Just a Memory

Log Info

• Title: Just a Memory,
• Emitter: Cryosanthia
• Characters: Cryosanthia, Venom, Stjepan, Mikilos
• Place: A03: The TarRaCe
• Time: Monday, March 29, 2021, 12:41 AM
• Summary: Cryosanthia is performing at the Tarrrace, Venom as Venessa and Stjepan are there for dinner, Mikilos teleports in to catch the show. Cryo has put together a song from her imagined point of view of golems, to capture their feelings of love, achieving awareness among the unaware, and the evils of Merkabah. She has a golem band backing her, disguises herself as a Sith'Machine, and the Tarrace as a shadowy industrial factory with a little magic. She aggressively throws herself into the song and it becomes clear there is a personal resonance for not just her and the war golems around. It reminds Venom of someone she knows, and Stjepan of almost becoming a machine; both start to leave. As Cryo climaxes the song, she slips on her own ice and falls off the stage, some other magic influence exerting itself on her. Mikilos leaps over, dispelling the show and getting her out of her disguise. Two strange protrusions are in Cryo's back, which he recognizes as growing wings. This upsets Cryo even more, and as Mikilos is familiar with the signs of that, he takes her into the Mage's Magic Mansion. The friendly and safe environment starts to calm her, and she reveals that stress and anxiety have been with her and growing, especially as the world races towards the unknown consequences of the Animus Shards being discovered and used. He reassures her that whatever is going on, Salina's surgeries either speeding up or slowing down her natural magics, that it can be handled and he'll get her youngling and friends to come by. Reassured, Cryo slips asleep.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-<* The TarRaCe *>--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Inside, this two-story structure has been almost completely opened up. Generous windows on both stories allow daytime sunlight and cooling night breezes to flow in as needed, while the brick walls have been whitewashed - contrasting with the dark-stained beams and supports, and the rich polish on the wooden floor. A broad strip of stone runs from the entrance to a framed doorway set into the opposite wall, with a sign above the lintel declaring that the baths are to be found that way.

The ground floor is sprinkled with tables and chairs of assorted sizes, offering welcome to guests both large and small. One whole corner of the building - into which guests are not permitted entry - has been given over to the kitchen, which serves as the domain of the famed monster chef Ligum Serforus. Mundane meals are available, but the chef delights in offering up obscure dishes made from the freshest of monster ingredients.

Opposite the kitchen a small bar runs in front of an array of shelves, displaying a broad selection of beverages (most of them alcoholic). The bar-top has been fashioned from what looks to have been old pieces of armor, fused and welded together before being polished to provide a near-smooth finish. Set above it, three human-sized statues have been built into an alcove in the wall: Tarien, Rada and Ceinara jointly keep benevolent watch over the room and its occupants.

To the right of the entrance, a small stage offers a platform for a handful of performers at a time. To the left of the door, a spiral staircase of wrought iron winds its way up to a balcony dining area, that is chiefly reserved for special events and parties.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=  Appearing, in Order  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Cryosanthia  6'9"     291 Lb     Sith-Makar        Female    A dashingly tall, elegant white-scaled lizard woman.
Stjepan      8'0"     534 Lb     Giantborn         Male      Big, blonde jotun.
Venom        5'6"     130 Lb     Human             Female    A woman(?) about 5'6" in a ragged black veil and poncho.
Mikilos      6'8"     180 Lb     Dawn Elf          Male      Tall male dawn elf, rosey blonde and handsome.
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=

Outside, a cool breeze blows from the west, bringing the scent of the sea and dark clouds which blot out sections of the starry starry night. Elsewhere, the culmulus glitter brightly in the dark sapphire sky. It's a sharp, magical night where the blanket of stars gleam brightly through the mantel of heaven.

Inside, the TarRaCe is crowded, various tables filled with groups of locals and small clusters of adventuring types. Servers move between them.

Up on stage, a whitescaled Sith'Makar woman is talking with the band. A band that seems to be entirely golems. Some have separate instruments, at least one the instrument seems part of her design. Its design. However that works. "Resonant Tubing? Oh wow, can you do all wind and brass, or is it something in between?"

While she gets this answer, a Theramin player appears to be adjusting it.

Stjepan heard a rumour that there was wyvern on the menu here tonight, and he's settled down at a solid-looking table to test it. Mug on one hand, table-knife on the other, he's settled in and waiting for his order to arrive.

Meanwhile, taking in the sights and, honestly, some damned good food, an Acanian brunette clad in peasant blouse and trousers is dining in some kind of Myrrish spiced dish. Her attention is on the stage as the band starts. Her expression is a particular shade of neutral, but her hands do still as the performance begins.

The whitescale turns from the musicians to face the eating audience. She scratches at the back of her left hand. She's wearing whitescale gloves that blend nicely with her own scales, and a pale blue dress that seems inspired by elf fashion. It's clingy and rather revealing, or would be on a more fleshy humanoid. On the lizard, there's simply more lizard.

Her hand flips through a graceful, arcane motion. Speckles of light, matching the stars outside, swirl from the centre of her chest then race out along her left arm. Cantrip completed, she's much louder and projects with no problem.

"Hello Tar Rawrr Sea. I'm Cryo and entertaining for tonight. I hope you're enjoying your meals, can I have a 'Wooo!'?"

Stjepan /looks/ at the stage, from where he's seated. Apparently, he's not eager to woo, especially since he's picking at an appetizer at the moment. He does, however, sip at his mug and wait for the continuation. Nostrils flare as he seeks out the tendrils of spices wafting from nearby tables and does not drool, honest.

The brunette ontinues to watch without moving at first, though the projection from the Sith woman manages to draw her focus. Her hands absently start working on her meal again, but slowly.

The other patrons seem to be of a like mind. They look in the Cryo's direction, but there's no call-outs or other participation.

The whitescale inhales, taking it in stride. She paces back and forth on the stage. It's noticeably cooler, closer to the stage, and edge and some of the limelights are starting to gather a layer of hoarfrost. The warm, humid air wafting out of the baths strongly contributes to this, and causes a small mist at her feet.

"Ha, the food is good isn't it? Well, my patron Diety Ceinara isn't here present, as far as I can see," Cryo makes a show of shielding her eyes and looking out at the various tables, "I still hope I have her attention."

"A few of you might know I have a youngling and wonder where she is. With an Egg-Watcher. I thought this might get a little adult, best for young eyes and ears not to see."

Stjepan sips from his mug, and leans back in his chair a little. His eyebrows go up fractionally for a moment, but then his plate arrives -- still steaming, and he flashes the server a winning smile, dimples and all. He looks excited to see it!

Through silken bangs, the Acanian continues to observe, her attention still focused on the Sith more than the company she's keeping, and her right eyebrow hitches upward a touch and at the purported itinerary for this particular performance.

Cryo looks back at her five musicians, stage-whispering to them, "Ready? Industrial, when the shadows start."

The whitescale turns back to the crowd, grinning widely, lots of sharp teeth, "So, normally I wouldn't introduce a song, I'd get right into it, but part of the show is comedy, so there has to be a bit of banter."

She pauses, arching her back a little, painfully rolling her shoulders, she winks, "So I'm not the only joke up on stage."

Waiting a moment to see if this lands, but not long enough for an awkward silence to develop, the whitescale continues. "So I know a few golems, I mean, everyone does right? I've also been to Merkabah. Terrible place, don't go. I did get to imagining what it must be like, to have been made there, to suddenly get awareness while being surrounded by unaware beings."

Another pause, another breath, another big, somewhat creepy reptilian smile, "So who better to sing about cold, heartless machines than a cold, heartless lizard, amirite? I'm halfway there already... and they assured me... this is ok."

Stjepan's fork pauses halfway to his mouth, and he looks up at the stage. He scowls for a moment, and washes down the bad taste in his mouth with another slug from his mug. He puts it down, and waves for more. Then he gets back to the wyvern-stirfry, eyes fluttering closed at the taste.

The comedy routine up front gets more reaction from that black haired woman in the back.

Firstly, the self deprecation gets a sort of odd furrowing in the woman's expression, though the call back to the golems, and for a moment in her eyes, as they wash the band, could be construed as little less than venomous before her fork ends up slipping her fingers to clatter to the floor.

"So, this is what I imagine Love in Merkhabah must be like, and awakening to a purpose you don't understand and a future that isn't clear." Cryosanthia says, with one more check over her shoulder at the band, getting a nod. She starts casting.

Cantrips, and at least one big spell. She also discretely slips a mask on, and concentrates. She changes. Her clothes change. The whole room changes.

Shadows flicker along the ceiling, gears and rack and pinions, reciprocal devices moving to a beat. Silhouettes that imply industry without showing any. he music starts to creep up, the thereamin first, a wandering, rocking sort of note before hard driving sounds kick in.

Cryosanthia is covered in flickering lights, and then she transforms. She looks like a steel, mechanical version of herself, silvery, with gaps. Her eyes like camera lenses, glowing with a faint blue, her tail segmented. It's almost possible to see through sections of her it wasn't before, a careful illusion that shows the band behind her stil, while her gaps are filled by glowing sections. Her clothes seemed to have merged into this mechanical version, hard to distinguish from the metallic panels that comprise her now.

The music is a hard driving, double set of four beats, with a pause.

It's not real...

It's not reall...!

IT's NOT REAL!

Still... for certain parts of the psyche, it doesn't have to be.

It just has to be real-adjacent, doesn't it?

The black haired woman, briefly distracted from the stage by leaning down to collect her fallen fork, starts into a moment of open shock and rage unpon looking up into the fullness of changes wroought as the knife in her hand, almost automatically reverses grip in her hand, knuckles white around the scales of the handle. She closes her eyes, then and turns her face away, veiling within the flowing silk of her hair and wills herself to set her utensiles aside.

Stjepan stiffens for a moment, mutters under his breath about dinner theatre, and puts his head down, picking at his stirfry. There's a pause as he picks up his mug, looks longingly into its empty bottom, then sets it aside. He spears another fork, and forces himself to look up, eyes getting a little bit distant.

Mikilos sometimes arrives in a flash of light, sometimes appears in a puff of smoke, often just appears without effect. But tonight the wizard just walks inside like a regular person, pausing inside the door to let his eyes adjust and look the place over. Not the expected sort of show, but that's okay. Spying a clear table, the elf makes his way across the room, pausing briefly to exchange a word with a waitstaff before setting in a chair not far from the large jotun.

The cold machine starts singing. The frost on the stage is growing, surrounding the limelights and giving them an odd, eerie cast. The cantrips are adding little embellishing noises to the shadows. The band is powerful, and hammering the notes, making the walls vibrate. Her voice is rough, mechanical, low and masculine seeming whie still sounding automatic.

I see you slaving at your section,

Emmanations burns my eyes

Loving's forbidden, so is pleasure,

This whole place is STER-IL-LIZED!

I just want to see tomorrow

Day by day to just survive,

But this place is built to kill me,

No one here gets out alive!

The heavy beat and wandering notes are joined by more sound, the resonant tubing of the war-golem minstrel adding the last piece that swells out the performance as it dives into the chorus.

I don't wanna be...

I don't wanna be

Just... A...

Mem..mor..rrry...

I don't wanna be...

I don't wanna be...

Gooooonnnnnnne....

Unsettling timing. The Jotun spent some time recently strapped to a table in Merkabah, getting prepped to be turned into a technocritter. The song is not improving the memories.

The Acanian's hands slowly drift to her ears as she hunches over the table, trying to get back to center.

That's not his voice...

It couldn't be his voice.

Never again.

Still to hear those words, in that particular sequence, in a voice so close to -that- one...

It takes the woman a bit to straighten some in her seat and bring her hands, trembling at first, to press flat against the table. A deep breath, two, and she starts to wipe her utensiles with her napkin, but doesn't lift her chin enough to unveil her features.

Stjepan glances over, nodding towards Mikilos, as the song really gets going. He continues to systematically demolish his wyvern stirfry, spearing both meat and vegetables with merciless ardor. There's a pause, and he snaps a look over towards Venom, and the seeming distress. His fork pauses again in midair, and his brow beetles.

Mikilos raises a hand in greeting to Stjepan, frowning mildly at the performance. Evocotive, certainly, but is it Art? The papers will likely debate that on both sides.

The steel sith'makar is flashing in time with the hard beats. Her tone switches, sounding accusatory. Pale light beams emit from her finger, striking tables as she makes eye contact with the patrons. It lands harmlessly in the centre, but the way the ice spreads out from it...

Was that a Ray of Frost?

It's an aggressive performance, very in-your-face, and the singer has the mechanical motions of a war-golem down. She looks and moves the part. Is she channeling some of their unexpressible emotions? The way she says 'You' seems very direct. Directed at someone.

You don't know my Dreams,

And You don't know my Wonder,

You don't know an...ny...thing... at all,

at all...

at all...

We Talk right past each o..ther...

Every SIN..GLE day,

At bold extremes we're dug in,

on and on and on and on and on...

The music keeps it's hard pace, the shadows grow. Gearing, everywhere!

The woman finishes cleaning her knife and fork, her movements becoming more smooth and regimented as she regains something of her bearings.

There is a softly whispered, "Never Enough'" that is barely than a syllibant hiss.

Perhaps remembering at last, what brought her here, at least partially, in the first place, the brunette continues on what's left of her meal, though slowly, ignorant of the scrutiny her lapse has brought upon her. <Kulthian>

Stjepan settles down, and finishes off his dinner. Sprayed frost he can handle, and whatever set him on edge seems to have passed by.

Mikilos observes. Not to his personal, subjective tastes. So be objective. Well crafted special effects, tone and theme match, musical performace is skilled. And an extra piece, suited to the overall theme, but barely caught, and from an unexpected source. The elf glances over, curious.

There's a pause in the lyrics where the industrial noise takes forefront. The steel machine dances on stage, twirling and swinging her tail about, emphasizing the segments. Stalking back and forth, pistons are visibly moving in her thighs, pulling her toes up. Light continues to flash in pipes along her body.

Casting. Dancing. Her singing starts up again. The masculine, mechanical growl, as much machine as flesh.

Got your eye-scan always with me,

Got your bar code memorized,

I'm still here despite you shocked me,

I can't erase you from my mind!

That last phrase, seems unexpectedly powerful, and raw, from somewhere deep in the Sith'machine. She launches immediately into the chorus.

I don't wanna be...

I don't wanna be...

Just... A...

Mem..mo..rrry...

I don't wanna be..

I don't wanna be...

Gooooonnnnnnne....

You don't know my Name,

And you rip me As..sunder,

You don't know my needs... at all,

at all...

at all...

We stalk right past each o..ther...

Every SIN...GLE day,

Just Cold Machines still grinding

on and on and on and on and on....

Stjepan finishes his mean and leaves the Tarrace. Early morning tomorrow.

Refuel aborted.

The brunette stands, turning from the table with face downcast.

There is a quick fidgetting with a wistful coinpurse ere a coin is flipped into the table to roll in a tightening spiral around the plate before it bumps the edge and does it's flattening dance beside it. Meanwhile, the Acanian starts to make her way toward the bathhouse section of the structure.

Mikilos speaks softly as the lady passes, acting without particular plan or consideration. Perhaps that's for the best, perhaps it's terribally thoughtless, time will tell. "May I be of assistance?" <kulthian>

Cryo slips into the chorus again. Regardless of how she introduced the song, there's something there, some part of her in it as well. Angry, abandonned, unresolved. The lights flash vibrantly across her. She has nothing to hold, so her hands are grasping at empty air, pulling it towards her.

I don't wanna be...

I don't wanna be...

Just... A...

Mem..mo..rrry...

I don't wanna be...

I don't wanna be...

Gooooonnnnnnne....

The Sith'machine bends low, in a wide stance with her tail high, counterbalancing, leaning out towards the audience like a raptor or a T-rex. She see motion, her eye lens do an adjustment, a refocus, like many golems do as she tracks Venom. She's singing almost directly at her.

A cold nimbus forms in front of her mouth, as if she's on the verge of letting loose her breath weapon! Just barely... holding back...

You don't know my name,

You don't know my number,

You don't know my facts at all,

at all...

at all...

at all...

We walk right past each o..ther...

Every SIN...GLE day,

Just Cold Machines ig..nor...ing,

that we feel at all at all at all...

She's howling it to the hall, stretched out, toes clamped on the edge of the stage, ice spreading down the front of it. A ripple courses through her, wracking her muscles, seeming like a mechanical jam with her disguise. Two metallic shafts spear out of her upper back.

Cryo makes a pained noise and falls off the stage with a crash.

It's not clear if this is part of the performance.

The woman pauses slightly at the Kulthian query coming back her way. Behind the veil of her bangs she blinks, then gives a mild shake of her head, "Thank you, no." without looking back. A hand comes to her face to feel at her cheeks, perhaps, then, "She just strikes a powerful resonance." and starts to move again, rubbing the tips of thumb and forefinger against each other. <kulthian>

Then there is a cry of pain and the woman turns toward the stage. Ok, there's a glimmer in the corner of her eyes, but those narrow at once to something appraising, and she starts to ove thattaway.

Let's assume not.

She continues along, then, free of that 'resonance', and tries to weave between no doubt startled patrons and servers alike. Focus on the sith. The sith is the objective, "Are you alright?"

Mikilos nods in understanding and agreement, starting to settle back in his seat as there's a cry and a crash. A part of the show? No, doesn't fit. A threat. The elf Moves, swift, practiced, left hand unhooking component pouches, right hand unclasping blade. Eyes on the objective, pereferial vision scanning for possible threats. Glimmers, shadows, twinkles and blinks, too many effects, not enough certainity. The magus spits phrases of annoyance, and shoos the lesser magics away as on might shoo off a folk of pigeons, leaving reality behind. Well, mostly, a few effects still linger, unthethered and disjointed.

GAME: Mikilos casts Greater Dispel Magic. Caster Level: 15 DC: 25

The music is slowing to an end. One of the musicians, the one with resonant tubing, is looking over the edge of the stage. A similar question likely on its mind. Unattended, the cantrips and illusions were fading. They're instantly swept away as Mikilos moves into action.

The Tarrace is a restaurant again, not a shadow factory of unfeeling. The Sith'machine is sprawled on the ground, on hands and knees with her tail still halfway up the stage. She looks at Venom, her camera-eyes doing their refocus trick again, glowing sapphire deep within them. "I... I don't know..."

She's also twisting her head to see down her back, "Something's wrong."

Despite the willfull discipline at work, meeting the disguised eyes of the Sith MaKonstruct brings a flicker of something primal to her own.
Something harrowed.
Something grim.
Then it's gone, though the black haired Acanian is still largely business, but trying to help. She looks down the transmogrified spine as the helpful Elflord invokes his magics about the area. "Can you still feel your fingers? Your toes?"

Mikilos tsks mildly as the distractions go away, but the main illusion remains. Troubles of acting in haste. A few moments thought, and the elf speaks again, careful to moderate his tone. A request, of a friend. Under the circumstances, a wizard's command could be... wrongly received. "Please, remove the Mask. I can't clearly see what's happening." <draconic>

Something misunderstood.

"You... don't like golems?" Cryo asks, confused, still a little disoriented. It wasn't a clean landing. She moves her fingers, her toes, her tail. It's odd, little pistons extending and contracting them. "They're okay, it's..."

She's reaching at her back, trying to grab one of the pole / spear / shaft things she's sprouted, which moves away from her hand. "Of course Mikilos, sure." She switches to taking off her mask. <draconic>

Louder, she calls out to the musicians and the audience, "Take five, we're taking five. Having some technical difficulties."

Mask removed, she is herself again, a regular whitescaled sith'makar. Wearing war-golem armour pieces. With two, white, tapering things sticking out of her back, that... aren't immediately obvious what they are.

Half-formed dragon wings, a transformation gone wrong.

"Focus." is the brunette's return as she straighens up to get a slightly different angle on the struts poking out of her back, which, in a moment, become something else entirely. She purses her lips and looks to the elf, "Do you recognize this?"

Then, rising to see if the Sith is caught up in anything in particular on the stage proper, focusing on the Sith. Just the Sith, "Are you in pain?"

Mikilos blinks. Blinks again. Okay... now what? "...wings. You're growing wings. ...huh." The concept isn't -that- unusual, but it still takes a few seconds to process. "Can you move? Shall I conjur the Mansion? If it hurts, might be better to keep still."

"No." Cryo answers immediately, then clarifies, "Well, a little, no more than I was before. My back has been hurting for days, between my shoulders and base of my neck. So... tight..."

She thrusts her shoulders forwards, crossing her arms, and rocking each in alternation. On her back, her larger markings, her highlight scales continue to flash slowly, the twinkling spreading out from her spine. Spreading even to the spars, an unusual occurance. Her highlight scales were a 'gift' from Salina.

Usually by a knife.

"Wings?" Her head snaps around, she stares at Mikilos. Her pupils widening. A sign that she's on edge, emotional and uncertain. "I'm growing wings? I can..." So many questions, she latches onto one, "Yes, the Mansion please."

Nothing gives like a good blade.

The woman nods, considering the matter with a newly preplexed arch of her eyebrow at the elf's words.

One doesn't do either of those things every day, do they?

Hmm.

There's another look to the 'wings' in progress, "Your... marks are working along the growths...." she notes in a slighty curious tone, then, she tucks a shoulder under Cryo's belly, "I'm going to try and help keep you from falling badly, you may want to swing your left leg out and down, first."

Mikilos nods, and thinks. A place, a concept, the idea of a frosty cave, chill but not too cold, dim, but not dark, close, but not confining. A familar idea, shifted slightly for todays use. Concept firmly in his minds eye, the magus speaks, building a bridge, from this world, to a place where the idea exists in physical from. A few more words, opening a door. A door with a list, access, people allowed to cross over. A short list, but longer than the three present.

A second phrase, simple, but shoved full of power for speed, forming an arch around the doorway, a visible illusion to show the real, but invisible door. handy for those who might come along later, but subtle enough to not bother those trying to dine... well, not more than this has already disrupted things. Such is life.

Stepping closer, the elf offers his own physical support. "Together, slow and easy. Lean on me, not quite so frail as I look. Just a few steps over the threshold, and down the ramp. Nice nest all ready for you."

"My marks? My marks!" The first utterance is confusion, the second, panic. Cryo frantically pulls off her left glove. She's barely aware of Venom's assistance, the shoulder underneath her. She slips an arm around Mikilos' shoulders, as directed, puts her weight on him. She is substantial in weight, a lot of it going on the elf as she stares at her hand.

At the stylized Dragon Eye there, which is glowing like she's casting a spell. She isn't.

Her breath is quick, and cold, her eyes wider, giving her a panicked feline expression. It's even clearer in her words. "What's happening Mikilos? Is she back? Is she trying to take me back? Is she dreaming out of time?"

Leaning on both, she's through the door. The safe door. The door to her box. Where nothing can get in except what she wants. A whole body's worth of tension is left on the threshold.

The woman is fairly well muscled, but not overly large, so there's only so much power she can put into the task. Very welcome, then, is the assistance of the elf as the Sith woman starts to have... issues. She tries to smile. She mostly succeeds.

As Cryo starts getting more excitable, "Stop." she says, skin raising in goosflesh under the chill of the Sith's... affliction. Continuing to help the performer bear her weight into the... mouth of the 'doorway', "Deep breath and hold. Listen to your heart...." A look to the Elf, "Release slowly..... breathe..."

Suddenly, they're elsewhere... a bizarre 'mansion' to be sure, "...in....?"

Mikilos starts to murmur gentle assurances, then hesitates. Cold truth will be better long term than white lies. Consideration. Could she? Would she? DARE SHE?! No. Calm. Objective. Logical. "I... don't think so. She's gone. Cured. Her time is over, all of them. I think... it's growth, natural part of your innate magics. But, it's... disrupted... by the scars She made. Slowed, maybe, maybe enhanced, I'm not sure. I think it will be okay, but may be painful along the way." He spares a moment to catch Venom's eye, and nod his thanks. There's a LOT going on, and little time to clarify it all just now. Later, can explain. For now, down the gentle ramp to a Sith sized nest, carved from the floor, but raised for convience and comfort. To the side, a massive table, piled high with meats and fruits, currently ignored. Along the walls, magical servants watch, clearly constructs, mades from some sort of translucent blue glass, awaiting commands.

"Oh Mikilos..." Cryo says, so full of gratitude, awe, wonder. Her song may have been about indifference, misunderstanding, but the sight that greets her as she steps down the ramp reassures her. Someone knows, he knows, her and what she needs.

The perfect, peaceful nest. A cave that's just the right kind of tight, walls where she needs them, a space not so small she's confined and not so large she rattles around and drowns. Even the servants are beautiful, exactly what she would wish for. She whispers, "thank you."

She listens, to the murmurs which turn into cold truth, both desired, both acceptable. "Okay." She nods, "Okay," she says again. Focus on natural, focus on gone. Focus on pain. "It's... normal, and you'll figure it out. You've got me. I just need to breathe..."

She does so, advancing to the nest, still leaning on her pair of helpers.

The brunette takes the glass figures with a tacit indifference quite different than whatever was in her eyes, before her attention returns again to her travelling companions. The words. Subjects. Concepts cavort like newlyweds within the back of her mind, concepts of which she says nothing.

Instead, as they near the nest, another new bit of data to assimilate, "Yes. Steady breathe.. count to three, release... count to three, breathe in."

There is a couple more seconds travel then, a soft, "You're welcome." and a look to Mikilos.

Mikilos eases up onto the nest himself, best way to still offer support as Cryo gets in. "Up a bit, and down, on your belly, let the wings rest. Take some getting used to, I would imagine. Have known people who grew wings, but was never present for the event. I should have asked more details. Anything else can fetch for you just now?"

Cryosanthia moves, letting herself be led, leaning heavily on Mikilos as she moves to the nest. She takes his advice and eases herself down, stretching out on her belly, folding her arms underneath and bunching her legs. Her tail for the moment dangles outside of the nest where the monsters and Big Teeth that hide underneath will be able to get at it.

"I... would like some water." She says, concentrating on breathing in, holding to three, breathing out, following Venom's directions. The Sith'makar takes a moment to look at her directly, her pupils are still rather wide, "I'm sorry to pull you into this, I'm very grateful for your help."

She grimaces a bit, making another small groan as she works her shoulders. The spars wave around above her. "I feel... I can't describe it. Cramped? Pins and needles, and numb?"

Another exhale, let her weight sink into the nest, everything is ok.

Venom looks a little unsure of something under the vast pupils, but nods, "You're welcome." she repeats. She looks the Sith woman over again, perhaps for bleeding, or bones sticking out through ruptured skin. She doesn't understand the physicalities at play right now, she lacks the proper data, but, "Your heart... is slowing? You feel calmer?" Her attention turns to Mikilos and, "There aare others to call? A... cleric, maybe?"

There might be quite the scene in the TaRraCe outside that door.

"Growing pains?" Mikilos offers, moving towards the feast filled table to find some water. There's got to be some, but amoung so many options... ah, one of the Servants moves to help. -Is- what they're here for. He returns with a decanter of chilled water, and a nice wide cup to drink from. Or lap out of, if that would be easier.

Shifting focus, he nods to Venom. "So, introductions. Mikilostravia Abrioudelanarchie Mithralla, though only my mother calls me that, and only when she's mad. Mikilos is fine. Professional wizard, if it wasn't obvious. Thank you for your assistance. Not the usual way I meet people. I think we're okay for now, but can Message if we need someone... or I'm sure word will spread. The door is warded to keep out most, but will allow in friends."

"Every time I think I've got it packed away, it comes back." Cryosanthia says, watching Mikilos as he moves about, crouched in her nest and filling it up like some giant, scaled cat, with almost-wings. Her hands are on the rim of the nest, curled over the edges. A look to Venom, "It's slower, but not slow, and calmer, but not calm."

She's back to tracking Mikilos, almost pleading in her explanation, "You saw my memories, the Tower. You know the years and... and..." She's shaking her head.

"The littlest thing will remind me of something and then a door blows wide open. We fought so hard! I thought it was done, it would matter, and all this with the Shards and feeling like the world will end if we mess up it's all come back and it pulls up everything, and I hurt all over." She takes the water, pours a cup, drinks it all with her head back in one long swallow which streams some out of the sides of her mouth. It trickles down her neck but freezes before it gets much further. Lapping, might work better. She pours a second glass, sips at it with lips and tongue, seeming even more like a cat.

"I felt so... angry singing. I was thinking what it must have been like for Toha and Mac Bee One gee, but... the lyrics... found something."

Venom nods to Mikilos as he introduces himself and she answers, "Call me Venessa, it's" interesting, "nice to meet you, Master Mikilos." She looks back toward the doorway, then, nodding, then, Cryosanthia is speaking anew.

Once she's finished, the woman replies, "You were about to panic, you sound much better, now." She files 'Toha' and 'Mac Bee One Gee' in another part of memory, then, "You have a way with imagery." To put it mildly.

Mikilos nods, understanding, and glances to 'Venessa'. "Speaker Caste, has quite the way with words. I shouldn't be surprised any more, and yet she keeps finding new ways."

"Thanks," Cryo tells Venessa, "I had a few others planned but they weren't nice either, and perhaps it's for the best."

She exhales firmly, laps at the water, moves like she might roll over onto her side then decides against it and remains belly down. "I'm feeling tired now, like I'm coming down after a fight, adrenaline."

Cryo looks over, "Could you send for Lily, and Faran? I think I might sleep. I'd want her here. She'd want to eat the food." Her breathing seems to be slowing down.

Venessa nods, "Maybe." she answers, not really having the experience to advise her on that, "Get some rest, miss, and I'm sure your friends will be here to care for you, soon."

The brunette rises to her feet, "I should get back to my things..." a glance to Mikilos, "but I could assure the staff you're... alright for now?"

Mikilos nods. "A few of the staff know me well enough to have an idea what's going on, but may appericate details. You can leave easily enough, the door might be invisible if you return... or gone, but think we'll stay for several hours yet." He nods to Cryo. "I'll Message Faran. Are they watching Little Fang, or someone else?"

"She and Serrendine are. I promised them I'd bring them something from the Tarrace." Cryo looks over at Mikilos, then looks around, "They should all come. I might... want to stay all day."

She yawns, wide and long, which is anatomically interesting and not particularly flattering. She has a busy and frightening mouth. "I might want to sleep all day. You'll watch and wake me up if something goes wrong..."

She's dropping and drifting off already, her head lowered against the edge of the nest, her tail tucking in where the monsters won't get it, "I feel safe with..."

You, most likely, but the rest of the Speaker-caste's words fade with her consciousness. She's out like a light.

OOC Convos

<OOC> Cryosanthia says, "Cryo's log #500. :)"

<OOC> Mikilos grumbles, has long disliked 'unseen servant'. Unseen is uncertain, and thus less helpful. Mansions version are visible... but it doesn't give any sort of details. I tend to think of them as clear plastic. Solid, defined, but clearly magical in nature.
<OOC> Cryosanthia says, "that's kind of cool, your concept of them. They could also be faceless butlers and maids, I guess, depending on what you wanted" <br.<OOC> Venom nodonds

<OOC> Mikilos hopes he's correct, never have quite wrapped my head around the Caste system
<OOC> Cryosanthia says, "Oh that's correct, yes"
<OOC> Cryosanthia says, "Caste is kind of 'the job you claim to do' which somewhat overlaps with class, but not always. Like a Ranger could be a Lore Keeper Caste, if they had a lot of favoured enemies and k/nature stuff, and didn't want to hunt much."
<OOC> Mikilos nods, gets the general idea, but fuzzes out on the details

the song for the filk
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6rADMTBcFbo