We All Need Some Pretty Words Sometimes [Interaction and Writing Requests - Cian Done!]

Seed's picture
The poet is restless these days: hungry for inspiration that seems a little thin on the ground in his personal life. Maybe he's just looking for some inspiration, some audience.

And maybe you're bored or troubled, and want something to distract or comfort you, like a story like you might have heard when you were little. Maybe you have something you want to say -- to a special someone, perhaps? Or maybe even you just want to hear something about you.

Well, maybe he can help you if you can help him. All Seed needs is a little inspiration: a theme, a topic, a request, and he'll compose something for you.
Now, our poet sits under the bridge, just above the water line, and ponders... And waits for you to come and ask some "pretty words" of him.

Rules and Explanation| To-Do List| Completed Requests

Rules and Explanation

Taking some inspiration from Mis' work with Verve, this is an interaction and request blog. In short, your character can come and ask Seed to compose or recite a work of writing, along a theme or a topic, about a subject, or to answer a question or the like, of the character's choosing. While they may take some time to compose, Seed usually won't ask for anything in return -- unless you offer, of course. Seed might ask a lot of questions, to get a good idea about what it is he's writing about: the trouble he might hope to sooth, or the subject your character wants him to write about. Writing is about the details, after all.

Seed will either answer within the scene, or come find your character when he's done with the request, depending on the context, but it'll probably take me a while either way, so please be patient. He'll show it both in interactions, and I'll post it up in this main topic for easier viewing pleasure... I'm not sure how yet, but I will. You're welcome to do what you like with the work, as long as you don't claim it as yours.

Seed's specialties lie in poetry, but he's very interested in short works of fiction or in small fables, feel free to ask for whatever, and we'll see what can be managed!

To-Do List
+ Seed's considering writing something about the Oak to try and assuage La's fears, but isn't sure what.

Completed Requests
The Tale of the Two Sorcerers for La [Story]
The Songbird in the Tree for Daryl [Story]
A Dream of Her For Cian [Poem]

I was told a story of La's own -- an unusual way to begin a request; it was a tale of an imposter, some deer wearing the Pelt of ones of the gods. While perhaps she expected a more chilling tale, my mind turned instantly to those casters of strange spells and warpers of the world, good and bad, big and little, I had known. And from them, and from her tale, arose this little fable.

The Tale of the Two Sorcerers

The forest is a place of magic; everyone knows this, from the time they are small. Magic to change shapes, magic to hide your face, and smaller, subtler magics: the enchantment of a summer evening, the fireflies bobbing across your line of sight; the chill of the snow falling on your skin, and melting there from the warmth of your body. The smile of a friend you thought long lost, too, is a magic made by this place.
“The forest is a place of magic,” however, does not mean any of those things. It means that there is magic, too, to the making of it. The magic of the gods, that tell each thing in this world its place, its nature, its law. That is the magic of The Forest, written in a language as sublime as our own pictograms, and far more tensely guarded. For to share the practice of this magic, outside of perhaps the smallest spells of protection, now lost to our kind, is forbidden by the gods. Those who investigate it risk madness, and must do so in secret.

The forest is a place of magic, and once upon a time, there were two sorcerers who were practiced in this secret magic, a Laughing Sorcerer, and a Proud Sorcerer. The Laughing Sorcerer knew many tricks, both of the Deep Magic, and of lesser magics, many of which he’d discovered himself: those the Twin Gods said he might share, he delighted in showing to all the young fawns, until even the clumsiest could perform them. The Proud Sorcerer’s knowledge was a closely-guarded secret, and it was hard to say what he knew or did not know: hidden away for hours, he studied. He saw that the magic of the forest was fit to make him a very fine and powerful stag.

One day, when the Proud Sorcerer was studying the deepest, darkest magic he could muster, he heard a lot of noise outside his cave. When he poked his head outside, he saw the Laughing Sorcerer practicing his trick: he sank into the ground and became very small, smaller even than a fawn, and as he looked about from the soil, he laughed.

“What are you doing, playing silly games?” Asked the Proud Sorcerer. “There’s no greatness to this work! Quit bothering people who have real magic to perform!”
“Real magic?” Asked the Laughing Sorcerer, very curious. He straightened himself out and, like a plant growing, grew to his proper size once more. “What makes your magic more real than mine?”

“Why, it is magic that exalts me alone amongst all deer; it is magic that the selfish gods do not want anyone having, and are the tightest secrets. My magic is important and beautiful, and not some… Toy,” He said, for he scorned the Laughing Sorcerer.
“That may be so,” said the Laughing Sorcerer. “But I don’t think that makes it more real. In truth, I know a magic more real than any other, the greatest magic, practiced by the Gods when they made this world.”
At this, the Proud Sorcerer paused. He’d never heard anyone say that they knew the greatest magic; certainly, he’d never heard anyone praise any magic as beyond his own. But, because he was so proud, he could not believe such a thing existed.

So he puffed out his chest and said to the Laughing Sorcerer , “You must be a fool, or a liar, because there is no sorcery greater than mine, and no magic of the gods I do not know. And I will prove it to you! On pain of surrendering our arts, we shall have a contest.”
The Laughing thought about it, because, after all, he knew that the Proud Sorcerer ’s magic was forbidden, and it would please the Gods if he stopped. And because he thought perhaps the Proud Sorcerer would understand it this way, he nodded.
“Very well. We shall show our finest magic to the world, and whoever can impress the most people and draw the largest crowd shall be declared to have the finest magic in all the Forest.”
“And the loser shall practice no more sorcery, as long as he shall live,” insisted the Proud Sorcerer. For, to his heart, it could only be winning if someone lost.

They agreed to rejoin when the sun was high on the longest day of the year, where the deer would be gathering freely to behold. They came to De Drinkplaats, home of many wild miracles, and bowed to each other, naked as fawns. The Proud Sorcerer had a special spell prepared that he had no intention of informing his opponent about, for fear that he’d be copied. He left the meeting-place with confidence burning in his heart, and when he’d left that circle, he stood for a moment in the sun to admire his work.
For he had stolen the pelt of one of the Gods. It glittered like the sunlight, the glow of a pictogram or the crisp blanket of soft yellow light in a winter afternoon spread over him. It was a pelt worn by the Gods, because all the gold in the world was collected in it, and all the softness and sweetness of love. And many who saw him would think: “Oh, it is one of the gods, come to visit us at last!” But many more were wise, and knew him for the imposter he was, and those were frightened of his boldness or coveted his power.
And so he strode through the forest like this, and many trembled in fear of his glory, or bowed before him as they would a god. 3 followed him, hoping to see a miracle. He toured all the grand places of the forest, and all who saw him knew and respected his power. And in his heart, the Proud Sorcerer was happy, for what greater magic could there be, to leave the crowd so impressed?

But then he heard the laughter once more. And louder. And, from some nondescript hill, he thought he heard music. So he came to it with his small entourage, and roared and stamped his hooves and made a racket: for who could be making such a noise, and not admiring his beautiful pelt? He was as grand as a God, so who would be away?

It was a group of perhaps 6 deer, fawns and grown stags and does alike. Some of them hung in the air above the hill, dancing and giggling together – and those who had not managed the flight stood below them, pretending they had a whole tower of deer for a hat. Never had you seen so merry a bunch, or fawns so close to their elders as this: the music and the conversation flowed like the crying idol’s tears, and it was as if a God was among them, they were so merry.
And from the hilltop came flying the Laughing Sorcerer, bounding up as if running on clouds. He cast the spell to seal his place in their midst, high above them all. “See?” He called over his shoulder. “It is just like that.”
He was shortly followed by a little fawn, whose face was wet as if it had been weeping. He landed a little aways – his aim was off, and badly, but he smiled and crowed in triumph.
“Oh, you did it!” said the Laughing Sorcerer. “Oh, I did it!” said the fawn.

“What is all this?!” shouted the Proud Sorcerer, “What do you think you’re doing, practicing this paltry spell? Even the magic you performed before my cave was grander; do you mock me, sir?”

The Laughing Sorcerer flipped up-side-down in the air and looked at the Proud Sorcerer, and he
“Ah, but sir: I have taken the contest most seriously, and have applied all my skills to working great magic. After all, have I not gathered more deer than you?”
“But you said you knew the magic the Gods knew to create the world: how can this little trick make you more like a god than I?”
The Laughing Sorcerer shook his head.

“Oh, but I do: and I have shown it to you. The magic the gods used to make the world, surely, was a love for it, and a love to share something wonderful. To share joy and laughter… is to perform the magic of this world. From nothing, I have made friends. From little fawns, I have made s. A magic that pleases only yourself will never make you like one of the gods.”
And the Proud Sorcerer considered this, and felt ashamed: all he had ever done with his knowledge was try and make himself look good. But, in fact, he had never made anything. Certainly, no one had ever admired his stolen pelt as much as the little fawn who’d just learn to sit on the air admired that Sorcerer of Laughter.
He knew he had been beaten. He wiped away his fine pelt, for he felt he had lost all right to wear it (though, in truth, he’d never had such a right to begin with). He turned and began to leave, feeling very foolish indeed, and sure that, having been such a vain fool, none would ever think him grand.
“Wait, mister!” said the friends and disciples of the Laughing Sorcerer. “Would you like to join us?”
And you know what? He did.

From that day forward, he practiced no more false arts, but instead devoted himself with all his fervor and passion to learning the magic the Laughing Sorcerer had shown him, which is neither secret nor forbidden, but may well be the greatest of all the Gods’ magics.

When Daryl asked me to write him a love story, I admit, at the time, I was stumped. And although I thought long and hard, and eventually chose to write, it still took me a long time to put it all in words. For this, I apologize, but this story is...very special to me. And so I hope he enjoys my sharing it with him, at last.

The Songbird in the Tree

Once upon a time, on a hill in a valley in the mountains, there grew a single spruce tree. The tree had known suffering in its time – here, the knot where a storm had knocked a branch off, up its trunk a little hollow, full of sap, where insects had rotted it for a while – but in those days, then, it was happy. It had sunshine and rain, it had the cool mountain breeze, it had the distant songs of birds. There were no other trees in the valley, but it was not alone. The tree had a friend.

The tree’s friend was a beautiful songbird, a creature of wind and light. The songbird could hum and sing, chirp and trill with the greatest beauty, demonstrating against the backdrop of the calls of other birds the difference between sound and music. It had landed once on the tree’s branches, and the tree had been awed by the beauty of the songbird’s song – not just the melodic power, like the falling of snow, but the soft sentiment of the songs, singing the beauty of the world.

“Please return here tomorrow,” asked the tree, “And I will tell you about when the valley was new, and the sound like rain made by the fall of spruce needles.”

And this intrigued the bird, and so she returned the next day. And the bird sang, and the tree spoke about the glaciers that had carved out the valley once, leaving it jagged and cold for a time. She lingered in his branches for hours that day, and the next day, and the day after that, and for a hundred beautiful sunny days, and a hundred beautiful rainy days.

For each day, as she was about to fly away again, the tree told her, “Please return here tomorrow, and I will tell you of new things, and the sound like rain made by the fall of spruce needles.” And each day, she came.

And one day, the tree realized something about the songbird. Who always returned when he asked. Who delighted in the old stories he’d tell and the protection from the weather offered by his needles. Here, he had a knot where the storm had knocked his branch off, and here, a little hollow in his trunk filled with sap, where insects had rotted it for a while – and the little bird, who knew nothing of such things, looked with sympathy at the marks and lamented the suffering of the past with him. Who he loved, without wishing to love her. For surely, no bird could ever love something that was not, itself, a bird. He could not take to wing with her, or brood with her over a nest of eggs; surely this was an obstacle to any love between them, and he had no wish to frighten her with love she could not return.

Still, he spoke to her from time to time of love, and asked of her heart in subtle ways. But the bird was an innocent creature, which had never known true suffering, and had thus never known true love (for love is in its measure deep sorrow and deep joy); she was untouched by the earth and all its concerns. And so, the spruce felt, she certainly did not love him. For fear of his heartwood, he hid this from her.

Autumn came, however, and the songbird flew away, southward, for the winter. The spruce tree, who had never before marked the flight of birds, waited. At first, it was patient. But as the days went on, it grew anxious, and at last, it fell into despair. It began to weep. And it wept for 100 days and 100 nights, until the valley around it had filled with its tears. It now stood alone at the heart of a shimmering lake, and still, the spruce tree wept.

One day, an eagle came and landed on the spruce tree’s branches, for it had seen the lake and wondered at the single tree at its heart. “What ho, fine tree! Why are you weeping?”
“I weep, for my dear friend the songbird has left my branches and will never return again.”
“Do you weep because you miss the music of the songbird, which was so beautiful?” Asked the eagle.
“No, although with all my heart, I miss the music of my friend the songbird. I weep for, despite all the things I spoke to the songbird about, she will never know what was in my heart, and she will fly into the world never knowing someone loved her true."
The eagle was moved by the spruce’s story, and when it took to the air, it carried the story in its breast.

The eagle flew very, very far to the South, where the songbird had gotten lost on her way back North. “I have heard the saddest story!” cried the eagle in its shrill voice.
“Oh, what story is this,” asked the songbird, who loved stories. “Is it very sad?”
“I happened upon a lake in a valley high up on the mountain, where a single spruce tree grows. I wondered at the spruce tree at the heart of the lake, and when I drew near, I found it weeping. I asked it, ‘why do you weep,’ and it said, ‘I weep because of all the things I spoke to my friend about, she will never know what was in my heart.’ And for all that weeping, it has formed a great lake.”
“What a sad story,” the songbird agreed. “Perhaps I might see it on my way home, and tell my friend about it if I can return, for he knows great sorrow. Where is this lake?”
But the eagle had forgotten where it was, and so the songbird could not find her way home, or the lake the eagle had spoken of.

One day, a butterfly came and landed on the spruce tree’s branches, for it had seen the waterfall where the spruce’s lake spilled out of the valley, and had wondered at the single tree at its heart. “What ho, fine tree!” said the butterfly, “Why are you weeping?”
“I weep, for my dear friend the songbird has left my branches and will never return again,” the spruce answered through its tears.
“Do you weep because you miss the sympathy of the songbird, which was so kind?” Asked the butterfly.
“No, although with all my heart, I miss the kindness of my friend the songbird. I weep for, despite all the things I spoke to the songbird about, she will never know what was in my heart, and she will fly into the world never knowing someone loved her true."
And the butterfly was moved by the spruce’s sorrows, and when it took to the air, it painted those sorrows on its beautiful wings.

The butterfly flew very far to the South, where the songbird was still lost on her way back North. “I have painted the loveliest sorrow on my wings!” cried the butterfly in its quiet voice.
“Oh, what sorrow is this,” asked the songbird, who loved paintings, “Is it very lovely?”
“I happened upon a waterfall in a valley high up on the mountain, fed from a lake where a single spruce tree grows. I wondered at the spruce tree at the heart of the lake, and when I drew near, I found it weeping. I asked it, ‘why do you weep,’ and it said, ‘I weep because my friend will fly into the world never knowing someone loved her true. .’ And for all that weeping, it has formed a splendid waterfall.” And he showed her this all on his wings.
“What a lovely painting,” the songbird agreed. “Perhaps I might see it on my way home, and tell my friend about it if I can return, for he is wise in matters of love. Where is this waterfall?”
But the butterfly had forgotten where it was, and so the songbird could not find her way home, or the lake.

And one day, an owl came and landed on the spruce tree’s branches, for it was wise, and had known the lake was made of salt and sap, regret and loss that no innocent rainfall could make, and had hoped to soothe the single tree at its heart. “I am sorry, fine tree,” said the owl. “But why do you weep so?”
“I weep, for my dear friend the songbird has left my branches and will never return again,” the spruce answered as its roots trailed mournfully in the water.
“Do you weep because you miss the songbird, whom you loved?” Asked the owl.
“No, although with all my heart, I miss my songbird, whom I loved. I weep for, despite all the things I spoke to the songbird about, she will never know what was in my heart, and she will fly into the world never knowing someone loved her true."
And the owl was moved by the love of the spruce, and when it took to the air, it carried the love of the spruce with it, and whispered, “Who, who, who was this songbird the spruce loved so? How might I find her?”

And it flew far to the south, where the songbird was still lost on her way back North. “I have found the deepest love in all the world.”
“Oh, what love is this?” Asked the Songbird, whose heart ached and she did not know why. “Is it very deep?”
“I happened upon a lake of tears in a valley high up on the mountain, where a lonely spruce tree grows. I pitied the spruce tree at the heart of the lake. I asked it, ‘Why do you weep,’ and it said it wept because its dear friend the songbird had not returned. I asked it, ‘Do you weep because you miss the songbird, whom you loved?’ and it replied, ‘No, although with all my heart, I miss my songbird, whom I loved. I weep for, despite all the things I spoke to the songbird about, she will never know what was in my heart, and she will fly into the world never knowing someone loved her true.’ And now I search for this songbird, for whom the sorrow to create a lake was borne.”

“What a deep love,” the songbird wept. And the songbird knew in that moment that the spruce tree the owl spoke of was her spruce tree, and the sorrow to weep a lake of tears, for that loss, was also her sorrow. For she missed the stories of the spruce tree, and the sound of the falling of spruce needles like rain, and she missed the spruce tree, whom she loved.
“Oh, where might I find this spruce tree, so that I can at last go home?”
And the owl remembered, for he’d carried thoughts of their love in his heart, so he told her.

And the bird took to wing towards it, and came at last to the river that flowed from the waterfall that sprang from the lake that the tree had wept for 100 days and 100 nights, for love of her.
“Oh, dear tree! Dear, dear, spruce tree!” cried the songbird. “I have returned! I am sorry I was lost to you!” And the spruce tree straightened in awe at this miracle.
“But how have you returned, my friend?” Asked the Spruce Tree, although it had prayed for all those days and nights.

“I returned because you told the eagle how you’d never told me what was in your heart, and I returned because you told the butterfly how you wish I’d known. I returned because, although you could not say it to me, you knew you’d done wrong, and spoken truly to the owl. I returned because I could not fly off into the world, never knowing that someone loved me truly.”
And the branches of the spruce tree embraced her, and he might never wish for anything more in all his days. But then, she said,

“I returned because, of all the things I’d spoken to you of, I’d never told you what was really in my heart, and you wept a lake, never knowing I loved you truly.”

In the years to come, the valley bloomed with their reunited love. And though the songbird might take her winters elsewhere, as songbirds do, the two were never truly apart again, for they both lived in this world, knowing they had said all they needed to say.

A young piebald fawn came to me the other day, not quite knowing what it was I did -- only knowing that it might be a suitable gift for the young doe he loved, that I might be able to make for him words of tenderness held in his heart. I was more than happy to -- there's nothing, nothing in this world, sweeter to behold than the blush of first love. Except, perhaps, love that's been old and weathered, and endured all time. But perhaps, one day, Cian will come to me and ask me to write something for that, as well... I'd be happy to oblige

A Dream of Her

You merge the lake and the sky
in the rippling waves of your feathers.
I'm enlivened by your sleepy eye,
by your voice like a breeze through gentle weathers.

You're a spring of life in bloom
amidst a world so like a desert,
Pulling me to light from dust and gloom;
Without you, I fall back to the dirt.

And yet, you seem so frail and slight
A whisper, a cry, a wingless lark.
I long to protect you in the night
and keep away nightmares in the dark.

I'd stay in slumber, see visions in streams
to keep beside you, if only in dreams.

((Please forgive the mess: this is very much a WIP))
Mis's picture

Ah this is a terribly cute

Ah this is a terribly cute idea! Pretty glad to be inspiring lil' shops too! Maybe I'll come up with a char of mine to make use of these services later..
Poppyflower's picture

Tracking ♥

Tracking ♥
Profile picture by ahimsa ♥

Pixel Wis by squeegie~

Tracking this!

Tracking this!
Seed's picture

Glad to see some interest in

Glad to see some interest in this!

@ Mis: Little shops are the best. I demand to see more deer artisans.

Edit: Bumping this some more.
0baf0's picture

Interesting idea! Tracking

Interesting idea! Tracking this. Smiling
Icon - ahimsa.Signature - Qanat. ♥
HolyMaria's picture

oo I love this :3 tracking

oo I love this :3
tracking this amazing idea
Seed's picture

Thank you for the

Thank you for the interest!

Edit: Bumping!
AlisonRobin's picture

I love this idea. I've got an

I love this idea. I've got an idea for a request if you wanna hear it, do you wanna handle that through roleplay? Would be fun. Smiling
Seed's picture

The idea's to handling these

The idea's to handling these through Roleplay, yeah. While you're making the request of me, your character's making it of Seed.

A request! I'm so excited!
AlisonRobin's picture

La stepped relatively

La stepped relatively quietly, looking around as if she were doing something scandalous by trying to find the poet. In reality she only felt slight jitters up and down her spine when she thought about what she meant to ask him about.

She trotted and hopped tree to tree with eyes peeled and ears erect and twitching at every sound.
Seed's picture

Seed was lying in a somewhat

Seed was lying in a somewhat undignified manner, legs sprawled out and half in the water, down by the bridge. He was looking skyward, his expression unreadable.

Then, the sound of La's hoofbeats reached him, and he fell back to reality. He bolted to a more upright sitting position, tucking his legs under him and looking at her, almost embarrassed.
"Oh-Oh, good afternoon." He looked at her curiously. "Are you looking for something?"
AlisonRobin's picture

She perked up at the sight of

She perked up at the sight of him and dipped into a quick and enthusiastic bow that she rose from so quickly that her head spun and her eyesight briefly darkened.

"I'm glad I found you!" La said, and her ears relaxed during her smile. "I was looking for quite some time--I heard you were an accomplished poet looking for material, and I think I have something..."

She hesitated to organize her thoughts and take a breath. "I'm sure you know The Old Oak. It's the only place in this Forest I don't trust. Because I've seen things and I've heard things... scary things. I heard for years, stories of deer vanishing there, stories of deer that were only half visible so that you could see through them. I was unnerved and for years and just avoided it, and then a few weeks ago I saw something rather terrifying. Something that rattled my bones."

The doe fell silent and her eyes unfocused as her mind wandered to some distant thing. After a moment she looked back to Seed and seemed more in the present, but nervous about continuing her tale.
Seed's picture

Seed tilted his head,

Seed tilted his head, listening to her story... The Old Oak was...Well, not a friend of his exactly, but still: it was difficult to have lived in the forest this long without placing some trust in the great tree.

"What, ghosts? I don't believe she has anything to do with that...I've seen too many just wandering about to think anything about that. But please, continue."
Seed's picture

Oops I double-posted.

Oops I double-posted.
AlisonRobin's picture

"I saw a false god," she said

"I saw a false god," she said in a near-whisper leaning in close to him. "No true deity, but it wore the pelt of one and held the shape. I saw from afar, I thought it might be one of the twin gods but when I looked up close and looked at its name I became certain: It was no god. N-nor was it a Nameless wanderer who had tripped on the wrong side of some accidental magic! This was something willfully impersonating a god."

With her final words, La tapped one of her forelegs on the ground for emphasis of how she viewed the severity of the crime.

Her eyes were hard and serious, holding contact with Seed's. "There was another deer following it, I didn't know them and I tried to tell them to get away but they didn't. So I followed and tried my best to hurl as much magic as I could at the imposter, but it was immune and I was ineffectual. And do you know where it went? The Old Oak. It sat underneath and... and I am ashamed to admit this, but I did run away from fear."

She inhaled and exhaled slowly to calm her thundering heart until she felt better, and she gave a small smile of relief at having shared her tale, the weight of her fears partially lifted. There was a touch of catharsis to her tone. "I thought that perhaps what I saw might give you some form of inspiration."
Seed's picture

Seed listened, not dubiously,

Seed listened, not dubiously, but seriously: not about the Oak, since he knew better than most that it could no more decide who rested there than the rocks, or the pond, but...
That sort of sorcery had been long forbidden, and it weighed on him.His eyes narrowed and his mind darted among old mythologies.

"Hmm...Perhaps...Tell me a little more. Which pelt was it? They have a few, after all... And by 'the shape,' you mean the size one of the Twin Gods might take? Did you know if it stayed there, or if there it vanished?"

His voice had a pressing, but uncertain tone: If she couldn't tell him, he could make something up to fill the gap... He was already going down garden paths of ideas, heading forward under an assumption of blood red or pale gold, or swirling jester's colors, or the ebony of a falling night -- and then back again, unusure whether to give way to his fancy, or lunge after truth.
AlisonRobin's picture

"Pale gold and sized like a

"Pale gold and sized like a common deer, but I cannot imagine that it was a deer under that pelt," La said. "For what deer would do such a thing as to impersonate a god? In my heart I fear that it was some beast or monster trying to fool good deer in order to lead them astray. Whether to lie to and mislead them or to do something more heinous I do not know. I thank the gods--the true gods--that I have not seen that impersonator since then."

La's eyes were once again looking somewhere far away. "It was also wearing a beluga mask. Who knows what monstrous features on its face it was hiding? It makes my imagination race."

The young bright blue bull

The young bright blue bull pranced around the forest, sniffing the air for the scent of the flowering stag. Someone had told him that a stag that was like a plant told stories and poems, and this excited the little one.

His black and shiny hooves crushed the emerald grass beneath him as he picked up on the scent of Seed. He trotted through a clearing and caught sight of the stag. He jumped in excited and galloped excitedly to Seed.

"Oh, Sir!" he cried out cheerily and skidded to a halt before him.
Seed's picture

@ AlisonRobin: "...I think it

@ AlisonRobin:
"...I think it may well have been a deer: there have been times when deer, for good or ill, have employed magic like the gods..."

Seed tilted his head and pondered it for a moment, thinking to the sorcerery, that which was pure and that which was forbidden, he'd seen... And, on another note, the monsters. A wry smile crossed his lips, and he shook his head.

"But then, you may be right. After all... Monsters can be anything, even deer. Ah, but pay that no mind: don't trouble yourself unduly..."

The fact of the matter was, he was a little concerned at how nervine the doe seemed, and in his heart, he wanted to sooth away that jitterniness and concern he saw in her eyes. In a comforting tone, he said,

"I believe I have an idea of a story: a story about sorcerers, good and fell, and their magic that runs far beyond what you and I might practice, into the very fabric of our world..."

He paused, considering whether or not to say, directly, that he had once had a friend who Seed considered to be a 'good (if a little mad) sorcerer,' but decided to let it speak to itself.

"...And...One other, if you'd allow me. I'd like to tell you a tale sometime for your comfort, and to assure of my friend The Oak's good spirit. Or a poem -- I'm not sure which... But only if you'd allow it of me."

Seed lowered his head as he asked, a faint smile on his face.


@ NikaGika:

Seed had been listening in to some local tree gossip -- which was pretty much incessant and vague -- and so turned his head and looked surprised: such energy barreling at him... Still, it was a fine break from hearing about who was fighting whom, which was dull stuff, that the green stag let loose a warm, honeyed laugh.

"Ah, good day to you, young sir!"

He liked fawns, and roughly fawn-like things: the smile on his face was cheery and genial.

He smiled at the flowering

He smiled at the flowering stag as he tried to catch his breath. "I...heard...you...tell stories...and poems...Sir..." he panted as he flopped to the ground, "And I was...wondering...if...you could...tell me...a story...?" Daryl loved stories; he didn't know why being that he had only been in this forest for a few days. This love for stories and songs came from his life before the forest as a singer and storyteller himself.
AlisonRobin's picture

"I would allow any story that

"I would allow any story that you would tell," La said, and returned his smile. "Your reputation precedes you as a very wise person and I would ever be honored to bear witness to your art."
Seed's picture

Seed smiled more broadly.

Seed smiled more broadly. Being asked to tell a story was like being asked to explain why love mattered, or why the world was beautiful: it appealed to a whole and instinctive part of his soul.

"I'd be happy to tell you a story...But....About what?"

He asked, trying to work out what might interest the stranger.


"Very well... If you return some time later, I should have one, at least, done."

Seed bowed his head, nodding with some small confidence.

"Umm...A love story?" he

"Umm...A love story?" he asked. It seemed strange for a child to ask for a love story when most would ask for one about adventure or a comedic one. But this little bull wanted a love story.
Seed's picture

((Sorry for the delay! I'm

((Sorry for the delay! I'm working on the requests now, actually))

"A love story?" Seed blinked, but thought about this. A love story...He'd never written the like of it. But, at last, he nodded. "I think I can work something up for you."

Seed's picture

@ AlisonRobin: It had been

@ AlisonRobin:

It had been some time since Seed had been asked by La to tell a tale about the strange imposter she had seen, but at last, he'd found the words to speak of it. Now, it was a matter of hoping it was enough. He'd taken a sheet of birch-bark and written upon it, and now, he walked with it in his mouth in search of her.

"Miss? It's done." He called, opening his mouth wide to speak over it.
AlisonRobin's picture

La heard the muffled cry, and

La heard the muffled cry, and though she hadn't been summoned by name she knew that she was the one being called simply by the fact that it was Seed's voice. She hopped to her hooves and ran to the sound until she saw him and approached with a prancing gait, dipping into a grateful bow before him.

"I'm so excited!" she said.
wingeddeer's picture

Ugh yes tracking for later!

Ugh yes tracking for later! <3

Seed's picture

"I hope you like it... I'm

"I hope you like it... I'm not sure it's what you were asking for, but it's what came to mind when I heard your story."

He bowed and presented the story to her, unfurling the bark and setting it before her. (The text of the tale, which ran really long, is under 'Completed Requests.)
AlisonRobin's picture

La acceped it and read it

La acceped it and read it with eyes that were hungry for knowledge. He mouth twitched between smiling and frowning as the tone of the story changed, but by the end she was grinning. "Thank you for this. I'll treasure it always."

(It was awesome. Felt just like a fairy tale!)
Seed's picture

Status update on these: I am

Status update on these: I am still planning on doing them, I just haven't had time lately. Terribly sorry for the delays... I HEREBY VOW TO HAVE AT LEAST ONE DONE BY NEXT FRIDAY!

Oh, and let me add a reply while I'm thinking of it, and have no excuse:
He smiled at the end as well, the traces of the story's feeling lingering in the lines of his face, the satisfaction of a tale well told lingering greatest, and giving him a warm cast. He bowed his head like a swan, at one humble and proud.

"I'm glad you think so. It was...An interesting tale to write."
Seed's picture

@ NikaGika: It had been a

@ NikaGika:

It had been a long time since he'd been given the request, he knew. But it'd been a personal one, and perhaps because of that, he'd let the time escape him gravely. He knew full well the young bull he had met before might now be grown, but the story still needed to be delivered, and so he sought the fellow out.

"Daryl? Sir Daryl?"

((With this, all the stories that were actually requested of Seed have been completed, so this is open for more takings! I promise swifter returns in the future!))
Pelicann's picture

A large piebald fawn made his

A large piebald fawn made his way through the trees, gazing up at the canopy of leaves. He passed through a few sunspots that filled him with warmth. He was hoping this deer he had heard about could do the same for his friend.

Cian hadn't exactly seen the stag before, only heard of him. Judging on description, he decided to approach a nearby deer that seemed to fit. "Hey, sir...are you Seed?"
Seed's picture

Seed turned his head towards

Seed turned his head towards the fawn that was asking, for some reason, for him. The sweep of his head, and thus, the turning of his branch-antlers, flush and brightly-colored with the awakening summer, revealed the green stag's golden name, hanging between them like a great fruit.

"Why, yes. Yes, I am. What might I do for you?" With a smile on his face, Seed answered the question in a calm, warm tone like weather-smoothed wood.
Pelicann's picture

The boy sheepishly dug his

The boy sheepishly dug his left hoof into the dirt, pulling up a pile as he glanced at the stag. He took a minute to admire the way flowers hung from his antlers, and that nature feel to him. It reminded him of tranquility. "I'm Cian...I heard you make words for people?" Cian didn't quite understand what exactly Seed did. He had heard that it was nice, however, and hoped that it might help him woo a certain young doe.
Seed's picture

Seed tilted his head and

Seed tilted his head and smiled, just a little, at the innocence of the fawn's request. It was true from a certain, slantwise way -- and in that way, poetry was born, so he couldn't ignore it.

"Not quite: the words all already exist, see? What I do is make something special with them. Now...What can I do for you?"

He spoke in a cheerful, avuncular tone that was his way when dealing with fawns: gentle and mature-sounding, for all his ability to skip and play. Explaining what he saw was the real sentiment of his craft would take far longer, and he suspected the little fawn wouldn't quite get it, or, failing that, wouldn't have time or care for it. But that was the short of it: a sort of recycling of things, making the mundane words people spoke into something new...Though Seed had to admit: he was embarrassed to think of it so kindly as all that.
Pelicann's picture

Cian tilted his head as he

Cian tilted his head as he listened to the stag's words. Made them special...he still didn't understand, but he figured he would get it in some time. The piebald thought of what he had in mind, and hoped Seed could make something of it. "I have a friend, see...a girl, who I really like." Cian usually did a good job not to be too embarrassed. He was quite the fearless boy, but Pali always managed to make him feel lightheaded and bashful. "I wanna give her somethin'...but I dunno how to make anything pretty she'd like. I wanna make her smile."
Seed's picture

Seed's smile pushed up into

Seed's smile pushed up into his eyes, spreading through his face until the little gaps between his mask around his eyelids all but vanished. There was nothing that made him happier to see than young love -- perhaps it reminded it of his own first love, back when it was only sweet; now, it was a little sad as well, and so difficult to treat purely. But ah, to be asked for a gesture for a young lover...

"I see, I see... This is exactly my specialty; I can make you something for her, without a doubt. A small poem, perhaps... Ah, but..." Here he paused and composed himself, taking a few deep breaths before he got carried away, "Let me ask: would you like it to be about something other than her, or your feelings for her? You know her best, and so could best choose the topic to make her happy."
Pelicann's picture

Cain thought for a moment,

Cain thought for a moment, furrowing his brow. What would she like? His little friend did not speak much, or very well at all, but he did remember their first kiss. His face lit up as he got an idea. "She likes birds and stars and the moon!"
Seed's picture

Seed listened and nodded

Seed listened and nodded thoughtful; all were comfortable subjects to him, and easy to write about... And certainly, they'd be less embarrassing to a young fawn than a big soppy love poem, tempting as it was to compose one.

"And is that what you'd like me to write about, for you to give to her? Because what's really important...Is that you choose this gift with your own heart. Then, surely, the result will make her happy."

Don't worry about it! I

Don't worry about it! Laughing out loud I understand how life gets busy sometimes! Laughing out loud

I actually just made Daryl to an adult, rather than grow up into one, and his story is much different. If it's alright, we can start over, and I can use adult Daryl? Laughing out loud
Seed's picture

Sure! Uh, how over are we

Sure! Uh, how over are we starting, exactly?

I was going to have Daryl

I was going to have Daryl re-meet him! Laughing out loud
Seed's picture

Alrighty, start away.

Alrighty, start away.

The giant blue bull lumbered

The giant blue bull lumbered his way around the forest. He always seemed to feel lazy here, the forest's calm and peaceful atmosphere making him so. He found the forest beautiful and could feel tge electrical charge of magic in the air; it made the lumberjack's hair stand up sometimes.

Heading towards a flower patch, he noticed some purple flowers growing from a branch, and Daryl being the one who loved nature, trotted up to them. He couldn't help but stuff his nose in one, and he did not realize that he was smelling one of Seed's blossoms.
Seed's picture

Seed had been putting the

Seed had been putting the finishing touches on something, scratching it carefully out into the dirt with a single forehoof -- his right, and so the pictoglyphs had a certain scrawled category. On his other, dominant hoof, was the pen-bracelet Verve had given him, waiting for when the first draft was done. He'd been sitting very still, other than the bending of his foreleg, among the purple flowers. A charming notion, that the butterflies around him were looking over his work. He closed his eyes serenely as he marked the end of the final sentence.

...And then something happened.

The green stag's golden eyes jolted open at the largely vestigial sensation, an awareness that was like touching through clothing, of someone with his nose in one of Seed's flowers. Seed resisted the urge to turn his head...At least, without warning. He cleared his throat first, and then brought his head forward, trying to take his antlers out of the blue bull's face before he turned, only whipping the smallest twigs against his assailant's nose. He turned his head very slightly, so he could see who was sniffing him from the corner of his eyes.

"Ah...Does it smell nice?"

He asked, trying to keep a calm voice. He still sounded a little nervous, a thin almost not-chuckle from the strangeness of the scenario here.
Pelicann's picture

Cian nodded, seeming very

Cian nodded, seeming very determined. "I want her to know that she is family to me, and I will always help her." The boy repressed a blush, but it got through anyway, turning his cheeks a rosy hue. He flashed a sheepish smirk and sat down across from Seed.

The bull jumped, and

The bull jumped, and considering he was 800 pounds he made the ground tremble beneath him. His face turned crimson in embarrassment.
"I'm so sorry," he said, finally seeing the rest of the stag. The lumberjack's brow perked; the stag seemed to be growing plants on his body and had wooden limbs. Looking to the flowers, he noticed that they weren't picked, but were attached.

A sort of horror came across Daryl's rugged face that he just smelled this stag's flower, and that flowers were sexual organs on plants...And the blue bull became lost in his horrified realization, staring blankly at the forest behind Seed.

Seed's picture

@Pelicann: Seed looked up


Seed looked up and thought about this, a wistful tilt to his head like a too-heavy flower, and a far-away smile. Ah, he knew that well. It was good the fawn was sitting, because he'd have asked it to sit -- but only after taking a moment for his own reminiscence.

"...I see. Well, then...Tell me about her. Whatever strikes you about her most. Her smell, her smile, one time that struck you to your core -- The things about her that are ringing bells in your heart, even if no one else would understand them."

This was Seed's approach to love poems, to start with something that lingered in his heart; it was part of what gave them depth, and life. His voice was growing more energetic with the task laid out before her. While he was asking that, his amber eyes sweeping almost letter-like patterns across the fawn, carefully analyzing whatever he could of the fellow's own patterns and demeanor: he contemplated the phrase "carried in splotched breast," and put it back down because it didn't sound right.

@NikaGika: ((Aw, poor fella! Still, Seed, how does it feel to have broken your first opponent?))

Seed waited for a moment, to see if the bull would recover from the shock. A longer moment. A third. Seed tilted his head and scratched the dirt idly beside his work. This was taking a while, and at last the arboreal stag determined that, whatever was going on in the blank, horrified eyes of the younger male, it was not going to be over anytime soon.

"Don't worry, don't worry. It happens to the best of us. Better you than the bees, I'll add."

He broke the silence with his warm cherrywood voice, an amused chuckle, just below breaking out, running through it like a stream. Parts of summer were totally unbearable, with a cloud of bees around his head, stinging him if they thought he was too close to their precious flowers. Which he was, by a matter of default. Always. But the odd sniffing didn't mean much -- even the idea of a sexual organ meant something rather different from a tree's perspective (and, having spent many a year as a sexless deer, Seed wasn't sure how to think about having flowers again, to be honest). At most, some little part of Seed's instinct was satisfied by the appeal of his blossoms.

"Pay it no mind."
Pelicann's picture

Cian felt himself drawn in by

Cian felt himself drawn in by the stag's smoothe voice. His words were like vines wrapped around something, sprouting vibrant yet simple flowers from its stem. The boy took a moment to contemplate what he had just been asked. There were so many things about his companion that the piebald loved. Her existence was his own. Although these emotions didn't form into words in the fawn's mind, they were known in his heart. Despite his young age, the little stag felt passion towards the doe that couldn't be expressed by him alone.

"Well...Her voice is like an always-whisper." Cian's features were constricted, his mind digging through its vocabulary to grab onto something useful. Language wasn't something that came easily, he discovered, especially when it came to describing the one thing in this world that caught the boy breathless. "She's blue like water...she is like water because without water, everything would die. I would die. She's a bird, with feathers but without wings. She can't fly away from bad things, so I have to keep the bad things away."

The monochrome boy felt a small heat wave rush over him at the thought of the little bird's eyes. "Pali's eyes are like sleep. She's soft and makes my eyes heavy. Around her, I could fall into a dream. Sometimes I think I might have dreamt her up."
Seed's picture

Seed considered this all

Seed considered this all carefully, putting aside sentimentality for a moment -- though he heard the sentimentality clear as day, and could appreciate it like a fine wine -- just to catch the sound of his words, the strikes of his imagery; it was good, and the fawn had phrased it thoughtfully. Seed wondered, briefly, if the fawn'd be interested in writing his own poems. Well, perhaps he'd have time for a lesson after he'd finished the task.

Seed nodded at the end, and when he opened his eyes they had an unusual gravity of expression, a sternness that made the stag's long features look harder than they normally seemed, almost heroic.
"I understand...Yes, I think I can make something of such sentiment. Do you have any specific time you'd need it for?"