The Spring Past The Winter

Lennings

The brass-construct took off with a gust of wind. Very little could be felt of the outside world, sounds were drowned out by the engine's humming, and soon the Switterlind's. The craft was stabilized to the point no inertia affected its passengers, even with the deputy's reckless driving, wait did someone outside get ran over by the car?

Ardenaraian confectioneries catered to local tastes. One of them were wrapped candies made out of fermented milk, yogurt candies? or a mochi that tasted like salted butter and vanilla ice cream. The greener ones were obviously made out of vegetables churned along cream, in fact, almost more than half of the candies within the confectionery were vegetable-flavored.

In due time, the convoy arrived at a landmark that Zircel once waltzed through, a vineyard obnoxiously placed in the middle of the bustling prison-city. It covered more than fifty acres of land area, the size of a large mall. The fruity smell of berries can almost be tasted in the air, hallucinogenic, or perhaps just delectable. They stopped in-front of the manor built in the center, it was a building that conventionally appeared "abandoned", with a distinct absence of lighting and green vines enveloping a good portion of it. There were no other signs of life here, was this some sort of a government black-site??

The nameless inspector opened the craft's hatch, voicing out a question to Zircel. "What do you think of it?". He stays seated in the hovercraft.

Dokzentir

Zircel jumped out into the open, fluttering into the air, smelling the odors. "I do love the aesthetics of this scenery. Such greenery and overgrowth carries a classic style. What wondrous smell in these airs. I am curious for the plants and blossoms to find." He descended to the ground near a patch of soil, kneeling down onto the dirt. With his hands he dug a small hole, from his fancy clothes he pulled out a seed, placing it into the opening. After he covered it again with dirt, he stood back up.

Lennings

The inspector rolled his eyes and closed the hatch, awaiting for the vehicle to leave their guests behind with no reply.

It appeared as if he was abandoned straight out of nowhere, like a baby thrown into a river. The sweet fragrances grew stronger the closer one went to the berries being planted in the vineyards, in most countries, such plants were almost completely odorless. It strangely enough, has hints of rusted iron too, like blood.

Like mushrooms found in the wild, the best choice for many is to leave them alone.

Soon after both the inspector left and Zircel planted a seed of his own, an audible clck of the entrance opening is heard from the building. The Switterlind's host would be . . . . the very same person that tried to kill him: the white-haired swordswoman in the confectionery. This time, she was dressed casually in a black buttoned-shirt complemented by a matching skirt. The said woman would have a dejected look upon sighting Zircel.

"Get in." She commanded soon afterwards, leaving the door open.

It has been two or three hours since the entire encounter, so it would've been awkward for the lady.

Dokzentir

Zircel recognized the woman. One usually differentiated people by their looks, but not Zircel. He recognized people by their identity. It meant that a changed face or clothes meant nothing, but a changed sense of identity would be recognized as another person. Zircel turned around slowly and dramatically to face the woman, unfurling his wings for display. He made his way to follow; a fey carried a compulsion that forced them to always follow through to an invitation. "My dear slayer-of-confectionary, what schemes have you been planning? I sincerely hope for ones fantastical. Am I not expecting too little from a character as lively as yours?"

Lennings

She sneered at Zircel's greeting, continuing inside without a word. The building's interior could be easily mistaken for a greenhouse: overwhelmingly dominated by flora all green and healthy. There were lattice screens mounted into the walls that vines were hanging over, their stems easily covered most surfaces, even extending up to the ceiling. The interior was dimly lit by gas-operated lamps, an aesthetic choice by whoever lived in this residence. Beneath them, the flooring was covered by fresh leaves that the vines shed. Tiny insects crawled at the crevices of the room.

It was humid here, and certainly wasn't any different from anybody's front-yard. There were three scattered wooden chairs, and a coffee table in the area, the woman took a sit at the one facing the entrance.

"Humorous, you've got the nerve coming here after attacking us." The lady accused, as if it wasn't her who made the decision to strike first and ask questions later. She furrowed her eyebrows. "My subordinates even thought it convenient to ferry you directly into my doorsteps, I'll have them disciplined by the week's end."

She took a glance at Zircel's aura, likely the one cast upon him by the granny. Her silverish eyes lit up briefly, and the Fae could sense a tingle, as if the woman looked directly into his soul. "Hmm, that's . . . a poor report. 'Subservient to House Clardeamos?' These ministries would employ even dumb#### nowadays . . ." She swore with the elegance of a construction worker, disappointed by the inspector's incompetence in filing his citizenship forms.

"Zircel it is? My name is Minthorya of House Larai, the governor of the city you currently are stepping in. " She squinted, slightly irritated by the Switterlind's wings that felt like the equivalent of looking into a flashlight. "Truly, your arrival here must have had some purpose?"

Dokzentir

Zircel laughed shrill and bright, his body emitting golden sparks with each vibration. "My purpose is self-fulfilling. I am a story in the telling. The fact that I am here right now means that is how the story goes. But a story needs spectacle, it needs and audience." The Fey leaned forwards, his breath reminding of lemon and nectar and, weirdly enough, starlight. The eyes carried a look like an incoming solar eclipse. His voice took a more whispery tone, as if telling forbidden secrets. "The fabulous needs the ones who marvel and wonder. Attention is vitality, expectation is power."

Zircel stepped back and stretched to his full glory. A distant hymn was heard. The sun was shining, even here, as if there was no roof at all. The scenery was bathed in honey-colored light. "I can bring art, I can bring glamour and glory, I can bring the melody of potential. For the ones who long for the fantastical. If I am given reign and utilities, I can establish a connection to the marvelous. I always yearned to establish myself a citadel of marvel and moonstone and citrine and lapis-lazuli."

The azure-citrine Fey tilted their head. "The regents of the Chromafey Season will likely want to plant flowers of relations here eventually. I want to be local highest Chromafey when they do, in my own little realm. I want them to come to me. I'll be the one in charge of setting up the embassies. I bring for you local wonders, and be the connection of all the wonders of the world of Indefinite Color."

Lennings

Minthorya squinted her eyes unsure if Zircel was taking things seriously, or perhaps it had always been the way of their kind. Ardenarai seldom had contact with foreigners due to its xenophobic attitude, and outright hostility towards those perceived to be contaminated by the taint of "outlanders", people from beyond the stars who used technologies considered as abominations of nature, lacking magic that is deemed to be the essence of all life.

"The realms of the Chromafey... Ah, yes." It was only now she realized the stature of her kaleidoscopic visitor. Indefinite Color was seldom written in the records of foreign affairs until recently. Preliminary reports suggest that the nature of these enchanting butterflies were very much aligned with Ardenaraian values, an ideal society existing only in the furthest reaches of 'fantasy'.

Though her treatment of the Fey (earlier) would suggest otherwise, Minthorya didn't harbor the hatred held by other Ardenaraians against outlanders. Even as if the two may had engaged in hostilities prior to the meeting, the governor still felt excited of a (colorful) opportunity to get the Sacred Kingdom to open up. She felt flustered reminiscing those moments, such shameful conduct, but not perhaps unreasonable given the circumstances.

Passing over the responsibility to the Kahrethaya would be such a wasted opportunity to advance her own interests. "This art that you possess, and the glamour you claim to hold, was it the sorcery you conjured earlier?" And even now, she remarked in her head. "I see the value of your proposition, it has not fell upon deaf ears I reassure you."

To control Zircel's excitability, Minthorya took out a locket-shaped instrument from her skirt pocket, pressing into it. A chill could be felt as the heat was drained from the room, with colors getting washed-away along with the luminosity of the Switterlind's radiance. It was such a cruel irony to subject such person, known to be a loving patron of colors, in a monochrome world, so just before the two would be frozen completely in darkness, Minthorya placed the locket back into her pockets, allowing Zircel to keep some of his glow for himself.

"My delicate eyes cannot afford to be witness to such gleaming light, apologies. 😅" The magic she conjured was similar in nature to the one she cast during their fight, though instead of bringing magic from beyond the veil, it acted in reverse, allowing the rift to take what is due. It would seem that until now, they were clashing with their own arcane arts, but this time not-so violently as before. Such fights, even if they appeared petty weren't looked down-upon in the Sacred Kingdom, it was only a natural demonstration of life, and one's own will to exist.

"I am able to grant your request, in my own personal authority, and as the governor of Doraclea, you will have everything you asked for, along with anything your people will require in the future." Such declaration was bold, and unusual, again given the circumstances between them. "In return, we, no, I expect you to uphold your word on bringing life to this kingdom."

"Tell me more about your own proposal, though I may actually have to ask something of you to process your requests afterwards." Minthorya added. "I'm sure earlier those inspectors asked a lot of things from you, right?"

Dokzentir

As the scenery had taken to darker tones, drained the saturation from colors, Zircel remained in his full vibrancy, now even more contrasting in chromatic potency with the environment. He seemed now even more out of place, as if he had been artificially pasted into the scene without any regards for the atmospheric lighting. No light and darkness or environmental conditions could seemingly change Zircel's nature of being always vibrantly and chromatically visible. At least not while he was still the focus of the scene.

Zircel performed his brilliant laugh, like little tinkling golden bells. "The inspector was a silly one. Trying to contain my aspects. They are the uncontainable. He held out the hand to catch what is glitter blown into the winds."

"I am an artistic soul. I always strive to create and capture the delightfully fabulous, the fiercely intense, the utterly horrible, the curiously macabre, and the wondrously mysterious. My magic comes from the meanings and care put into the arts. I have forged and weaved a song that filled a sun with tears. The fierce-bright brilliance is now a aquamarine-watery gloomy glow. The Somber Sun, they call it now. I can teach your land the Puissant Arts, a painting that can set the world aflame, a stained-glass construct to call upon the seasons, a poem to wound a history."

Zircel made eager steps forward. "Give me a land, to establish myself. Give me a title, to serve my reign and repute. Give me materials, so I may craft an artwork. I wish for my own sphere of influence, my own little domain." He came in uncomfortably close and whispered faintly. "I promise to make it... wonderful."

Zircel stepped back. "If you wish the creatures of Chromafey to come, you need to an open door to the fantastical. A station for the trains that hail from azure skies, a haven for their heaven-sailing vessels, a cathedral of many mirrors, a corridor in rainbow. Invite them to tea, to cake, to games, to carnivals. Allow them to roam and build, and they will bring you little marvels. My domain will be your threshold."

The fey looked dreamily into a non-existent distance. "A citadel of marvel and moonstone and citrine and lapis-lazuli..."

Lennings

The room appeared squalid, drained of any color, much like the early monochromatic Daguerreotype photograph. Minthorya instead just stood up from her seat, and took a circular thin-framed sunglasses that was hanged over one of the lattices. She wore them, and returned back as Zircel was halfway through his own monologue.

Perhaps Minthorya's stunt made the strain on her eyes worse. "Ugh." she groaned.

The Fey's stories did appear exaggerated to Minthorya, whose eyebrows furrowed with suspicion. Was this person truly able to conduct such feats as he claims? Ardenarai's mystics were indeed much more grounded than those of other magi, but to hear such baffling tales from Zircel made governor wonder. Where they so far behind the rest of the world? She didn't attempt to discredit the Fey's claims, replying to his wants.

"I see how your kind is well-ahead, and above the rest of humanity in spirit. If what you claim is true, then I can conclude that Ardenarai would be foolish if it were to continue on its path of isolation. I am not one in mind with the general consensus, and for the time being, your people will not find any one else more welcoming in these lands."

Minthorya clicked her tongue. "Ah yes, what was I about to say? You are currently..." her eyes gleamed with a warm glow once again, and Zircel would have the sensation of being scried at. "registered as a minor noble of Ardenarai, a Class C citizen. You are unlanded in our realms, unfortunately, and will remain so if we are unable to raise your status."

"The question of gaining a fiefdom wont be a matter of concern, especially if none can challenge the claim. In fact, I have laid down a potential area just the north of Odium. I'd be happy to grant you the islands nearby, had those been in my immediate control. Wait."

She took the locket out of her skirt, and attempted to project a hologram display using its power. It would appear Ardenaraian rift-magic (Vitraiika) necessitates a heavy use of instruments. She had to, unfortunately, first dispell the magic that was cast earlier, to allow both of them to see the map. "Ugh.".

"To raise your status, you need to possess royal blood to form a county of your own. Ah yes, I can remedy that situation by having you work in my stead, though I suppose it isn't technically ownership in any sense. Hmm... are you not averse to having someone else's blood on your hands?"

And by blood on his hands, Minthorya opened up an incision through her fingertip. She was visibly pained, biting the corner of her lips, though attempted to appear calm and collected while doing it. "A droplet of my blood would be enough to make you eligible to rule a fiefdom. It will also make you a member of House Larai, the dynasty I belong to, so consider your options carefully."

Now, the question is: would accepting blood from a stranger be the most logical choice?

Dokzentir

Zircel looked at the blood with a face that only a fey can hold, an undecipherable expression, still with that ever-present cryptic smile. "Nobility ... it means value ... Not value derived from extrinsic sources, like one's actions and feats and potential, but from what one is; ascribed intrinsic value." The creature of citrine and azure looked up into the lady's eyes. "If your intent is, that I need to possess the attributes of nobility in my nature, I can assure you, I had taken care of that in the times of past."

With a fluent motion he pulled out a tiny flask filled with white-golden liquid. It was glittering, it expressed an aura of brilliance. It was intrinsically valuable. "Distilled nobility. It can only ever be scarce, for plentifulness would destroy its very nature as a manifestation of elitism. Princelings are its container, children of nobles and royals." He held up the flask again. "I have it already in my blood, to an extent." He pointed at the gilden content. "Princelings thrown in a blender, contents filtered and distilled. A flask of intrinsically valuable identity. You can trade for it for a high price. Or, like you seem to be aware, you can take a more vampiric route." For a short moment Zircel's smile seemed uncannily toothy and needle-like.

The fey threw the flask straight up, and it vanished with a glittering spark. "I am an artist. I have to be an Independent. I do not hold allegiance to anyone but my potential." In an unexpectantly swift motion, he captured a droplet of the lady's blood in an even smaller flask. He then again showed his unreadable smile. "But I wouldn't let a gift like this go to waste." His antennae twitched for a few seconds, as if tasting the air. "Exotic aroma."

Zircel switch to a more lawyerly tone. "If you wish for formal agreements: promises for loopholes of ambiguity and contracts for loopholes of technicality." He leaned forward. "I hope for a marvelous time working with you."

Lennings

(If the mapchange passes ill be an island city-state, so the scale changes a bit. Everything becomes one big city and you'd be assigned a quarter of a city district)

"Ah yes, I suppose so." Minthorya nonetheless accepted Zircel's choice. "There would be no other way for a foreigner to own land, than to belong to one of the kingdom's six flowers, houses if you will. You shall be getting your land and patronage of course, but as a viceroy serving under my immediate jurisdiction. I myself do not own the land you flutter around, although I do control it, and I believe that is what most matters."

She took a passing glance at her blood-in-a-flask, there would be a moment of silence as she briefly considers her next course of action. "Fret not, I am in belief that Ardenarai rewards the mighty, and that the Fey would be allowed to pursue their interests should they prove themselves. Now, you have to swear an oath with your one and true voice. Repeat after me and raise your first to your heart, and you shall be knighted, haha, become a member of the government."

". . . On this day, I pledge fealty to the crown of Ardenarai. I vow to uphold the justice of our cause, the righteousness of our faith, the traditions of my ancestors, and the banners of my people. I am one of the purest, light shall grace my very presence, and conquer the unspeakable darknesses. This, I swear on my blood and being."

She took the locket and made a circular motion of it in the air. Zircel could feel as if someone's watching him from behind, a very judgemental person.

Dokzentir

Zircel turned around and performed a greeting motion towards the conceptual observer. All new witnesses are to be greeted after all. He came to face the woman again. His mind wandered for a moment, as if hunting the fantasy-scape for something specific. Zircel stepped forward, again with feyish smile, placing a clawed hand to where he suspected the women to expect his heart. In a starlight voice he spoke bright.

"On such lovely day, I pledge my talents to the crown of Ardenarai. I vow to uphold the cause's justice , the faith's righteousness, the ancestors' traditions, and the people's banners. I am one of the purest, light graces my very presence, and conquers the unspeakable darknesses. This, I swear on blood and phantasm of mine."

Zircel had shifted the wording of the oath. Was it clutter-mindedness, creative liberty, an artist's need for re-invention, or a provocative poking of limits? Whatever the case, Zircel's nature would stubbornly continue in its erratic an uncaught flow.

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