Author Topic: Assorted RP's of Sigrid Gudrun Auru'in  (Read 2261 times)


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Re: Assorted RP's of Sigrid Gudrun Auru'in
« Topic Start: November 18, 2017, 10:48:13 PM »
"If the 'Tree of Whispers' could truly speak, it'd be screaming right about now... Fat lot of good it'd do, m'sure the grizzled old Elves have all but lost their hearing. Ah, cosmic irony..."

The white granite walkways of the Grand Garden, whose exotic flora once numbered in the thousands, featured far less diversity than the old stories described. The Tree of Whispers itself, diseased by scuttling insects whose industrious maws so casually tore at ancient visage, in no way resembled the picturesque storybooks whose legends puffed hot air unto Elvish pride. Sigrid's joyful heart lay as barren as a desert lakebed, visibly pissed at her own foolishness. As her pissant Krimmelian uncle once realized, plump arse sat proudly betwixt the leaning pillars of his decrepit old manorhouse, she was not one to be taken for a fool!

Old captain Ferdinand donned his customary mask of worry, yet as he opened his mouth to speak, Sigrid beat him to the punch.

"What in the hell happened to this place! Honestly, it looks like someone took a steaming dump, covered it in fancy adornments, and tried to hock it as some glorious artifact of ancient times..."

Were the stories of its mythic splendor just a crock of frog intestines, thought Sigrid, or did Sirion lose its glow somewhere along the way? For all the legends of Elvish mastery, even the Palace's sparse public records were an embarrassing enigma. Ferdinand awkwardly cleared his throat as Sigrid steeled herself against the time-worn mastery of shoddy excuses. The captain's service to a procession of haughty nobles imparted a particular gift for courtly deflection, but even so, the man was capable of an occasional stark sincerity.

"M'lady, one must expect some measure of leisure in the meticulous record-keeping of grand bureaucracies...  One can hardly expect a realm of such age to prioritize the documentation of events that must seem so fleeting in the scope of its lengthy existence... It is unwise to fault the Elves for paying less-than-stellar attention to recording what their ancient minds must know by heart... Yet even I must admit: for so many years to be absent from every available parchment, scroll, and banner... Not just incomplete, no, but utterly devoid of mention... Why, its almost as if time itself had stopped in the wake of the Siro-Westmoorian War."

Ferdinand endeavored to lick his cracked lips, much as one expects a grandparent to lick a finger before leafing through an oft-read fairytale. Much of it was sheer presentation, Sigrid thought to herself, though some of it could surely be chalked up to the physiological effects of advanced age. After all, it is only right to give one's elders the chance to pause and recollect their thoughts. To contain so vast a knowledge crammed within a mind no longer in its prime... One could not dare to cast fault upon well-earned moment of respite. Not that she would ever admit such a thing to Ferdinand. It was just too much fun how they bickered back and forth over the years. In truth, she relished his graceless dance between grizzled tutor and old friend.

For a briefly humorous moment, Sigrid contemplated whether the Elvish Lords powdered their asses, lest tired old bones and thrice-wrinkled cheeks become lodged in the seat of a sanitary facility... Hells, maybe they just defecate where they stand, attentive servants trailing behind to salvage the oh so 'glorious' emanations of their masters. Considering how often her once-graceful uncle had shat himself at a moments notice, multiplied by the far greater lifespan of said Elves... Clearly lost in ridiculous mental imagery as a funny look glazed across her face, old captain Ferdinand cleared his throat in that oh-so timeless signaling of desired attention.

"Ahem... It was not a good time for the East Continent, or Sirion for that matter... Despite a desperate bounce back to relative success, the events of the Siro-Westmoorian War painted a stark image of what Sirion had become: a decaying house of playing-cards whose might rested upon the rank of its assembled faces, grimacing as if to frighten passers-by, yet vulnerable to the ravages of any old passing breeze. Fontan crumbling between the two-pronged Caligan-Perdan assault; then Prime Minister Lapallanch's retaliatory strike against Westmoor suffering an embarrassing retreat as complacency allowed the Westmoorian looting of Commonyr... General Blakeshadow accomplishing - pardon my Common - !@#$-all then abdicating after driving Sirion forces to the brink of oblivion, only for newly-minted general Clipt to fail miserably as the Army of Sirion lay shattered... So they say, alongside Sirion's puckered dignity..."

If Sigrid's eyebrows could arch any higher, the damn things would spread wing and take flight. A stifled grin broke into outright laughter as Ferdinand's wrinkled forehead lay bridged by furry gray unibrow cast high in startled indignation.

"Listen here, girl. You may not be that clever little runt anymore; y'know, the one who set fire to a certain Vice Chancellor's heirloom tablecloth at a wedding respectable nobles are loathe to mention... Or that time you let loose a horde of emaciated rats in middle of a certain Duke's *bloody* feast... Aye, you've grown proud and strong, if not a tad bit wise, since those trying times... But that doesn't mean I have to put with your shenanigans. You're still my little one, damn girl, and you'd best remember that. They may not have caught you, but I had to clean up your mess every time your sick humor got the best of us. Oh, Gods above... What was I saying? Ah, yes, do you recall that gutted pig they found on the altar at Brunswick? How you managed to haul that festering sack of maggots up all those stairs and plant the damn thing like some imperial banner is just, urgh, why would you even-"

Red cheeks nearly bursting from such profound laughter as joyful tears coalesced in the corners of azure-flecked emerald eyes, Sigrid struggled to catch her breath - after a brief loss of control, she swiftly composed herself in the wake of unknown voice trailing song across the expanse.

"Shush, old man! Listen-"

Looking across the Bridge of the Fallen, where casual stroll and distracted speech had naturally brought the pair, she scanned her surroundings for the songbird whose solemn tune caught her fancy. Nevermind Ferdinand never realized she had recruited a pair of local urchins to do her 'heavy lifting', rewarding their part in her bored shenanigans with table scraps and scavenged trinkets that made their eyes grow wide with wonder... One day she'll get around to giving up some of her tricks... But who the hell was singing that curious song?

"Oh yes, I'm the great pretender
Pretending I'm doing well
My need is such I pretend too much
I'm lonely but no one can tell

Oh yes, I'm the great pretender
Adrift in a world of my own
I play the game but to my real shame
You've left me to dream all alone"
Apsu@Legends. BM: Yxevarii Auru'in, Grandmistress [Ruler;Priestess-Inquisitor] (Obia'Syela-BT); Sigrid Gudrun Auru'in, Avenging Exile of Xavax, Countess of Slimbar (Redhaven-EC);  Masalu Auru'in, Linguistically-Challenged Sumerian Death-Cultist (D'hara-DW)