The Resplendent Quetzal
Itâs not terribly often that people find themselves in the company of a bipedal, sentient, talking quetzal.
Except, well, this is yet another Piltovian Harrowing.
Another Piltovian Harrowing featuring the good Professor Cain.
Once again, he is a guest of honor, due in no small part to his extravagant performances, elaborate costumes, and theatrical acting. The Harrowing is perhaps the holiday he takes the most delight in observing. Due to his nature, his physical appearance is conveniently protean, and much more accommodating to radical alterations for the sake of a little cosplay. The Professor also boasts remarkable craftsmanship in his creations, be they technological or theatrical. In his case, he combines the best of both worlds to produce truly dazzling personas.
In spite of indulging the privilege in becoming someone, something else for the duration of the festivities, every costume he flaunts about in affords onlookers some degree of insight into his, quite frankly, eccentric mindset. As of late, his disguises have featured more and more aesthetics of an ornithological persuasion, often boasting resplendent plumage, audacious choreography, and striking coloration. To commemorate the most recent Grand Prix, he appeared at the ceremonial airshow as a phoenix, having modified the wings on his back to cast mighty gales of flame with each beat.
Now he walks among the masked as a bird of paradise, the incident light striking his emerald carapace scattering into all the colors of the rainbow. Colorized filters placed over his eyes and chestpiece convert his piercing electric-blue gaze into a glow as golden as the sun. Accenting the greens are swathes of sanguine crimson and glacial white, thoughtfully applied to his bosom, beaked face, and limbs, for the sake of contrast. But perhaps the most impressive element of his costume is a collection of metal feathers and pinions, painstakingly crafted with seemingly-impossible precision, woven into his limbs and his wings, wired into his body to move and flutter at his command. To the uninitiated, it would seem as though some ancient god or goddess of the sun stepped right out of the mythologies of the south, and demanded to be recognized and lauded for its sheer incandescence.
Though, as the time comes to carve pumpkins, he finds himself stifled. He gazes round at the other revelers, hard at work on their respective gourds, inscribing their chosen visages into the fruitsâ flesh. His complex facial mechanics form into a frown. Such paltry pumpkins would simply not do for the artistic envisioning he has in mind. He would need to secure for himself a most magnanimous, grandiose gourd, upon which to inscribe his magnum opus.
But where could he find a pumpkin of such prodigious size?
The uncountable synapses in that head of his begin firing, one after the other. He was an engineer. Solving problems, he did for a living. This was simply another in the pile.
Then, it comes to him.
Grimdark, a small settlement south of the bay, right on the border between Piltover and Zaun. A burg of considerable media attention as of late, having been the stage for a brief, but tense standoff between the two powers. One that ended, albeit less-than-amicably, in a treaty that sought to bring some warmth to the cold war that embroils them both. The two nations had come to an agreement of how best to exploit the regionâs natural resources to the best interests on both sides, on one condition: that there was to be no armed Piltovian presence. The stipulations were weighted heavily in Zaunâs favor, owing to support they received from Noxus, and Demaciaâs conspicuous absence from Piltoverâs side.
Yet, it, like many other settlements that feel the influence of the Grey, Grimdark too has had a taste of Zaunâs science-gone-mad. Of particular interest to the men of science (a concession of credibility that Tangent does not suffer lightly) is the flora that manages to sprout there. Forced to imbibe all manner of extreme and outrageous botanical decoctions, the plants there have swollen to frankly-ridiculous proportions, never mind the slew of other traits that they have managed to have recklessly crammed into their DNA.
Yes, yes! It all comes together in his mindâs eye. He, a sort that suffers not the rigors of travel, would take a short aeronautical jaunt down to the border, appropriate one of these gourds, and that would be the canvas for his next grand work. Brilliant! Truly, his reputation as a genius is assuredly well-deserved!
But, alas, even this oh-so-meticulously-concocted scheme was plagued by but one itsy-bitsy detail.
Just beneath his carapace bristled the power to kill a hundred men, or perhaps one man a hundred times over.
His very existence has demanded a thorough investigation of his legal status as, among other things, a sentient being with inalienable human rights, a natural-born citizen of Piltover, a privately-owned aircraft, and, most recently, a deadly weapon with the power to sow destruction on a massive scale. The very design of his telekinetic blades meant that he, at all times, wielded a concealed weapon that he could manifest at will. The mere act of him setting foot within the borders of Grimdark would be met with outcry from Zaunâs political elite, the subsequent backlash undoubtedly escalating into an international incident the likes of which Piltover could not possibly be prepared for.
As he cruises, thousands of feet above the earth, he plays out the imminent scenario. The success (and legality) of his caper would depend on his discretion, and, to a non-zero degree, luck. As he draws close to his destination, his nerves tingle with giddiness, the impetus of his audacious act driven by the thrill of being noticed doing something outrageous while looking outrageous. No doubt he would look back on this in several monthsâ time with some degree of mortification, astonished how he had ever allowed himself to slip so far out of his established social norms.
But right now, he just doesnât care. As he touches down, his feet digging into the loamy peat, a quiet titter escapes him, one that develops into full-blown merry giggling as he jaunts toward a nearby field, a noticeable spring in his step. He stops not too far ahead, taking great care to not overstep the boundaries outlined by the treaty. Technically, he couldnât get in trouble if he never crossed the border, right? The treaty expressly forbids that.
But it doesnât say he canât lure something back over.
His luminescent eyes focus ahead, on one particularly swollen pumpkin, arguably twice his height and that same magnitude in girth. As he sights it, he feels an electric tingle well up in his bosom, sending a shudder up his spine and tickling his antennae. This was the one. As laid out in his grand plan, this veritable fruit was to be his. But how would he obtain it? Such a massive gourd must weigh at least a thousand pounds! His strength, both physical and psychokinetic, was prodigious, but even he had his limits.
Thankfully, he knows full well what grows here, and there is a very good reason that he jaunted out all this way, still made up and in costume.
He assumes a wide-footed stance, planting his feet firmly into the dirt. He spreads his arms wide, bristling his wired-in feathers in a flamboyant, cacophonous display of such outrageous implication that even the most mild-mannered would swoon. He raises his head, opening his beak, and issues out a delightfully-melodic crescendo of notes, a birdsong he had practiced solely for the purposes of the festivities. To look the part was one thing, to act it and sound it were necessary for the guise to be complete, and the good Professor was certainly, among other things, quite the talented thespian.
For a few tense moments, his avian serenade echoes across the plains, no doubt giving any nearby nocturnal denizens a startle. Tangentâs eyes stay transfixed on the his desired gourd, a brief jitter in their luminescence being his analogue for blinking.
Then, a sound. A creaking, cracking sound. Sudden and abrupt enough to send another electrical jolt through his bosom, to play along his spine. He watches, with almost child-like anticipation as, from beneath the pumpkin, gnarled fibrous tendrils, made of vines woven one round the other, thrust their way to the surface, bending back upon themselves and finding solid purchase within the earth. They push downward, in turn pushing the fruit upward, with a sort of glacial might that slowly, but surely, reveals the gourdâs true form -- a bizarre, mutated creature, seemingly still entirely plant in nature, but arguably possessing a posture of bipedal persuasion that, quite literally, stands to disquiet even the most traveled sorts.
As the pumpkin rises, he feels that same giddiness well up inside him again. He can hardly help but leap and prance in place, allowing himself a triumphant fit of giggling as he watches the next step in his grand scheme come to fruition.
âYes, yes! Thatâs it!â he calls to the gourd, making grandiose upward-sweeping gestures with his plumage-adorned arms. âOff the vine! Off the vine! Come, my magnificently-mutated monstrosity, I have grand designs in store for you!â He leaps into the air, catching some air beneath his wings, and issues yet another birdcall at the abomination to get its attention. How such a thing is capable of perceiving sound is a mystery, even to the Grimdark botanists. The thing had no ears, no eyes, surely no brain within the seed-ridden mush that it contained. But it did have both arms and legs, both quite functional, which is exactly what this strange, bipedal quetzal desired. Standing fully erect, it turns to face the vainglorious birdbot, making a feeble, anemic swipe at him with its knotted arm-vines.Â
âCome, come!â he calls again, rattling his feathers to entice it further. He flaps toward it, propelling himself backward and assailing it with a gust of wind. Finally, the beast takes the bait, and steps forward, its long, spindly legs giving it a lengthy stride as it attempts to swat the metal bird from the sky. For such a colossus to move so silently, save for the creaking and splintering heard from its limbs, was perhaps more disquieting than its looks. Large creatures usually roar or bellow. This one does not.
It does, however, exhibit a certain degree of persistence that the emerald avian finds a strange delight in. All along the road back to Bannerstone, the two engage in a hopelessly one-sided fight, the creature attempting to grasp and grope, the quetzal ducking just out of reach, only to respond with a tirade of laughter, bird songs, and the occasional peck or two.
In time, the merrymakers he left behind begin to stir, perturbed by the unusual cascade of noises that seem to be coming from beyond. Much to everyoneâs surprise, and perhaps a little bit of terror (whether real or acted), the Professor swoops down along the main path back to the celebration, laughing and cheering all the way, bringing with him a gourd of such monumental proportions that it dares to challenge even Piltoverâs prodigious harvest. He draws it closer still, right to where everyone can see it, and then promptly calls forth his blades, declawing the gourd with several swift slashes. As though severed from whatever bizarre energies forced it to be animate, the massive pumpkin falls to the ground, as benign as any other. He perches himself atop the thing in a manner not unlike his costumed likeness, and announces his arrival with an impromptu speech.
âHark, revelers, merrymakers, and celebrants of all shapes and sizes, from all walks of life, all âround the world!â He spreads his arms out again, letting his resplendent plumage waft gently in the evening breeze. âGaze upon me, and my prize! This veritable, gargantuan fruit, which nature herself was so good to provide for us tonight, is to be but a canvas for what will truly be a work of art to make even the stone-hearted weep!â He places his hands on his hips, leaning forward in a gesture of mock curiosity. âWhat is it, you ask? Why, my dear friends, look up!âÂ
He throws his arms skyward as those around him turn their heads toward the heavens. It was a clear, placid night, offering an unabated view into the ebony abyss and with it, countless pearlescent specks of stellar brilliance, only made to appear so timid due to vast cosmological distances. âOn this night of glorious nights, we are so fortunate as to witness an untarnished view of the cosmos through which our world speeds.â He turns back to the crowd. âGaze upon this act of impossible speed and dexterity as I transcribe the very heavens themselves into the fruits of the earth!â He lifts off the gourd, calling his blades to him again, allowing them to slowly orbit his being. âLadies and gentlemen, what you are soon about to behold will be but a mirror visage of the wondrous stellar glyphs that hang above us!â
He silences the crowdâs awed gasps and shouts with a single tut, folding his arms behind his back, lacing his fingers together. âAnd, perhaps most magnificently, it shall be done without lifting even a single digit.â
There follows a surge of light from his eyes and chest, the cerulean power within overwhelming the cosmetics he has in place to change its color. The colossal gourd rises into the air, into the waiting embrace of six long, elegant blades, held aloft by forces unseen. In a final gesture of boisterous audacity, he turns to the crowd, and winks once.
An instant later, a cacophony of whooshing air, clanging steel, and rending gourd flesh erupts as not one, not two, but six oversized knives lay into the pumpkin, carving bits of flesh out, scooping guts aside as they painstakingly and meticulously inscribe upon the fruit his desired imagery. In the brief moments where the pumpkin stops before being furiously rotated again, onlookers can begin to make out the familiar dots that they see in their star charts, and the lines that connect them to form the asterisms that all have come to know.
As swiftly as he started, he bellows again, âAaaaand... BEHOLD!â He yanks his blades back from his work, casually flicking the orange gore aside. Bringing his hands out from behind his back, he wills the pumpkin back down, gently this time, to the ground, taking care not to mar his hard work. As it lands, he snaps his fingers, conjuring a small ember of manafire that he casually tosses in to the gourd, allowing it to be illuminated like all the others. Satisfied with his work, he spins his blades around and skewers them into the earth, once again taking his rightful perch atop his masterpiece. He throws his arms out again, relishing every single eye watching him. âOur celestial neighborhood, made delightfully material.â
To call his work a âmasterpieceâ would, to many bearing witness to it, would be a cruel understatement. Not only has he accurately recreated the layouts of the stars above, but he has even, with subtle strokes of his blade, worked in the milky streams visibly only on the darkest, moonless nights.
His captive audience stands, agape, marveling at his creation. He has taken something so mundane, so utterly ordinary, and turned it into a work of art to rival the time-honored works of Demacian painters, whose compositions have been lauded for centuries. A tenuous silence hangs in the air, his onlookers perhaps struggling to find the right way to respond. Eventually, instinct (or perhaps social norms) take hold, and a smattering of applause begins to snowball into a thunderous roar, accompanied by cheering and whistling.
The queztal lets out a triumphant laugh, throwing his feathered arms into the air once more, and leaping forth from the gourd and landing into a dramatic, theatrical bow, the wind picking up at just the right moment to allow his iridescent cape to flutter behind him. âThank you, thank you!â he calls, standing again and waving to his adoring public. âYour adulation brings light and warmth to this chilly autumn night!â
As he flicks his wrist, banishing his blades back to the aether, he closes his eyes, letting the rest of the world fall away, save for the sounds of applause as he takes a bow again. The craving for attention. The thrill of doing the outrageous, the barely-legal, the theatrical. The acknowledgement, in the form of cheering. For a single night, he was back on stage, all spotlights turned on him as he gallivants about as someone, something else. Professor Cain is not who he is tonight. Professor Cain plays by the rules. Professor Cain would fret about skirting the treaty, making off with someone elseâs property, with disturbing the peace. Professor Cain is all of the things that the quetzal is not. With every extravagant portrayal of something outlandish, he hopes to weave traces of his act, no matter how minute, into the being that he is on any other day.
Because thatâs what he needs.
Because thatâs what will keep him human.
