Amethyst

Godspeed!

_{Level I deity of musical expression}

Its cocoon shattered, interrupting its reverie.

It had not known it could be shattered- its entire existence had been within this orb of softly pulsing light and sound, and it had not thought to leave, content to linger drifting on dreams, or perhaps memories, of crooned melodies and ferocious battle-hymns alike. Vivid dreams of a world out there, just beyond its grasp…

And the shroud was gone. And all the light and sound and color that it had lived in was ripped away, and it tumbled, disoriented, in the void, moments stretching into eons as it felt itself falling, falling-

A burst of light enveloped it, and when it found itself again it was of a most peculiar sensation- that of having a corporeal form. Touching a… plane of existence. This wasn’t right. It was too rough and cold and quiet and lacking in color and quiet-

It shifted between forms, the ball of energy it had landed in scattering, swirling into a column of writhing shapes and sounds and colors, spinning around itself bigger and faster, faster and faster until pieces of itself sheared off, forming into seeming plumes of feathers that existed peacefully for a brief second before they were wrenched back into the column once more…

And in the cacophony of chattering notes from these creations, the sudden sound and color it had created… it stilled. The swirling slowed, the column shrinking in height and quickly fading, leaving behind the half-transparent visage of a young nearly-humanoid woman- pearlescent hair being swept around her, eyes shifting through bright colors and peering around the assembly in alarm and confusion. The feathered plumes, having regained their own composure, settled on the being’s shoulders, on her head, perching on her hair and arms. Small creatures, weighing a few grams at most, with feathered wings of iridescent jewel-toned colors and dramatic plumed tails several times the length of their bodies. They came in all hues, about a dozen of them perching on her, chittering amongst themselves and cooing as they settled against her body.

There were others here. She peered about, the tensions of their arguing- and of some, their honest attempts at peace- radiating plain as day and setting her to trembling in confusion, overwhelmed. She had never met another, not so far as she could remember, and here there were so many…

A name called to her. Multiple names. She did not know how she knew of them, but they spoke to her as though they had once been hers.

“Rytia Udione. At your service. Forgive me for my...outburst. It will not happen again. I am not used to possessing a…form, such as this.” Her voice was bell-toned, high pitched but clear, echoing around the gathering- and broadcasting her uncertain inflection for all to hear. To stop herself from fidgeting, her hands went absently to the small violet- and fuchsia- and cyan-hued birds perching on her shoulders, and she petted them gently with her fingertips.

Summary

Rytia has a …flashy arrival. A very flashy one. Awkwardly introduces herself.
MIGHT: 3.75/4 LEFT
0.25 used (creating songbird things.)
0.25/2 LVL I -> LVL II

Godspeed!

HI OKAY I'M CONFUSED BUT I'M TRYING TO WRITE I SWEAR. Who's ready for the whelp of cacophonous noise to show up? (...and probably fly away to make an island or something all her own oops. I mean. Nothing! I'll try to not just immediately fly away and actually like try to interact, I promise I'm not a bad RPer guys honest)

Godspeed!

Rytia, Weaver of Harmony

_{Fluid gender; most often appears female}

Dᴏᴍᴀɪɴ & Pᴏʀᴛꜰᴏʟɪᴏ

<sub>Expression (Music)
The domain of Expression is fluid and everchanging- built on emotional development and release, fostered by an inquisitive nature and a fascination with the fantastical. It is characterized by especially strong emotion, rage and horror and terror alongside elation, joy, and hope. Dissenters and advocates as well as artists and visionaries find a patron in the domain of Expression.

In the portfolio of Music specifically, furies are inflamed as well as soothed, solace sought and sentiments expressed in a more dynamic field than written or even spoken word. Logical discourse is foregone for poetic verse, which is at times foregone altogether. as the patron of Music, Rytia relishes in the abstract and shuns the concrete- why would one ever state something outright when they can imply or allude to it?</sub>

Aʟɪɢɴᴍᴇɴᴛ

_{Chaotic Good
To mortals, she is seen as a benevolent god, if unpredictable at best. No one can predict how music will motivate others, really- it is such a massively personal domain. She certainly means no harm against any race of mortals, regardless of their conduct (her domain would be incomplete without ballads of war and suffering, so she is by no means a pacifist) but instead actively encourages them to thrive independently.
To the other gods, this lack of favoritism is perhaps off-putting, her lack of overall direction and shape, favoring things that will have epic ballads and heroic cadences written about them as opposed to any ulterior motive. Her allegiances will ebb and flow, as fickle as the notes of the “cosmic masterpiece” she seems to think she is composing.}

Pᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ

_{A young deity, naïve and brimming with energy, quick to make judgment and slow to forget. Intelligent, quick-thinking, and massively creative, but a bit impulsive- prone to making decisions and judgments she will later grow to regret. She prides herself on her own empathic nature and deep, instinctive understanding of the psyche of any populace she’s had a hand in creating… After all, music puts to words that which keens and writhes in secret hearts and can’t be expressed in any other medium. Very much of feeling and less of reason, she can be a bit difficult to work with if her heart is not set on a task, wish-washing between all facets of it, but once her heart is set she becomes infinitely more determined. Fluid at best in her own emotional expression, one can find her a bit offputting- she will cry of death and mourning in one breath and whisper a song of love for one’s mother in the next. Rytia has a bit of a hero complex, still believing she needs to prove herself to the world and the other more-directly-involved gods of the realm.}

Gᴏᴀʟs

_{Rytia has no defined goal at this time. Eventually, she would like to become the patron of her own civilization, fostering a society that relishes in emotion, in creation. She also would maybe, just maybe, like to be hailed as a hero, have ballads and epic poetry written about her or her avatars. A foolishly almost-mortal desire, but what can one expect of one who is little more than a child? For the moment, her curiosity and inquisitive nature are getting the best of her, and she wonders what exactly is possible for her to do, questioning the bounds of the reality she's a part of.}

Aᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ

<sub>For most things, Rytia takes an incorporeal form – a swirling column of air and vivid colors and textures about five feet tall, seeming to effervesce an oddly-harmonic cacophony of bell tones around her everywhere she goes.

When she must appear “decent” she takes an almost-humanoid form. A young woman, though inhumanly slender- her visage is translucent, seeming more entirely transparent when in bright light. Her eyes are large and bright, hair falling to her knees, eternally changing through flowing pastel colors, and her body robed in a simple white gown swirling with foreign, complex musical notation. The aura of bell-tones follows her in this form as well, though it’s much softer when she takes this shape.</sub>

Mᴜsɪᴄᴀʟ Tʜᴇᴍᴇ

_{To be determined. Or maybe written. I haven’t decided yet…}

Godspeed!

Holy hell okay hi I was in an exam for three hours and come back to all of this. I'm probably not going to post (...or port the sheet, yay awkwardly-stuck-on-mobile-ness) till tomorrow because I'm tired as all heck but thanks for the warm welcome and I can't wait to get started!

Godspeed!

*holy hell you guys post fast I'm scared. Also hi I have a sheet now as half-promised.*

Rytia, Weaver of Harmony

_{Fluid gender; most often appears female}

Dᴏᴍᴀɪɴ & Pᴏʀᴛꜰᴏʟɪᴏ

<sub>Expression (Music)
The domain of Expression is fluid and everchanging- built on emotional development and release, fostered by an inquisitive nature and a fascination with the fantastical. It is characterized by especially strong emotion, rage and horror and terror alongside elation, joy, and hope. Dissenters and advocates as well as artists and visionaries find a patron in the domain of Expression.

In the portfolio of Music specifically, furies are inflamed as well as soothed, solace sought and sentiments expressed in a more dynamic field than written or even spoken word. Logical discourse is foregone for poetic verse, which is at times foregone altogether. as the patron of Music, Rytia relishes in the abstract and shuns the concrete- why would one ever state something outright when they can imply or allude to it?</sub>

Aʟɪɢɴᴍᴇɴᴛ

_{Chaotic Good
To mortals, she is seen as a benevolent god, if unpredictable at best. No one can predict how music will motivate others, really- it is such a massively personal domain. She certainly means no harm against any race of mortals, regardless of their conduct (her domain would be incomplete without ballads of war and suffering, so she is by no means a pacifist) but instead actively encourages them to thrive independently.
To the other gods, this lack of favoritism is perhaps off-putting, her lack of overall direction and shape, favoring things that will have epic ballads and heroic cadences written about them as opposed to any ulterior motive. Her allegiances will ebb and flow, as fickle as the notes of the “cosmic masterpiece” she seems to think she is composing.}

Pᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ

_{A young deity, naïve and brimming with energy, quick to make judgment and slow to forget. Intelligent, quick-thinking, and massively creative, but a bit impulsive- prone to making decisions and judgments she will later grow to regret. She prides herself on her own empathic nature and deep, instinctive understanding of the psyche of any populace she’s had a hand in creating… After all, music puts to words that which keens and writhes in secret hearts and can’t be expressed in any other medium. Very much of feeling and less of reason, she can be a bit difficult to work with if her heart is not set on a task, wish-washing between all facets of it, but once her heart is set she becomes infinitely more determined. Fluid at best in her own emotional expression, one can find her a bit offputting- she will cry of death and mourning in one breath and whisper a song of love for one’s mother in the next. Rytia has a bit of a hero complex, still believing she needs to prove herself to the world and the other more-directly-involved gods of the realm.}

Gᴏᴀʟs

_{Rytia has no defined goal at this time. Eventually, she would like to become the patron of her own civilization, fostering a society that relishes in emotion, in creation. She also would maybe, just maybe, like to be hailed as a hero, have ballads and epic poetry written about her or her avatars. A foolishly almost-mortal desire, but what can one expect of one who is little more than a child? For the moment, her curiosity and inquisitive nature are getting the best of her, and she wonders what exactly is possible for her to do, questioning the bounds of the reality she's a part of.}

Aᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ

<sub>For most things, Rytia takes an incorporeal form – a swirling column of air and vivid colors and textures about five feet tall, seeming to effervesce an oddly-harmonic cacophony of bell tones around her everywhere she goes.

When she must appear “decent” she takes an almost-humanoid form. A young woman, though inhumanly slender- her visage is translucent, seeming more entirely transparent when in bright light. Her eyes are large and bright, hair falling to her knees, eternally changing through flowing pastel colors, and her body robed in a simple white gown swirling with foreign, complex musical notation. The aura of bell-tones follows her in this form as well, though it’s much softer when she takes this shape.</sub>

Mᴜsɪᴄᴀʟ Tʜᴇᴍᴇ

_{To be determined. Or maybe written. I haven’t decided yet…}

*tentatively pokes @Antarctic Termite??*

Godspeed!

@Cyclone Whoops, my bad (I'd not yet gotten through all the sheets in detail when I made my post, my apologies.) I'll grab Music then.

Godspeed!

*peers in*
Hai. I see y'all are still accepting? I'll be working on a sheet today, if that's alright - can I preemptively put dibs on the Portfolio of "song"?

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Aymiria Unalim

_{Bride of Zakroti Unalim @darkwolf687 and sister-bride to Aurora Liesma @WeepingLiberty}

Lilac eyes had a most peculiar effect of seeming to ice over as Miry stared up at Aurora, gone a bit slack jawed by her.... brash idiocy, throwing hatred right and left and fury indiscriminately, as though disrespect and blind pursuit of misconception somehow earned her their favor. She steeled herself, barely flinching at the "sniveling child" comment, a thousand retorts on her lips that died as Zak stepped closer, speaking calmly against the girl's harsh words, his own fire contained (though barely, at first) within eloquent prose that she could suddenly barely keep coherent in her mind.

Her heart lurched as the memories returned in an unbidden flood, her sister's battered, tortured body, the desperate fear in her eyes and the panic in her breathless words and quaking grasp at the looming shadow in the door-

The blood everywhere, the grief and shock- the wall of too-hard air and steam that she herself had fallen into, a fox caught in her own trap under the weight of disbelief. The minor explosion of pressurized air and steam, designed a subtle trap by both sisters to keep Aery's husband from the room, instead went off as Miry too lost all focus, shredding clothing and skin indiscriminately from the tiny water gem's back and shoulders and all but flinging her to the floor, face-down into a pool of her sister's- and sister-bride's- blood...

She forced herself out of the thought, a barely audible gasp escaping her as she forced her eyes wide, tiny bits of ice crackling and tinkling off of her face as she struggled to open her eyes through the crystals that had formed with the instinctively-welling tears. Her hands clenched into shaking fists as she sized up the situation once more, feeling the fool for letting the memories seize her unbidden like that. The scars on her back- tiny, barely-visible scars like a million papercuts- were tingling and stinging as they ever did when she thought of it, but she fought against it, standing stock-still as she tried to take stock of the situation and catch up with what had been said. Had Zak managed to put out, or at least contain, the flames for once?

Zak had turned so his sword was angled slightly away from Aurora, his body tense and seeming to guard the hilt somewhat. No doubt he was reliving what had happened the last time one of the brides had gotten a blade...

Miry stepped up on that side, stepping perhaps a bit closer to Aurora than need be, and schooled her face into the blankest, softest expression she could as she stepped closer, regarding the other girl as evenly as possible (considering her eyes only came up to about the base of the other girl's ribs.) Her sadness was barely concealed in her gaze as she murmured, scarcely above a whisper, "Peace, child of Pyrus. You are not the only one to have lost her sister that night. You are not the one who still bears scars of it. So- Trust. The matter is not what you think it is."

It must have been a strange sight, the frost still crackling off her face, eyes vaguely unfocused and full of unspoken words she wished she had time to say. But even what she had just said was perhaps too much- she might have just provoked yet another tongue-lashing, or even physical violence. Her eyes flicked back to Zak and she finally bowed her head again, murmuring an apology to him as she stepped back a pace behind him once more and resumed her submissive posture, arms moving to guard her lower midsection out of instinct.

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

_{Bride of Ordric @Athoriel}

She wanted to throw something, or scream, or seem as though possessed by a ghost and scare them all. Anything to get them to shut up. Having been stuffed unceremoniously into a carriage-cage thing again- by some massive misfortune with all four of the noble girls from the ride to Shadow Worth- was bad enough, but they kept. Talking. Their nervous tittering and hollow idle chatter was clearly meant to distract them from the doom they trundled towards, but it filled the air with its notes of panic and made it increasingly hard for Nenra to think.

They were treating her like she wasn’t there, and that was fine. Even in this… whatever this was. “Trade agreement” as one of the girls, who sounded quite like a rich merchant, kept saying. Even in this, they felt they had to maintain their snooty haughty aloofness, and Nenra would let them.

She leaned back against the wall of the carriage (the other girls had quickly claimed the spaces on the benches, and made no move to let Nenra join them), feeling the cold steel bars press into her back, her bare feet dug firmly into the rough wooden floor, as though trying to draw some assurance from the faint life of the raw wood planks. It was getting steadily hotter as they left the mountains, approaching what she could assume was the Drakkan capital.

Periodically the other girls would gasp, all leaning closer to the bars to look at something in the distance, shielding their eyes delicately. It all meant nothing to Nenra, who focused quite intently at the point where her vision started to blur, just in front of her toes when her legs were drawn up to her chest.

The whimpering started in earnest as they approached the city gates, a shadow falling over them as they passed into the looming walls. She rolled her eyes at the antics of these noble girls (who had, she wryly noted, long forgotten their “noble duty of the highest honor” when they realized that they were going to at best be forced into a cruel man’s bed and split apart by bearing his children.)

Nenra herself decided she was… resigned. Yes, that would be a good way to put it, she thought, as the Drakken guards pulled them out of the carriage and lined them up. She wasn’t pretty, not like these other girls- there was a good chance she wouldn’t even be chosen. Rumor had it that was what happened to Lamry when she was taken. Rumor also had it that the girl at least had a quick death, spanning hours rather than weeks or years as most Brides’ fates did. It was more than most got, at least, and more than the vast majority of Myllendh had gotten, lingering in fevered agony for days or weeks until they’d expired at last from weakness…

She was strangely calm about the prospect of dying, standing rather placidly as other, far more nervous, girls were led or dragged off around her. Though one of the first brought into the room, her carriage having been the second one in line, she was among the very last to be taken away to the warlords scattered around the room, little more than intimidating blobs of ashen skin and dull colors from this distance.

As she was taken by the shoulders, she finally realized two things. One, she wasn’t being kept for later- Lamry’s fate would not be hers. Two, she’d left the nasty pinchy boots in the carriage. Part of her was glad of it, having her feet in contact with the floor (and through it the earth) was remarkably calming, and part of her feared she’d be punished for it.

Thankfully, the skirts she had been given were long enough that her feet were hidden, even while she was being roughly guided to stand before her husband. Her scruffy hair fell forward, and she looked up from under it as calmly and distantly as she could. It likely helped that her eyes could not focus on his face, instead seeing him a looming lump of chiseled ash-toned flesh with stern lines and something- an especially livid, dark scar perhaps? Carved into the side of his face.

She listened intently to what the guardsman said, though it meant nothing to her. And just as quickly as she’d been dragged over, the guard had wandered off, leaving her standing in front of her… she supposed he was to be her husband. A bit awkwardly, she stooped into a shallow curtsy, wobbling and nearly falling. The lesson to bow was still sharply fresh in her mind, the meaty thump of blows striking the other Gems lingering in her mind.

After holding the curtsy for a moment, she spoke quietly- her mostly-unused voice low, breathy, and barely carrying to her husband’s ears. “Nenra Corislen, sire. From the village of Myllendh.” She straightened uncertainly, unsure if she had been supposed to do that – or had even been supposed to provide that much information.

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Scyrven Talyrrth and Gwillim Gunnvaldr

_{Husband and Wife of Hestia Gristmill @eclecticwitch
@tracyarmav told me I could puppet sorry if I wrote him wrong and also sorry for nearly-double-posting}}

After the... excitement of the near-assassination, the tournament quickly returned to its daily grind. Scyrven herself fought in two more battles that day, emerging victorious quickly in both and progressing to the second day of the tournament.

She had quickly scrubbed herself down with a cloth and basin of cool water, provided for likely that exact purpose, channeling cool air through her armor to dry the batting inside while she cleaned up. Thus refreshed, she tucked her helmet away in its pack, bundling away all weapons but her sword, which still hung from her belt. She wore the rest of her armor as they descended into the great room, not so complacent in a room full of hungry, tired, ...frustrated lords. She linked arms with Gwillim, leaning against her mate's side companionably while they waited.

As the guardsman approached, Gem in tow, her eyes went a bit wide, the reality of the situation finally settling over her. A Bride. As far as culture indicated, they were little more than playthings - pets, if one was feeling exceptionally generous. But Scyrven was eager all the same... she vowed to herself that she would not take the bride for her own fun, not until the girl agreed. While many males would force themselves on their wives that very night, as was their right and even ostensibly their duty - the whole purpose of the arrangement was for procreation - she would have only done so for her own pleasure, and she was not so cruel as to do that to a helpless individual. Even if she was desperate... aside from some brief fooling when she was very young and still at her father's court, Scyrven had hardly had time to refine her... tastes, and now the opportunity was tantalizingly close.

Of course, to coax the girl to her bed she would have to woo her. Eyes of molten amber snapped back to focus on the guard, just in time to hear his parting remark of "...bear you more strong children." A faint swell of pride filled her then- yes. Alfhi was strong and lovely already. There would be more children soon, she was certain of it. Especially with the offering of this lass.

Speaking of... Scyrven's eyes narrowed a bit as she inspected the girl, stepping away from her mate's side to reach out. A pretty, demure thing, very soft and gentle looking. She reached out, gently taking one of the girl's hands (dwarfing it in her own long fingers) and bending surprisingly gracefully to place a gentle kiss on the back of her hand, the points of her forward-curling horns just missing the girl's skin, skimming to either side of her fingers. As she straightened, she gently caught the girl's chin with the fingers of her free hand, lightly tilting her head back and slightly gasping, despite herself, as the girl's jade eyes and golden freckles caught the flickering light. Oh, she was pretty. Perhaps not in the same way as the girls who looked to be made of porcelain, the girls being handed out on either side of them, but... still strikingly gorgeous.

She laughed, then, stepping back and tightening her grip on the girl's hand, gently twirling her about once before pulling the small Gem in under her arm and against her side in a rather possessive way, maintaining her hold of her hand. The girl almost certainly could feel the strength in her arms, in her assured way of catching her. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, pretty one. My name is Scyrvensrel Talyrrth, and I have the honor of presenting my - well, I suppose our, husband - Gwillim Gunnvaldr. What is your name, if I may have the honor of knowing it?" Her words came easily, but the inflection was just slightly off, the faint stiffness of her body betraying her uncertainty. She made a (forced, but attempting to be) graceful gesture to Gwillim, only then noticing her husband's piercing scowl, directed at the back of the retreating guardsman.

Upon realizing they were only to be offered the one bride, Gwillim set his mouth in an impassive expression, studying the guard and weighing his words carefully. All around them various lords were being given pairs of brides, and yet they had only been offered the one. Disdainful. Was this really what decades of loyalty and service to the crown had earned them? His mate's prowess in command would have earned any man at least one bride, and his own various... projects and other favours for the crown princes should have - and probably could have, had he gone to inquire - secured promise of one from each.

As he processed what the guard said, however, he relaxed slightly, a faint pride swelling him. No slight was meant by it really, of that he assured himself. It was even intended as a compliment to his mate, perhaps - that she would be able to conceive a son, and this Gem was merely here to smooth the process out.

After considering for a split-second, Gwillim offered a slight dip of the head to the guardsman, speaking quietly. "We are humbled by his majesty's grace and congratulations, and thank him profusely for his generous gift to us." There. Simple, just enough grace and kowtowing to avoid winding up on the wrong end of a blade.

As the guardsman turned away he let out a soft growl, turning away to his mate and putting his arm lightly around her shoulders, loosely sandwiching the Gem girl between them. Scyrven leaned up into his embrace.

"I think we should go to the market after the feast," she murmured to him, loud enough that the Gem could hear. "Find some pretty clothes - such a beautiful thing deserves something more comfortable than a Gemmenite court dress." She shuddered lightly, vividly remembering her own humiliating days of being stuffed into a Gem-shaped corseted gown, and getting a soft chuckle from Gwillim.