Who

Paendryth, Kiiyith

What

A little lost lightsaber-fighter-neon girl finds her way into an ancient Curator's fortress of solitude.

it's wee~

When

It is afternoon of the thirteenth day of the seventh month of the seventeenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Pern

OOC Date 16 Jul 2019 07:00

 

paendryth_default.jpg kiiyith_default.jpg

« hey — » !!! « — wait — » omgwtf « — THAT'S MINE! »





There really isn't any rhyme or reason to it. All the dragons of Pern are connected, after all, in some way or another; Kiiyith reaches back through her dam, and then her damsire, and hopping over to his dam line, and then down and over, and reaching: it's like a cat digging their claws into a phone book and opening it to a page, and sitting on a particular entry, really. But the area code gets her to Southern, and in her neat-footed avoidance of a particular bronze's ink she ends up squarely in Paendryth's mindscape. (she immediately proceeds to fill it with black smoke that … somehow … glitters? is there … is that airborne shimmer? IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE what is this why is she crashing a random dude's mind-party? [kiiyith only knows]) (From Kiiyith)

Paendryth thinks to you, « I bespoke Kiiyith with: Glitter: it is what draws the opulence forth from the aether. Small at first for there must always be a beginning. From purple-rich clouds of a near perfect sunset a gleaming, sparkling pyramid emerges beneath her glitter. Rich, gilded, bright: Paendryth recognizes the youth of a mind, and as the ever-gentle nobleman he is, the bronze applies a light caress. A white-gloved tracing of her familial lines. « Little poppet. » His voice is rich, booming, echoing through cavernous walls adorned in heart-breaking splendor. « To what do I owe such a pleasure? » »

First she just settled tf in like she owns the damn place, and now the little creature that is Kiiyith is AFFRONTED: the darkness deepens into matte blackness, and with a hum like a LIGHTSABER being turned on, the neon magenta of her mindvoice flick-flick-flickers on. It's a neon human fighter, sketched out like the world's brightest stick figure. « POPPET? » comes her terribly aggressive response: « what the f…rench kiss is a POPPET? I'm not your poppet. I'm not anyone's poppet! » The fighter LEAPS and turns into a neon guard dog with hackles raised (they're in purple accents) with teal teeth snapping. then … … … … the world gets real quiet … … … … and in the smallest voice that PROBABLY wasn't meant to be overheard: « what the flip is a poppet » (From Kiiyith)

Paendryth thinks to you, « I bespoke Kiiyith with: Indulgence: a word that so aptly describes the elder bronze's encapsulation of emotion. Like a deep, rich, ageless Brandywine that fills the gullet with the burning hint of that really good alcohol, he laces through her, surrounding her tiny human fighter with architecture so grand that it's impossible to see it all. Frescos and gilding; sculptures and artwork; they all come to play, bringing forth a loftiness of sound and vibration that brings an immediate hush to an area. And yet, yet, her voice echoes like a drum through his vast, nearly empty hallways. Lights sparkle in crystal chandeliers for he does not reply with words, in the beginning. Merely presence. Opulence. Indulgence. « Careful, careful. Don't hurt yourself. ». The museum's curator whispers in melodic robotic tones. To add insult to injury, Paendryth adds a proverbial pat on her head. »

oh no. oh no. Kiiyith DOES NOT ACCEPT YOUR GRANDEUR, PAENDRYTH. Why can't he like, identify as a nightclub? She could go for some cranking bass-line right now, tnch tnch tnch…. « I'm not going to hurt myself, » she replies with her affront crackling like gas through broken tubes, or worse, LEFTOVER WRAPPING PAPER, (you know how you end up at the end of christmas morning? when like? you have so many boxes and rips and shreds of wrapping paper? and stuffed-up wadded balls of tissue paper? yes that's kiiyith too, but HER DARKNESS EATS IT ALL) just like she's about to eat paendryth. She steals the FUCK out of those crystal chandeliers btw. he doesn't need them as much as she does, hello. « I'm going to hurt you. » Smug as a fighter in a corner, and this time she gives him, wait for it, ARE YOU WAITING FOR IT? COME ON, it's what cersei always wanted: a n.e.o.n f.u.c.k.i.n.g e.l.e.p.h.a.n.t (From Kiiyith)

Paendryth thinks to you, « I bespoke Kiiyith with: Because, Paendryth is a nobleman! Not a base nightclub. He wouldn't be caught dead in a place less than 500 years old without history. Without history!! The SHAME. « You are small and young. » Paendryth's patience is endless — for now — until she steals his chandelier. The floor rumbles as if the earth gives way, heaving. The opulence begins to die away, breaking off to expose the bone-ridden walls of the ancient keep within. Until… « What in Faranth's name is that? » The neon elephant freezes his anger in mid-cycle, mid-flash. Neon is so bright and the elephant is so unique that he's left wondering at the mythical creature she's just given him. He hesitates. It would belong in his vast galleries and so it goes there. The chandelier he will worry about in a moment. For now, that elephant is shrunken, posed, and put under a glass container where none may touch it. It's set upon a pedestal of pure white marble with veins of glittering ash-grey. « Ahhhh. Perfection. » »

Paendryth senses Kiiyith OBJECTS, good sir, she OBJECTS! « hey — » !!! « — wait — » omgwtf « — THAT'S MINE! » but he has it now and so she just sits as a little dark cloud (now new and improved with sparkles) right in the middle of his grand foyer. (she starts putting down dust instead of glitter, mostly 'cause her spiteful little warrior's heart tells her that somehow dust will piss him off more than sparkles.) She will just stare after her neon elephant wistfully as her cloud slowly starts to dissipate. SOMEDAY SHE WILL BE BACK FOR THAT, Paen-in-her-ass-dryth~

Paendryth thinks to you, « I bespoke Kiiyith with: Dust would indeed piss him off more than sparkles, but alas, the bronze is wholly focused on absorbing his new piece of artwork. « Look at the shape of its trunk. It's fine work, indeed. The color is so brilliant, yet the shadows collect. What do you think… » Maybe he intends it to be so, but he drones on and on and on, waxing eloquent on the basic necessities of artwork and knowing good artwork from the bad. That little neon elephant, shrunken so now to fit in its glass display case, sparkles 'neath the brilliant light of a thousand chandeliers. Held in display. FOREVER. AS IN YOU'RE NEVER GETTING IT BACK, KIISS-MY-ASS-YITH. »

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