Treesnake

Tempest Corona


 * Of substantial size and dominance within the freehold of Crown's Refuge are the expansive gardens known as the Tempest Corona. Encircled around the base of the towering Tempest Spire, Tempest Corona exists is three circular walkways - one around the base of Tempest Spire, one around the edge of the corona, and one in the middle - that interlock at regular intervals amidst gardens of lush vegetation, delicate statues and fountains, and proud trees and ferns.


 * ''Awash in an ocean of jade and viridian hues, the footpaths that weave around the drape of nature's finest have apparently been created from a smooth obsidian rock that glistens a shade of dark purple when wet. This black stone serves to contrast with the otherwise pristine white of the tower that looms above, both of which equally complementing the varied greens of the gardens that encompass the whole area.


 * ''The hiss and burble of fresh water from artificial streams, channels, and fountains alike provide a perpetually peaceful backdrop to the more natural ambiance of whispering leaves and rustling bushes. Patrolmen and Guards attached to the Blood Guard of Crown's Refuge stand at key points around the gardens - Human and Syladris alike - in half-plate of a polished dark-scarlet hue; an elegant tower-shield in one hand, an iron short sword in the other.


 * ''Centered at the heart of Crown's Refuge, the Tempest Corona links to all four of the artery pathways that run through the freehold to the north, east, south, and west. The archway that leads into Tempest Spire itself faces south towards Fastheld, flanked by two Blood Guards at all times. Regardless of the presence of the Crown's Refuge defense guard, Tempest Corona harbors a sense of peace matched only by that of the Snowfall Basin in the northwest.

It's a little-expected fact that snakes can, given sufficient impetuous, climb a tree. Thus it may be of absolutely no surprise that Aeseyri, in apparently what looks like stereotypical zeal, is draped around and over a tree-branch of one of the carefully groomed beech-trees, somewhat ingominiously hung by his vest, a broken limb laying in the manicured grass underneath him. At this precise moment, a human in Blood Guard's armor is laughing helplessly under the tree, looking up with an expression of helpless consternation at the syladris who, it seems, is apparently ... stuck.

Just a ways across the moonlit gardens radiates the familiar crackle of fire - competition to work against the treed Syladris spectacle. The source hails from where a patchy rose brush once stood - some fifty yards away, beneath an equally troublesome looking tree. There, the one Syladris they call Arch Mage has dug a pit and from that pit has long been burning a rather vigorous flame. The scent of the cooking bark and sap wafts through the air, an aromatic addition to the chilled, less than enjoyable night. Particularily less enjoyable if you are clumsily swung around a branch.

Ignorant of her subject's demise, Tshepsi remains loosely huddled near her heat source, gazing intensely into the heart of red. Every now and again, her whispered mutterings take on a more lyrical hum to their fashion.

The branch-borne Aes offers helplessly, "It wass jusst that there wasss a nesst up there and I wanted to know if there were eggsss in it but there were not and then the branch broke and it hurt but then I ssstopped falling." A shove with that black-scaled tail sets the tree to rustling and rattling, but doesn't yet dislodge the vest. The naga peers down, a bit haughtily, at the laughing Blood Guard. "You are not helping."

The fellow grins up at Aes, wheezing out around laughter, "No. No I'm not. Yet."

"Ane..." Tshepsi halts her mutterings, eyes narrowing to crimson slits as the guard's laughter penetrates her quietude. With a low hiss, she twists her shoulders around to look for herself at the sight causing such mirthful ruckuss. Night or day, the ArchMage's eyes focus well and what she sees is cause for smirk indeed. "You are ussselesss to help even if it wasss your desssire, human," she grumbles about the guard and splays her fingers outward, claws reaching out for the culprit tree. Pausing for a moment, she strokes its life essence there, then...

At an innocent enough distance, one would find Tshepsi lounging near her campfire and what would appear to be engaging herself in a luxurious stretch. A streeetch of the arm there, a rolling of the wrist here...but on Aeseyri's side of things, nature has taken on a quite unnatural habit.

That is to say, the tree seems 'bent' on assisting the Syladris in his predicament and reclaim its branches for itself. The sound is subtle at first - minor creaks and groans associated with shifting weight in high places, but then the straining of the wood grows to an unmistakable roar, and the trunk begins to bend at its 'waist', bowing very slowly towards that blood guard while the twigs and limbs around Aeseyri begin to twitch and writhe.

Aes... squeaks. It's a good word, his eyes going wide. With a fairly panicked hiss, he flops and struggles and shoves - it doesn't /quite/ get him loose, but there's a ripping sound from that vest. "I do not tassste good!" It's a bit of a wail, really.

The guard isn't much better - the laughter fading to a level stare. Trees aren't supposed to /do/ that, you see.

It is a polite tree, at least, sweeping one branch across in imitation of a bow to the guard before contorting the one above Aeseyri. Scraggly twigs and pencil thin branches rattle their leaves as they twist, coming together in formation of a badly deformed hand. Their target? That vest. Meanwhile, the trunk continues to dip lower to the ground, lessening the distance between panicked Syladris and the ground below.

Tshepsi smiles rather giddily to herself, clearing enjoying this funny side of the shadow, and whispering words of thanks to the impish talents. Very delicately, she casts her fingers wide, then pinches thumb and forefinger together, guiding the rather clumsy bits of wood to their target. The tree, in essence, appears to be attempting to pluck the snagged vest free of its own bark.

A beech tree in the edge of the Corona is just a bit down from a burning fire. At the fire, is an Archmage, the female grinning a bit like a loon, and making an odd plucking gesture. At the other end of that stretch of park? A tree is plucking an Aeseyri free of itself, where the male is apparently stuck. In it. A good several feet above ground.

And there he dangles, held in part in tree branch, mostly by rather battered vest, clinging to the tree-truck with his tail and struggling to get loose, entirely oblivious as to the fact that, frankly, if he does, it's still a bit of a fall. "No! I do not want to be eaten!"

There's a blood guard that /was/ under the tree. Right now? the wildlander's rapidly retreating a few steps, eyes wide.

The tree doesn't seem to want to eat him, either, as the awfull groaning resumes as the trunk becomes bent to nigh breaking point, providing the snagged Syladris with a much easier reach of the ground below. At last, a rather knotted branch succeeds in nudging/tearing the vest free of its mate, then whips back into its original position as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occured. The trunk, however, remains humbly bowed, waiting for the scaly tail to release its frightened grip.

Tshepsi has stilled now, continuing to watch the spectacle with an objective stare. Her left arm does remain crooked at the elbow, however, as though frozen in the middle of a 'come hither' motion. Behind her, the fire blazes with a sudden burst of heat, showering her snowy figure with vivid sparks and casting her silhouette into a more defined shadow.

Atop Whisper, From the south comes a horse and wagon. Oh, and a horseman too. Sandrim rides into the gardens, making his way through the paths and looking over the orchard, before he turns to look over at the sight, and just stares. "Oh," he says to himself. "Well, this looks like a story."

He hops off of his horse and starts walking over to Archmage and Aeseyri, adjusting the strap of his baldric as he approaches. "Aes, let go of the tree!" he calls out, before nodding to Tshepsi. "Evening, Archmage."

Once the tree stops moving, Aes /slowly/ sorts out that he's not being chewed. And that the ground's closer. And that it's apparently waiting for him. With these realizations filed away, one after another, that tail slowly, slowly loostens... and is applied to ground, the syladris supporting himself. and then, meekly, eyes wide, he simply.. thanks the tree. "It isss very nicsse of you to put me down and to not eat me. Thanksss to you, yess? You are very kind."

Tshepsi lowers her arms to her sides and the tree, rather than responding to the word of thanks, snaps rigidly upright back into its original sentinel's posture. She returns to musing over her fire, hissing to the embers that pop and glow within the heart. "Sssmoky ssshadows like to play..." she whispers, picking up a stick and prodding the fried wood. "Makesss the fire man danccce."

Sandrim consider Aes for a moment, giving him a smile and nod, before turning back to Tshepsi. "Mm. The fire man?" he asks, squatting down by the fire. "Seeing things dancing around in there?"

And Aes /stares/ at the tree. Blinking. And then he moves up to poke and prod at it. He asks then, brightly - "I did not get to sssee the nessst, can you ssshow me?" Hopeful indeed, staring up into the tree's branches. 'head' height, maybe. Or where a head might be. His coils shift and move as he waits - it's obvious, honestly, he's not good at waiting.

Maybe the tree is tired? Maybe it feels ornery? Maybe it's forgotten? Whatever the case, the tree remains as trees do, quiet and still, save for the occasional breeze that shifts through the leaves. After all that twisting and turning though, the nest had become a tad upset, and for the accidental efforts...

A single egg finally totters loose of the precarious tilt against the twigs and plummets towards the ground.

"He isss not very good at dancccing," Tshepsi confides to Sandrim with a childlike whisper, eyes earnestly wide. She casts a conspiring glance back towards the flames. "He fallsss down a lot. But it isss hard to sssee in the dark."

Sandrim grins at Tshepsi, then looks into the fire. "Mm. I'm not sure I see this fire man myself," he says. "Better at finding pictures in clouds. But, I imagine if he's in a fire, he's going to be having trouble dancing no matter what."

For once in his very short life, Aeseyri doesn't get a faceful of egg. It doesn't smack him on the head or shatter uselessly in the grass - by pure dumb reaction the Syladris manages to almost catch, then bobble, then nearly drop, then catch, then nearly run into the tree but not, the egg. And he blinks, and then brightly offers to the tree, "It isss very nicsse of you! Thankss to you very much." And with that, he slithers away, holding on to his prize somewhat covetously.

Of course /then/ he spies the Archmage, poking at her fire. Drawn like a magnet, though tentative, he moves in fits and starts toward the cheery glow, the Sandrim, and the swirling sparks generated by the Archmage's use of a pokey-stick.

"He'sss there..." Tshepsi points to the glowing, splitting splinters of wood. Scratching at her horns, the Syladris woman shifts in her coils, slithering a bit around to get a different perspective. "The ssshadow sssings to make him danccce. Lisssten..." To the silence. Aside from that pop-hiss of course. "The sssmoke blindsss, but he triesss...a ssstring he hasss, a ssstring to pull him up. Hisss legsss don't work. Can't you sssee?" She presses, pointing blatantly to the center of the fire where this apparation is apparently writhing around.

Sandrim gets down on his knees to stare further into the heart of the fire, trying his best to focus on what is there. Or not there, whatever the case may be. He doesn't see it, no, but he's willing to try his best, staring hard. "Dancing man in the fire," he murmurs. "I wish I could see what you see." He doesn't notice Aes approaching either, not yet.

Aes watches the fire, the light glinting off of the silver banding on his horns, cradling that egg in both hands, close to his belly. As he crosses into the fireglow, he hisses out a bright, "Ssandrim." And another, a bit more tentative, but just as bright, "Tsshepsssi. Did you sssee? A tree gave me an egg!" He shows it. Proudly. And then all that staring at the fire actually has him shifting, a bit nervously. Worried.

"Poor fire man..." Tshepsi mourns, creeping dangerously close to the heat and extending that stick of hers towards the lump of burning ash. "Sssit and ressst..." When this gesture does nothing more than deflate the ash into a more scattered pile, she drops the stick and then hoists her right arm into the sky, hand limply grasping at an unseen thing. "Like thisss," she demonstrates and lets her left arm sag, shrunken to her side while her head rolls on her shoulders. Her torso teeters on its scaly support, threatening to collapse, but each time, a yank from the invisible rope tugs her back upright.

"Like that." Abandoning the fire man to his silly dance moves, Tshepsi looks more brightly to the egg in Aeseyri's palms.

"It did?" she echoes cryptically, smile turning more sly than sincere. "Treesss are friendsss indeed...unlike the guard who ran away, hm?"

Sandrim blinks slowly, pulling his eyes away from the fire as the ash collapses, and turns to smile at Aes. "An egg?" he asks, standing up to look at the male syladris' treasure. "What kind of egg is it? It isn't a chicken egg, at least."

"It isss sspeckled." Aes blinks at Tshepsi. "Yesss.. but I think it wass not hungry. Do tresss eat Syladrisss? It wass a very kind tree, but I do not know." He flashes Tshepsi a tentative smile. "It isss a very odd dancsse."

"Treesss do not eat Sssyladris. We have not been born long enough for them to learn how," Tshepsi answers Aeseyri in pure mischief now, head nodding sagely. "But one day they might." Fire seemingly forgotten then, she gives a more genuine stretch and yawn this time - the tree stays still - and winds away from the heat of the fire. "Pleassse watch the fire man for me," she tells them both. "It isss ssstrange, the living darkness inssside the bright fire, but if it consssumes him completely, he will not be able to dance ssso."

That said, the both wise yet naive enigma that is Tshepsi slithers towards her Spire.

Sandrim grins and shakes his head, looking over to Aes as Tshepsi leaves. "Trees don't eat, at all," he says. "Just water and sun and fertilizer, you see, and you are not any of that."

"It wasss very hungry, I think. I do not know why it hasss losst itsss leavesss - perhapsss it isss that it needsss to eat one of usss to get them back?" Aes gives Sandrim a wide-eyed look... at least once he tears his gaze away from the Archmage, as she moves away. "I would not want it to learn that I would give it more leavessss."

Sandrim laughs and shakes his head, smiling warmly. "No, no," he says. "It's not that. Trees just lose their leaves when it gets cold. They'll be back, when spring rolls around again." He turns away, to look into the fire. "Mm. I brought Violet back with me. She's down at the stables."

"What isss ssspring? Isss thisss thiss Violet?" Aeseyri curls up to watch the fire, idly cracking that egg with a pointed tooth, carefully.

Sandrim hmms. "Spring is one of the four seasons," he says. "There's the summer, when it's warmest, and everything is in full bloom. Autumn, when the leaves start to change, and it starts to cool, and leaves fall. Harvests happen during this time." He grins. "I was born in the autumn, so I don't mind it much at all. But after autumn comes winter, with the frosts and cold. The world... sort of half-dies, goes to sleep. But then in spring, the snows melt, and the world is reborn."

Aes chips that egg open, speaking around his careful working of the shell. "I do not know thesse thingsss - but I am glad it isss not alwaysss cold. I have noticssed thosse of your people do not care much for the cold - Tyder isss alwaysss ssshivering, and Blackfoxss isss very careful of it."

Sandrim nods. "Ahh," he says. "That's right. The cold is bad for us. Can make us sick, but we have ways of living through it." He picks up a stick to prod the fire. "Violet, on the other hand, to answer that question, is a cow."

"... a cow?" Aes's eyes go wide - "I did not think they were real." Awed, that. And then he sucks that egg, slurping up its innards with a happy sort of.. well.. slurp.

Sandrim hmms. "I could bring you to see her," he says. "And get some milk, if you could grab a bucket from the trade pavilion for me."

Aes starts off enthused... and then pauses. "but then no one will watch the fire-man and it will go out and that would be bad." He looks positively torn. "You can not bring thisss Violet-cow here?"

Sandrim hmms, looking to the fire. "The fire is going to go out eventually," he says. "All fires do. It isn't a real man dancing in there." He smiles a bit. "I can try to coax her in, though. Just give me a little bit."

"I will not let thisss one." Aes straightens. "Ssshe asssked me not to - it will not go out."

(After the cow is retrieved...)

Aeseyri is still there, by the fire - feeding it from the meager store of brush near at hand. Honestly - there's not enough wood there to keep that fire going through until morning, likely, but the syladris is doing what he can.

Sandrim walks back in, this time leading a full grown dairy cow, and carrying a bucket in hand. "Aes!" he calls out. "Now, this is Violet."

The naga turns, smiling... and his eyes again go very wide. "... ssshe issss /real/.." Awed. "She isss very pretty... her eyesss are very big, yesss?" Slowly, he drifts toward both cow and human.

Sandrim grins, patting Violet on the side. "Just try not to startle her too much," he says, ducking down next to her. He places the bucket underneath the cow, who, really, seems quite lazy and complacent tonight. "I'm going to try and get some milk for us."

Aes stays well-clear, for now, lowering himself to see just what is up with that bucket, and what Sandrim intends to do. "it isss good. I like milk - where do we get it? I can go, if you will watch the fire."

Sandrim shakes his head, reaching out to take care of one of Violet's udders.

"We get it right here," he says, and then sets to work, slowly coaxing the cow.

Aes opens his mouth. Closes it. Gets in close to watch, in facination, crimson eyes studying Sandrim's actions, the milk, the bucket, and the cow's udders with equal avid interest.

Sandrim nods approvingly, a little while later, and pulls out the full bucket, which he holds up to Aes with a grin. "Have a drink," he says.

Aes /eyes/ that bucket. And then sandrim. Then the bucket. It is a mark of his trust, perhaps, that he takes it, gingerly, and with a careful breath, raises it to his lips. And then blinks. "it isss good!"

Sandrim grins at Aes. "Yes, yes it is," he says, reaching out for the bucket to take a sip himself. "I mean, it's not mead, or wild star ale, but I like it."

"It isss good." Aes says that firmly. "Ale isss good, but it isss good in a different way." Behind the pair, the fire pops and crackles. "it isss almossst asss good asss eggsss."

Sandrim grins a bit. "Well, now," he says. "I need to put her to bed, and get to bed myself. You be well, alright Aes?"

"Yess - I will watch the fire." Aes smiles, ruefully. "I hope there isss enough wood." He slithers away, toward the little firepit. "Dream of good thingsss, Ssandrim."

Sandrim smiles at Aes. "Want me to come out here with you?" he asks. "It's cold, but if you stick around, I'll be fine."

"I will keep the fire - it will not be ssso cold?" Aes is tentative, there.

"I would not mind. I am not ssssure I can ssstay awake? if there are two.."

Sandrim grins a bit sheepishly. "I'm not sure I can either, but I'll come stay with you. Just stay close, and I'll be fine." And with that, he's leading the cow away again."

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