Saerah, the Fey Princess of Flowers
On a prominent hill, she now rests, for it is after her daily ritual of gain and progress. The lush and verdant wild around her cradles this hill, her resting spot. Daily she comes to grace and anoint the circle here, surrounded by the purple, orange flowered, and deep black brown of the leaves, growth, and trees. The sun of another sky, pink and purple and green, looks down on her, the ring of the forested line, a blinder to just her. The rays of that grace ignite her skin, a radiant pale pink, blushed with amethyst and indigo hues. This shine adorns her with poise, a union of present, past, and future. Shimmering like starlight, her indigo to pinkish skin breathes with the wind, caressing with each breeze.
And, she sings, in some ancient tongue, kanerded' olag' bat' vitwir". Over and over she chants this, all the while a carved, ornately so, reed in her left hand twirls. She grips it tight, an heirloom from ages past, yet it, like her, hints to a youthful nature belied by even the stars, and as she sings and grips this engraved reed, she pours water from her sacred pouch, only small amounts, into a circular pond below her hill. The hill looms over, a precipice of mud and stone, like a shifted layer of cake or another such baked good. One could expect her to be wary upon such a precipice, but she is not, the young pink-skinned fey. She knows this life, has known it for many a generation. This is because she was placed here by her mother, Valin, to be watched a protected, until the time of the Fallen Star, the Second is needed.
And, she has waited.
She bides her time, and she has her charm from her mother with her, a talisman of great power, and she can conjure and summon friends to entertain and help her for a time, and there are those who live with her, away on this island-plane. Yet, she has always known of her purpose, of the Second Fallen Star. Morever, she has this pond, one of great power that allows her to see into the beyond; this scrying pond was her only means of escape and adventure for so long.
And, this is why she greets this daily, and why she anoints it with sweet words from the ancients and blessings of the future. The pool, this lush pond full of the vibrant life of the ages but also the verdant liquid of all life beyond, it makes her giggle, for bubbles froth from the bond as she drizzles the water from the reed. Within each bubble, she sees a litany of life from across the Van and Atar, the space and universe we exist within and our understanding of the time that passes around and through us.
Today, however, when the reed drops into tremendous ripples, it shapes into vision she has never before seen, never has this fey witnessed such wonder, but also curiosity that was looking back at her. She sees stories.
Eight stand out to her, one for each age of life on his plane of material and beings with dreams. The first ripple and story is of the creation of the universe and this same material plane, which was also a story of love and compassion, of separation and sacrifice. Two beings cross between space and time to find a place for their son to be free, to create and explore, to establish a new faction of life and being that could be better than the darkness and chaos from before. The pink-skinned, star-lit eye fey, Saerah, can't help but smile, for she sees the same dynamic in the rivers and the lands, in the skies and the vaulted nights above.
The second ripple and story speaks of a love divine. The first son found her in the darkness for himself, a love, a shear hope for the future, and with their bind, with the first take of each other, the next line of life and progeny for the future is burgeoned.
The third ripple and story speaks of the search the mortals have for the Prime Light, their soul mate and ve qu lune, as the ancients say. This is first seen the stories that make the constellations and the love of the beastman to his light from afar, a forgotten and forbidden love by the standards of the time.
Yet, there are still the five more ripples that wave out away from where her reed entices the pond. Each one, an image she cannot remember nor fully see. They are as such: The sea, the storm, the beast with horns, the tripled tentacle lie, and the face of the lost soul. The last is fully without understanding as to her sense of wish, for connection beyond emotion.
So, she takes the reed, and plays a dainty tune, one where the water ripples again, as intended, but also where the wind sings in response, the sky plays another lithe instrument, and the earth rumbles in thanks. Yet, she holds this note, for the ripple from before, the eighth story is what she is most interested in, for she has never seen the likes of he.
Who is this? Who presents the sheen of knight and prince, with brown locks both shocked and reinforced like the crest of a wave, skin of the earth, tan it seems, not of the flowers and petals, of her sheen. His garments, I think, rather than of light and glow, are of leaf and tethered filaments, again, to similar hues of the earth and ground beneath. And, oddly still, his feet are covered by the skins of dead creatures from his plane. Odd, but his smile, she thinks, slows or even quickens her heart, and while he casts his fishing line into the pond, he stops. His reflection wavers into eight ripples, and his hair, at first the pink-petaled princess notices, lobs to one side as his head acts in query to the ripples below, ripples without fish or wind, just light from the full moon in the morning air.
She cannot help but wave, but only because she sees his companion, a gruff mutt of some sort that almost falls into the ponds edge, disturbing the ripples, but also adding to the length, depth, and breadth of the seventh, and most importantly, the eighth ripple. She looks over to her feathery-furred plant dog, and she cannot help but awe at what the ripples in her pond have shown her. She sees another world, one she has seen before, but none with such curious eyes as to look back, to see and to hear her. To know she exists.
He waves back. He does, he does see her! It is an exciting moment for her, for although the princess of petals is never alone, and her talisman can create all sorts of creatures for her bidding and companionship, that is the problem; they are her creations and not one of another soul and another being to touch and make her smile.
She then looks again, and the fisherman has moved closer, to the waters edge, odd it must seem to others, for his dog wails and barks at the confusion and change. She can only smile, again, and that makes the young man with long hair and hazel eyes to fall forward, into the waters, splashing the eighth ripple away.
"No, no!" She dives into the pool. She has never done so, never taken so broad a claim so feverish a move. But she has, and she must continue, only briefly stopping in her stroke the depths of her pond. Yet, when she is below, she only sees the water and the few odd fey fish who inhabit its pool. The pond is the pond below its surface, and she returns to the prominent hill from whence she started. She lays on her stomach, and again the sun glints upon pink skin hued by purples and indigos, but it is a diminished color, her skin showing her own sadness and disconnection from this new place, this new hope. Thus, she continues her mundane gaze below into the waters, the ripples from her song before now receded.
To her hours go by, and she hopes and dreams, of moonlit dances, of fairies and princes, of princesses and their adventures and love. He is there, she sees, in this visions, and each time she hopes the pond, like so many times before, would show her dreams and turn them into stories divine and austere, tales she has always known to be true and sancrosanct from other places and times, peoples and cultures. Yet, not this time. The pond will not show her, well it never really has, always more showing others who fit her wants and needs for entertainment and connection.
And, just as she is about to fall asleep from watching all but her want to show, the pond ripples into a heart, forms into the first, second, and on the the ever-anticipated eighth ripple. It forms into a swirl, then blue, but soon brown like his hair, beige like the beach he fished upon. Then the swirl clears, and the smile of this odd, but beautiful creature takes her off guard, warms her heart, and her pink skin blushes more purple in response.
And, she sings, in some ancient tongue, kanerded' olag' bat' vitwir". Over and over she chants this, all the while a carved, ornately so, reed in her left hand twirls. She grips it tight, an heirloom from ages past, yet it, like her, hints to a youthful nature belied by even the stars, and as she sings and grips this engraved reed, she pours water from her sacred pouch, only small amounts, into a circular pond below her hill. The hill looms over, a precipice of mud and stone, like a shifted layer of cake or another such baked good. One could expect her to be wary upon such a precipice, but she is not, the young pink-skinned fey. She knows this life, has known it for many a generation. This is because she was placed here by her mother, Valin, to be watched a protected, until the time of the Fallen Star, the Second is needed.
And, she has waited.
She bides her time, and she has her charm from her mother with her, a talisman of great power, and she can conjure and summon friends to entertain and help her for a time, and there are those who live with her, away on this island-plane. Yet, she has always known of her purpose, of the Second Fallen Star. Morever, she has this pond, one of great power that allows her to see into the beyond; this scrying pond was her only means of escape and adventure for so long.
And, this is why she greets this daily, and why she anoints it with sweet words from the ancients and blessings of the future. The pool, this lush pond full of the vibrant life of the ages but also the verdant liquid of all life beyond, it makes her giggle, for bubbles froth from the bond as she drizzles the water from the reed. Within each bubble, she sees a litany of life from across the Van and Atar, the space and universe we exist within and our understanding of the time that passes around and through us.
Today, however, when the reed drops into tremendous ripples, it shapes into vision she has never before seen, never has this fey witnessed such wonder, but also curiosity that was looking back at her. She sees stories.
Eight stand out to her, one for each age of life on his plane of material and beings with dreams. The first ripple and story is of the creation of the universe and this same material plane, which was also a story of love and compassion, of separation and sacrifice. Two beings cross between space and time to find a place for their son to be free, to create and explore, to establish a new faction of life and being that could be better than the darkness and chaos from before. The pink-skinned, star-lit eye fey, Saerah, can't help but smile, for she sees the same dynamic in the rivers and the lands, in the skies and the vaulted nights above.
The second ripple and story speaks of a love divine. The first son found her in the darkness for himself, a love, a shear hope for the future, and with their bind, with the first take of each other, the next line of life and progeny for the future is burgeoned.
The third ripple and story speaks of the search the mortals have for the Prime Light, their soul mate and ve qu lune, as the ancients say. This is first seen the stories that make the constellations and the love of the beastman to his light from afar, a forgotten and forbidden love by the standards of the time.
Yet, there are still the five more ripples that wave out away from where her reed entices the pond. Each one, an image she cannot remember nor fully see. They are as such: The sea, the storm, the beast with horns, the tripled tentacle lie, and the face of the lost soul. The last is fully without understanding as to her sense of wish, for connection beyond emotion.
So, she takes the reed, and plays a dainty tune, one where the water ripples again, as intended, but also where the wind sings in response, the sky plays another lithe instrument, and the earth rumbles in thanks. Yet, she holds this note, for the ripple from before, the eighth story is what she is most interested in, for she has never seen the likes of he.
Who is this? Who presents the sheen of knight and prince, with brown locks both shocked and reinforced like the crest of a wave, skin of the earth, tan it seems, not of the flowers and petals, of her sheen. His garments, I think, rather than of light and glow, are of leaf and tethered filaments, again, to similar hues of the earth and ground beneath. And, oddly still, his feet are covered by the skins of dead creatures from his plane. Odd, but his smile, she thinks, slows or even quickens her heart, and while he casts his fishing line into the pond, he stops. His reflection wavers into eight ripples, and his hair, at first the pink-petaled princess notices, lobs to one side as his head acts in query to the ripples below, ripples without fish or wind, just light from the full moon in the morning air.
She cannot help but wave, but only because she sees his companion, a gruff mutt of some sort that almost falls into the ponds edge, disturbing the ripples, but also adding to the length, depth, and breadth of the seventh, and most importantly, the eighth ripple. She looks over to her feathery-furred plant dog, and she cannot help but awe at what the ripples in her pond have shown her. She sees another world, one she has seen before, but none with such curious eyes as to look back, to see and to hear her. To know she exists.
He waves back. He does, he does see her! It is an exciting moment for her, for although the princess of petals is never alone, and her talisman can create all sorts of creatures for her bidding and companionship, that is the problem; they are her creations and not one of another soul and another being to touch and make her smile.
She then looks again, and the fisherman has moved closer, to the waters edge, odd it must seem to others, for his dog wails and barks at the confusion and change. She can only smile, again, and that makes the young man with long hair and hazel eyes to fall forward, into the waters, splashing the eighth ripple away.
"No, no!" She dives into the pool. She has never done so, never taken so broad a claim so feverish a move. But she has, and she must continue, only briefly stopping in her stroke the depths of her pond. Yet, when she is below, she only sees the water and the few odd fey fish who inhabit its pool. The pond is the pond below its surface, and she returns to the prominent hill from whence she started. She lays on her stomach, and again the sun glints upon pink skin hued by purples and indigos, but it is a diminished color, her skin showing her own sadness and disconnection from this new place, this new hope. Thus, she continues her mundane gaze below into the waters, the ripples from her song before now receded.
To her hours go by, and she hopes and dreams, of moonlit dances, of fairies and princes, of princesses and their adventures and love. He is there, she sees, in this visions, and each time she hopes the pond, like so many times before, would show her dreams and turn them into stories divine and austere, tales she has always known to be true and sancrosanct from other places and times, peoples and cultures. Yet, not this time. The pond will not show her, well it never really has, always more showing others who fit her wants and needs for entertainment and connection.
And, just as she is about to fall asleep from watching all but her want to show, the pond ripples into a heart, forms into the first, second, and on the the ever-anticipated eighth ripple. It forms into a swirl, then blue, but soon brown like his hair, beige like the beach he fished upon. Then the swirl clears, and the smile of this odd, but beautiful creature takes her off guard, warms her heart, and her pink skin blushes more purple in response.
Species
Ethnicity
Other Ethnicities/Cultures
Realm
Family
Children
Sex
Female
Gender
Woman
Presentation
Feminine
Eyes
Brown, hazel, open and large, but endearing and pointed
Hair
Silver with night stars speckled in; the night sky, the dusk and dawn, erupt with each shimmy
Skin Tone/Pigmentation
Pale, pale pink, with read an purple highlights.
Related Plots
Related Reports
- Session 58: Nautiloids In Flight and Scions' Leftover Might: Scallywags
- Session 66: Scallywags: The Golden Stem's Sphinx and the 8th Bloom
- Session 67: Scallwags and Greycoasts: 'Arcanically' Driven with Purpose; The 8th Bloom
- Session 68: Scallywags: The Long Rest
- Session 79: Scallywags: Holding Hands, Casual Kobold Kidnapping; The Hull
- Session 86: The Devil's Gambit At Midnight: Scallwags
- Session 87: Scallywags: The Molydeus Tried for Feon while Western Sunrise Fell
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