Story Meme for Breige/Solstice Part 1
Due to a couple of fics and an ic night coming together, Ilsa spent the two days around solstice bouncing around three factions. So there will be a number of meme fics inspired by it going up in the next little while. Interesting stuff happened.
Breige's words were:
Sixth sense, Thunder, Life, and Tomorrow
Solstice Morning
Alrisha awoke with a thundering headache and hair in her face. Long tendrils of soft...horrible heretical betrayer-touched red hair. She sat bolt upright and paused a moment, as the temple port she had imbibed a few hours threatened an escape, then cast about for her headdress. Finding it under one of the cushions she had slept on, she hurriedly tied it on, glad that no one else in the room seemed to be awake. The last thing she wanted right now was Ravenfire trying to convince her that her accursed hair was "pretty";. The first trickles of the sunlight of the shortest day of the year were beginning to filter into the temple side room, revealing a varied array of northerners, sprawled or curled up on any free patch of floor, surrounded by port and whiskey bottles, musical instruments, paper and other assorted detritus.
Wait, shortest day...solstice rites...
Alrisha was not looking forward to leading the Osiran temple's solstice morning blessings. Ensabadu could, but it didn't exactly take a sixth sense to work out how he'd react to the request. The thought of Alrisha dragging herself through the motions hung over would amuse him far too much to consider doing it for her. In any case was probably off nursing his own hangover. Alrisha mumbled a quiet curse. Not quiet enough. The curled form nearest to her; an unusually peculiar looking Norscan expatriate, stirred. The Norscan noted with suprise that her arm was draped over a guitar, and looked up at Alrisha. "Morning Alrisha. So, Lantia then?", she asked, with the particular kind of cheerfulness only acheived by those who have drunk without care for tomorrow, and should be very hungover but are not.
Alrisha groaned. She'd drunkenly agreed to go to entertain people on Gallathrix, something which in the cold light of day seemed a lot less like a good idea, given that she was a scholar, not an entertainer, and a hungover scholar at that. Worse than that, a hazy memory of sharing a little more personal information with her than she would have liked was surfacing.
"Temple first..do stuff";, she mumbled. "Water, then tea, then temple"
"Probably a good plan. Don't think they're getting up any time soon", the Norscan replied, indicating the other sprawled figures. "You're still coming, though, right?"
"Still coming. Still writing song?" Alrisha managed to crack a small smirk at the last words. Her guest might be maddeningly cheerful and unaffected by last night's drinking now, but last night she had drunkenly agreed to write a song for the Jackals, and Alrisha had remembered, and fully intended to hold her to it.
"Because your faction is rubbish"
"We're great. Just not...singy. Anyway, water, tea, temple. Then Lantia."
Alrisha left carefully, picking her way through the remains of the party, stepping gingerly over the sleeping Ravenfire, cursing smug norscans, and going off in search of something to take the edge off her headache.
======================================================================
Ilsa watched Alrisha leave, wondering what her drunken enthusiasm had led her into this time. Why had she agreed to write songs about the southlands? She couldn't write songs, and she knew sod all about the southlands except that they were too hot, and full of unliving,
There was something very sad about any faction that did not have music. Well, they did have the 40 days, but still, one song for a whole faction, and it was the same sort of song as the old merchant store, good laugh to sing while drunk, but it did lack a certain something. Whether she could write a song with a certain something was highly doubtful, but, well, she'd already made her decision.
Truth be told, she'd made her decision last year, and the signs were good so far, the chances she'd taken had paid off, the thread she followed lead her where she needed to be. Many things had happened in the mean time, but nothing to shake her conviction. Despite everything, the feeling of certainty had only grown stronger.
Nearby, Neantóg groaned and blinked. She was another one. Same path, or a similar one, different point on it. Where she went next would be very interesting to watch
"Y'arright Neantóg"; Ilsa asked.
==========================================================================
Neantóg blinked. Surroundings were unfamilar. Headache was far too familiar. It was warm, hot, even. Ground was hard. Not Arden's house, or the brewery,or the guild. Or a ditch for that matter. That was good, at least. Nor was it a cell in Varn, she was pretty sure. Ilsa had jokingly threatened it often enough. That was definitely Ilsa's voice, though.
"Ilsa, where are we?"
"Tanis, in the southlands. Alrisha transported us here last night. Surely you remember the transport vocal in which she said that Dassan was a stupid failure with a face that a camel would be ashamed of, called his mother a cheap whore, and cursed him to be nibbled to death by locusts?"
An image flashed into Neantóg's mind of Alrisha loudly slurring curses and insults at the absent Dassan, holding a port bottle to the dark Erinish sky. And the familiar chill touch of the void. And nearly being violently sick on sand afterwards. Southlands was starting to make sense.
"Still prefer Jericho's transport"
"You would" A barely suppressed giggle bubbled under her friend's words.
"At least you know he's fully aware of what he's doing. Anyway, you can't talk";
Ilsa attempted to arrange her features in a way that suggested innocence. She failed, and looked somewhat comical. However, Neantóg was distracted from pursuing that particular line by a growl from across the room, a growl which sounded precisely as Neantóg would have imagined a bear with a sore head to sound, had it ever occurred to her to imagine such a thing. She glanced toward the source of the noise, a bear breed who appeared to be holding on for dear life to the ground, seeming having great difficulty not falling off. Ravenfire was in for a very painful day.
"Well, looks like she's not coming." , Neantóg remarked quietly.
"He's not either" Ilsa jerked her head in the direction of the wiry male wolfkin sprawled, dead to the world, in the corner. "It'll just be us and Alrisha. Once you add in Kerr and Alfhildr, we should be able to get a decent chorus going."
Neantóg grimaced, remembering the previous night's altercation. "That's probably a very good thing, Ilsa. But one of them had better be out of here before Ravenfire's fully awake or he'll cause some sort of interfactional incident, and I don't think Ravenfire's going to move"
"We'll find him someone to transport him home. Alrisha can do it if no one else can."
Neantóg looked about, noticing for the first time that their hostess did not seem to be present. "Where is Alrisha, by the way?"
"She's gone off to do some religious priestessy thing. Think she was regretting all that port"
"Ouch, priestessing with a hangover doesn't sound fun. Wonder how she's doing?"
==========================================================================
At that very moment, in the Temple of Osiris, a young novice was stepping forward, with racing heart and trembling hands, to perform solstice rites for the very first time. She had no idea why the Alrisha had chosen her, less still why she had chosen this moment to honour her so, and she was terrified. Of course, leading solstice rites was a small thing someone like Alrisha, who travelled to distant lands, spoken with the rulers of nations, taken part in great battles, and had given her life for Osiris, only to be miraculously returned to life. Did she remember a time when it scared her to stand before so many to speak. Perhaps it never did.
But while it was terrifying, she could take heart. Alrisha had chosen her, it must have been for a reason. And while it seemed strange, and wonderful beyond her hopes that the she saw some potential in her, but what other explanation could there be?
She glanced at Alrisha. The elf was gazing straight ahead with unseeing eyes, swaying slightly, no doubt listening to the voice of the ancestor who favoured her so.
The novice took a deep breath and began to speak...
Breige's words were:
Sixth sense, Thunder, Life, and Tomorrow
Solstice Morning
Alrisha awoke with a thundering headache and hair in her face. Long tendrils of soft...horrible heretical betrayer-touched red hair. She sat bolt upright and paused a moment, as the temple port she had imbibed a few hours threatened an escape, then cast about for her headdress. Finding it under one of the cushions she had slept on, she hurriedly tied it on, glad that no one else in the room seemed to be awake. The last thing she wanted right now was Ravenfire trying to convince her that her accursed hair was "pretty";. The first trickles of the sunlight of the shortest day of the year were beginning to filter into the temple side room, revealing a varied array of northerners, sprawled or curled up on any free patch of floor, surrounded by port and whiskey bottles, musical instruments, paper and other assorted detritus.
Wait, shortest day...solstice rites...
Alrisha was not looking forward to leading the Osiran temple's solstice morning blessings. Ensabadu could, but it didn't exactly take a sixth sense to work out how he'd react to the request. The thought of Alrisha dragging herself through the motions hung over would amuse him far too much to consider doing it for her. In any case was probably off nursing his own hangover. Alrisha mumbled a quiet curse. Not quiet enough. The curled form nearest to her; an unusually peculiar looking Norscan expatriate, stirred. The Norscan noted with suprise that her arm was draped over a guitar, and looked up at Alrisha. "Morning Alrisha. So, Lantia then?", she asked, with the particular kind of cheerfulness only acheived by those who have drunk without care for tomorrow, and should be very hungover but are not.
Alrisha groaned. She'd drunkenly agreed to go to entertain people on Gallathrix, something which in the cold light of day seemed a lot less like a good idea, given that she was a scholar, not an entertainer, and a hungover scholar at that. Worse than that, a hazy memory of sharing a little more personal information with her than she would have liked was surfacing.
"Temple first..do stuff";, she mumbled. "Water, then tea, then temple"
"Probably a good plan. Don't think they're getting up any time soon", the Norscan replied, indicating the other sprawled figures. "You're still coming, though, right?"
"Still coming. Still writing song?" Alrisha managed to crack a small smirk at the last words. Her guest might be maddeningly cheerful and unaffected by last night's drinking now, but last night she had drunkenly agreed to write a song for the Jackals, and Alrisha had remembered, and fully intended to hold her to it.
"Because your faction is rubbish"
"We're great. Just not...singy. Anyway, water, tea, temple. Then Lantia."
Alrisha left carefully, picking her way through the remains of the party, stepping gingerly over the sleeping Ravenfire, cursing smug norscans, and going off in search of something to take the edge off her headache.
======================================================================
Ilsa watched Alrisha leave, wondering what her drunken enthusiasm had led her into this time. Why had she agreed to write songs about the southlands? She couldn't write songs, and she knew sod all about the southlands except that they were too hot, and full of unliving,
There was something very sad about any faction that did not have music. Well, they did have the 40 days, but still, one song for a whole faction, and it was the same sort of song as the old merchant store, good laugh to sing while drunk, but it did lack a certain something. Whether she could write a song with a certain something was highly doubtful, but, well, she'd already made her decision.
Truth be told, she'd made her decision last year, and the signs were good so far, the chances she'd taken had paid off, the thread she followed lead her where she needed to be. Many things had happened in the mean time, but nothing to shake her conviction. Despite everything, the feeling of certainty had only grown stronger.
Nearby, Neantóg groaned and blinked. She was another one. Same path, or a similar one, different point on it. Where she went next would be very interesting to watch
"Y'arright Neantóg"; Ilsa asked.
==========================================================================
Neantóg blinked. Surroundings were unfamilar. Headache was far too familiar. It was warm, hot, even. Ground was hard. Not Arden's house, or the brewery,or the guild. Or a ditch for that matter. That was good, at least. Nor was it a cell in Varn, she was pretty sure. Ilsa had jokingly threatened it often enough. That was definitely Ilsa's voice, though.
"Ilsa, where are we?"
"Tanis, in the southlands. Alrisha transported us here last night. Surely you remember the transport vocal in which she said that Dassan was a stupid failure with a face that a camel would be ashamed of, called his mother a cheap whore, and cursed him to be nibbled to death by locusts?"
An image flashed into Neantóg's mind of Alrisha loudly slurring curses and insults at the absent Dassan, holding a port bottle to the dark Erinish sky. And the familiar chill touch of the void. And nearly being violently sick on sand afterwards. Southlands was starting to make sense.
"Still prefer Jericho's transport"
"You would" A barely suppressed giggle bubbled under her friend's words.
"At least you know he's fully aware of what he's doing. Anyway, you can't talk";
Ilsa attempted to arrange her features in a way that suggested innocence. She failed, and looked somewhat comical. However, Neantóg was distracted from pursuing that particular line by a growl from across the room, a growl which sounded precisely as Neantóg would have imagined a bear with a sore head to sound, had it ever occurred to her to imagine such a thing. She glanced toward the source of the noise, a bear breed who appeared to be holding on for dear life to the ground, seeming having great difficulty not falling off. Ravenfire was in for a very painful day.
"Well, looks like she's not coming." , Neantóg remarked quietly.
"He's not either" Ilsa jerked her head in the direction of the wiry male wolfkin sprawled, dead to the world, in the corner. "It'll just be us and Alrisha. Once you add in Kerr and Alfhildr, we should be able to get a decent chorus going."
Neantóg grimaced, remembering the previous night's altercation. "That's probably a very good thing, Ilsa. But one of them had better be out of here before Ravenfire's fully awake or he'll cause some sort of interfactional incident, and I don't think Ravenfire's going to move"
"We'll find him someone to transport him home. Alrisha can do it if no one else can."
Neantóg looked about, noticing for the first time that their hostess did not seem to be present. "Where is Alrisha, by the way?"
"She's gone off to do some religious priestessy thing. Think she was regretting all that port"
"Ouch, priestessing with a hangover doesn't sound fun. Wonder how she's doing?"
==========================================================================
At that very moment, in the Temple of Osiris, a young novice was stepping forward, with racing heart and trembling hands, to perform solstice rites for the very first time. She had no idea why the Alrisha had chosen her, less still why she had chosen this moment to honour her so, and she was terrified. Of course, leading solstice rites was a small thing someone like Alrisha, who travelled to distant lands, spoken with the rulers of nations, taken part in great battles, and had given her life for Osiris, only to be miraculously returned to life. Did she remember a time when it scared her to stand before so many to speak. Perhaps it never did.
But while it was terrifying, she could take heart. Alrisha had chosen her, it must have been for a reason. And while it seemed strange, and wonderful beyond her hopes that the she saw some potential in her, but what other explanation could there be?
She glanced at Alrisha. The elf was gazing straight ahead with unseeing eyes, swaying slightly, no doubt listening to the voice of the ancestor who favoured her so.
The novice took a deep breath and began to speak...