composers ~ and she’s done it the hard way, without soundtracks or singles. After patiently expanding her body of work, she’s now released “CATAMORPHOSIS” (on Iceland Symphony Orchestra’s Atmospheriques) and ARCHORA / AIŌN a month apart. Consolidating her oeuvre, Sono Luminus has now released or…
" tell me, what are your thoughts on the lantern rite festivities ? "
The sudden inquiry effectively rustles Keqing from her thoughts. She flinches, not unlike a startled cat — saucer eyed with its fur erect.
Worse yet, the bag of golden shrimp balls in her hand is almost sent flying.
Almost.
“My apologies ... “ She spins on her heels to acknowledge the source of her scare. When her eyes crawl upward to meet his — “his” being Zhongli’s, a man she recalls speaking to only a handful of times — she offers him a waning smile.
“Good evening, Zhongli.” Without a note of hesitation, Keqing lowers her head into a bow — further demonstration of her condolences. “I didn’t realize it was you who had spoken to me just now. Rest assured, it wasn’t my intention to react so brusquely to your question.” She lifts her free hand to brush off meandering strands of hair, searching his eyes all the while. Had he purposely sought her out, or did they coincidentally end up in line together?
No matter — it seems there is nothing that could be gained from regarding him at face value. Men like him, she’s come to discover, are not the easiest books to skim through.
“Anyway, I would say that the festivities are cute enough and that the Lantern Rite itself means well, or at least ... it did, once upon a time.” Inwardly, she retches at the sour aftertaste of her half-lie. “For both of our sakes, I shall leave it at that.” Keqing has to physically tap her chin to keep her barely there grin intact. “It would be inappropriate of me to elaborate any further.”
“You take your thumb and jab it into the middle of its back,” explains Meg, “then pull to one side to lift the carapace, revealing the goodies inside.”
“Can’t you just get them from the belly?” asks Ora, pressing the tip of a finger against the metallic chitin of the giant beetle in her lap. “The shell is so hard.”
Meg shakes her head and lets out a cackle. “Absolutely not. The belly may seem softer, but it’s stretchy and tough. You’d never get through. Here, watch; it’s easy.” The magpie flips her own insect onto its belly, and before it can wriggle away she brings her beak down with a sharp crack against the middle of its back. She flicks her head and a tearing sound accompanies the lifting of one side of the beetle’s armour.
Ora is not convinced, but gives it a go. She succeeds only in breaking her thumbnail and cries out, putting her dirty digit in her mouth.
Meg sighs. “Take this one.” She flips the beetle over to Ora, who catches it and greedily pinches out the meat from within. “Toss me yours.”
Ora does so, and the friends chatter aimlessly as they eat.
The small girl has lost count of the days since leaving the village of her captors, but it has been at least a fortnight now since meeting her lifesaving friend, whom Ora calls Meg. The magpie has shown her which leaves collect rainfall to drink, which burrows contain meat and which contain animals she does not want to meet, and has instructed her in the ways of insectoid charcuterie, though Ora has yet to pick up on many of the techniques used by the bird.
What Meg has not done, of course, is converse with the child in such an easy manner as above described. Meg is a bird, with the mouth, tongue, and brain of a bird, and is incapable of intelligible conversation. Ora, on the other hand, is capable of not only independent thought and internal dialogue, but has developed the ability in recent days of dialoguing independent of her own consciousness. Thus, she has been happily social with her feathered companion over the last week. This has not seemed to bother the magpie in the least; on the contrary, the bird has hardly left the girl’s side since giving her those first caterpillars so many days before.
They have been travelling in a gentle spiral pulled out of symmetry to tend their path gradually to the south-east, and the lack of civilization or change of landscape has not bothered the two friends at all, though the weather has begun to. Also tending southwards, if certain idioms are applied to, the weather has not been kind in the last days. Torrential downpours are keeping Meg virtually grounded and northern winds are biting deeply into Ora’s uncovered skin, though she has recently been stitching together a cloak of witch’s hair and ground moss. A warm cap of these substances is also, beneficially but unintentionally, woven into her thick hair. Regardless, Ora is cold, dangerously so, and her head aches.
"How come you’re clutching so tight?” asks Ora, shifting the moss on her shoulder so that Meg’s claws are not digging so far into her collarbone.
“Something’s not right,” responds the bird.
They have been walking now for some time since their feast and a thick drizzle has driven Meg to perch on Ora’s shoulder.
Ora pushes a wet branch of hair out of her eyes and blinks away a torrent of water. “I don’t see---” She does not finish the thought; a dozen paces away, basket on their shoulder, is a person stepping out of a doorway.
For a time, the doorway is the only part of the house that Ora can make out, but as the pause lingers she discerns the greenery-covered walls, the sod roof.
“Forest spirit,” whispers the person in a dialect unfamiliar to Ora. “Daughter of Grauffyd.”
“What’re they saying?” Ora asks Meg. It has been a long time, longer in her perception, since she has heard proper words.
“They are paying us respect,” croaks Meg.
Indeed, the person is slowly laying down their basket. “I was going out to collect mushrooms,” they say. “Would you come and bless the garden?”
“They want us to eat their mushrooms,” whispers Meg into Ora’s ear.
“I understood them this time,” returns Ora. She gestures with a hand and the person picks up their basket and, with a hesitating look over their shoulder, walks around the house to a shallow pit dug under a massive stump at its rear.
“Here they are.” The person motions for Ora to survey the densely packed fungi in the pit.
Ora moves sedately towards the pit, crouches down, and plucks a mushroom. She eats it and smacks her lips. “It’s delicious,” she says to Meg. “Try one.”
“Not keen on mushrooms,” says Meg with a flutter of her wings.
Ora turns to the person. “Do you have any grubs for Meg?”
The person blanches and falls back onto their haunches. “She speaks our language!”
In case it was missed, up until this moment Ora has been conversing with Meg in language primarily sealed in her mind, though supplemented by bestial chirps and croaks.
Ora repeats herself: “Do you have any grubs?”
“Are you---” starts the person. “Are you just a child?”
“Meg wants some grubs,” insists Ora.
“You poor thing!” cries the person, and rushes forward. Meg cackles and flutters her wings on Ora’s shoulder, arresting their advance.
“Ssh now, Meg,” says Ora. To the person, she says, “The mushrooms are great, but Meg would prefer a caterpillar or beetle.”
“Of course. Let me . . .” The person turns away and bends down by a small pile of chopped wood. “There are usually---Ah, here we are.” They turn back to Ora and Meg with a thick centipede pinched between two fingers. The person moves a bit closer and holds the insect up. “For . . . Meg.”
The magpie crows and snatches it up, throwing her head back to swallow. “Delicious!” she declares.
“Delicious,” translates Ora.
“You’re very welcome. Feel free to have more mushrooms, too.” The person watches as Ora turns back to the cavity under the stump, the tiny girl’s shoulders shifting back and forth as she picks and eats her fill.
“Do you have a home? Parents who are missing you?”
Ora’s back remains turned. “No.” Shitrech does not even cross her mind; nor do her captors and their village.
“Would you like to stay here for a while? I have some turkeys---maybe we can have some eggs for evening meal. With grubs for Meg.”
“Okay.”
Meg croaks her assent, too.
* * *
When Ora wakes later that evening, her belly is full, her hair is dry, and she is wrapped in a soft, leaf-fibre blanket. Beside her, perched on the bedpost, Meg opens one eye as Ora props herself up on her elbows.
