Silly Plots

[Deathkeeper]

Island of Birds

Spako takes a moment to think about that.
"I am starting to think going as myself would have gone badly." he says.
Yes, normally Spako is a big pile of shiny. It would have gone horribly.
"What do you mean waggle...my eyes?" he asks, trying to do some sort of fancy blinking, which he isn't even sure birds can do. It sets his crests wiggling, but he doesn't know that.

[ThirdEmperor]

[Island of Birds]

"There. Perfectly, but only try to do one at a time."
So not very perfect, but the dragon nods his head approvingly and tries to repress the urgent need for laughter as his charge wiggles his feathers this way and that. "And when you bow, tilt your head like so, and never go too deep with that or you'll only be showing weakness." Livret demonstrates a showy upwards flick of the neck, sure to set off an almost dangerous wobble with Spako's new adornments.

[Deathkeeper]

Island of Birds

"Well, if you say so..." Spako says. He didn't feel like he actually did anything, but if Livret insisted he's doing it right...
"Like this?" he asks, bowing shallowly before mimicking the head-flick. Indeed, it looks absolutely ridiculous, but given how bird plumage works, it'll probably be swoon-worthy to some.
"I...I think I'm ready!" he declares, having decided that apparently all you need are looks and pretending you have a whole lot of stuff. Which certainly seems to be the case.

[ThirdEmperor]

[Island of Birds]

'Magnificent." Livret actually has to hop back, to admire his work of course.

He lays a wingclaw upon Spako's shoulder, and gives him an approving nod, although the dragon does not quite dare meet his eyes. Or his eyebrows, for that matter. "If you're sure, and absolutely can't be distracted, we should be off. I'm sure you're due to be showered with feasts and festivities." He dives from the branch and swoops back up, wings a flicker on the air as he hovers. "The palace itself is quite something. Try not to gawk."

And then he's leading them up, up, on towards the canopy and the sky above, until the roar of the wind barrier is audible not far overhead and the trees a blanket of leaves flying by below.

[Deathkeeper]

Island of Birds

"I do miss that sort of thing sometimes..." mutter Spako, who dutifully follows the dragon, plumage trailing behind him.
"Just make sure you give me a proper announcement. That's important for the entrance!" he calls.

[ThirdEmperor]

[Island of Birds]

Ahead the canopy opens out, and the ground below is a wide expanse of lush green furrowed into ornamental rivers that twist and interlock, making a maze of mirrored water and grassy islands on which regal peacocks graze, and little blurs of hummingbird tend to the flowers that make a patchwork of colors across the clearing.

And the Palace! It rises up on fluted columns, the first floor all an open atrium, and the roof is a rising jumble of colorful arches, each one painted to be an eye staring out upon the world, the pupils open doorways that spill out light from within. The four corner columns rise to become towers, each topped by a teardrop dome spiraling with vivid, candied colors.
It looks like nothing so much as a child's construction, and it swarms with winged shapes, coming and going from the windows or fluttering down to perch upon the forest of bars between the columns, to watch the court within unfold.

The two have been noticed now, as Livret dips a wing to lead the descent to the palace below, and there is a certain motion in the bright little birds that flock through the air around them - wheeling to follow, albeit discretely, to watch the dragon and the stranger, their chirping little songs full of questions and guesses, a great gossiping conversation that follows Spako and Livret all the way there.

A wide marble pathway unfolds from the Palace, each side lined by branching wooden perches from which the guards stare out - falcons of gray and brown stock - their claws sharp as any blade, red feathers woven to their heads like the plume of a helmet.
One of them dismounts, landing to the path before them with wings outstretched. He bows to the little dragon, a short and militant gesture, but gaze looks past, to fix upon Spako with evident suspicion that narrows his eyes to slits. "Sir Livret. And a guest?" There is a ripple of obscured motion from the nearest post, the guards shifting uneasily.

"Why, yes, a guest. I thought you could all use a new face or two." Livret's bow is somehow even less, and he gestures with a wing for Spako to step forward, "Today I'll be presenting His Highness, the King of Saxony."

[Deathkeeper]

Island of Birds

Spako fights to resist gawking. There is a whole lot to gawk about. But he resists, and fights to remain in his most regal appearance.

If Livret's bow was barely noticable, Spako's looks like an extremely deliberate flinch. He took the hint.
"Good afternoon to you. A pleasure, a pleasure. Now, when will we be continuing?" says the King of Saxony in his best Pretentious Elf Voice. He pretends to barely even pay attention to the guard.

[ThirdEmperor]

[Palace of Birds]

The guard wavers for a second, and that's all Livret needs to push past him - the falcon stepping sharply back as if shoved, although they never touch, as if seperated by an invisible barrier. All he can do is sweep a wing under his breast and bow deep as they turn up their heads and march on. "Your majesty."

The guards on the perch echo the words, and one takes off, skimming gracefully along the low winds to pass the message on ahead, so that their progress along the path is met by a constant murmur of deference, by bows and chirping well-wishes. By the time they reach the great pillar'd entrance of the palace, the uproar within is a cacophony of a thousand different songs. 'A King!' 'A King?' 'Yes, a King!'

Between the pillars stretch a forest of wooden nesting arms, laden with straw, and upon them perch every variety of bird imaginabke. Rounded and short beaked in pairs of bright colors, tall and made taller by the cascade of brilliant feathers tumbling behind, and countless rows of pigeons, speckled or jewel-collared, or suave in sleek waistcoats of black and white plumage, all puffed out with self-importance. Deep whispers pass through the eaves as the two of them pass through the arch.
The floor is a sunken checkerboard of marble, and water trickles in from an underground spring, the shallow surface home to great flowering lilypads and flitting silver shapes beneath, long and whiskered fish reclining in the safety of the shade. At the center rises the great dais, and from the verdigris'd bronze lift granite statuary, a chimera of lions and serpents and all beasts of the earth, and the foremost of them headless, the stump of stone giving way to a golden perch. There sits the King of All Birds, and his court beneath, reclining upon the heads of noble beasts and preening their perfect feathers.

The lowest of them are the collared pidgeons, wall-eyed and fattened creatures whose plumage rises in a great ruff around their heads, all in downy white as pure as the driven snow. Above them, the birds of paradise with their trailing rainbows and wiry bobbles curling upon their heads.
But the King! Red-breasted with a ridged mane like the orange'd fire of the sun, his head isleek and predatory, the eyes ringed in black and staring out in fierce, shrewd majesty. A ringed pattern of gold and black cowls the back of his head, and black-tipped feathers descend like a beard from his neck. On long, scaly legs he perches, and the tail that curls down shines like molten gold in the thin sunlight sweeping in through the perches and pillars.
And the statue below below him, claws gripping the neck of a lunging cobra, is the spitting image of the King above - only smaller, more feminine, with a streak of midnight blue-black descending her breast. Her eyes are brighter and less sunken, and focused intensely on the pompous stranger strutting in alongside Livret.

The dragon coughs, and gives a small sideways glance to his companion. "Presenting..." The descending silence is like a drumroll, and the little wyrm raises his voice to reach all the way to the lofty roof above, "From faraway court and exotic lands, His Highness, the most exalted and ferocious King of Saxony, first of his name, great warrior and magician!"

[Deathkeeper]

Palace of Birds

Spako gives the guard a glance, but no more than that. It's not to do for kings to respond to folk of such lowly posts, he's sure. They continue on. Once again, Spako has to fight not to stop and stare, and he silently appreciates the placement of his eyes that let him see a bit more around him than before.
He's fairly sure he's never met a real king before. He met a god once, which is a good deal higher, but still. This bird does look the part. And below him must be his daughter. He's met a princess now, too! How exciting.
"Yes, yes. I must thank you all for the reception. I have not had the chance to visit anyone in ages. " he says, bowing properly as instructed.
"My sincerest greetings to you all. I do hope my somewhat unannounced arrival has not intruded upon your Court." he says, trying to actually say as little as possible. Like where exactly he's from, how old he's supposed to be, the fact that he has no idea what this monarch's name is, and really anything that he probably should know with this ridiculous story.

[ThirdEmperor]

[Palace of Birds]

The king lifts a wing to silence an outbreak of chirping among the pigeons, the underside eye'd with rings of flame, of black and dark orange and brilliant yellow."It is somewhat unexpected." He speaks, slowly, his eyes still regarding the foppish little bird before him with measured intent. "I have never heard of another birdish Court. But then, I have never heard much of beyond our walls. This island is my kingdom, our paradise, and I welcome you to it." He opens his wings wide in magnanimity, and even offers the faintest nod of his own golden head.

And the court goes wild.
With a little chuckle Livret slithers away from Spako's side as the courtiers come storming down, a great wheeling tumult of feathers struggling down from the upper reaches, butting and pushing against one another as they fight to be the first to shove their way forward, offer a bow or a twittering comment before being shoved aside by the next puff-chest prat eager to offer his name to this new and exciting King.
If Spako knows anything of birds, he might notice the worrying about of pretty hens among them, and how especially fiercely they batter their way through the crowds - and no less fierce, the way they bat their eyelashes and flourish their curtseys.
He might catch a flash of gray scales, a last glimpse the of the wyrm as he slips away into the great confusion.

The kobird has been left quite alone in the midst of the crowd.

And if that wasn't bad enough, there's a horrible feeling of being watched - not the obvious, overt way the courtiers struggling for his attention watch him, desperate to catch some small acknowledgement - no, the eyes of those still at their roosts, staring coldly down, faces concealed by the storm of wings and bodies around him. Of one in particular, seated upon the lowest reaches of the granite throne. If a gaze could kill...

[Deathkeeper]

Palace of Birds

Treacherous snake! wails Spako mentally as he's pushed about by the battering crowd. He can't address any of them, as their constant, simultaneous prattle makes it impossible to process what any of them are saying, let alone respond to it. The best he can do is wiggle his toes and generate a small rune effect to push them away a bit, offering himself a few inches of personal space.

He scans what little of the room he could see. Maybe he can find some reason to talk to the king or princess. Surely if he did the rest would have to be silent as their monarchs spoke, right?

[ThirdEmperor]

[Palace of Birds]

"The Chief Treasurer of -" "Second Minister in Arms -" "Of pines and spruce." " - Rivers!
They protest as the mob is forced back, the ward vanishing unnoticed among the scuffling and shoving of crowd, nearly collapsing upon themselves more than once, one toppling undercourtier knocking down twelve more and the flapping wings spraying water every which way.
At last there is a pause, a ripple breaking apart the back of the mob as it pushes through, squabbling ministers and nobles lifting their heads to the source and scuttling back in awkward deference. Like children caught fighting.

He is one of the collared pidgeons, but a black sheep in their midst, with dark feathers so downy and ruffled every which way until they resemble nothing moreso than a great robe of mangy black fur.
His wings rise up in a sharp mantle around his neck, and his head alone bears the sleek, light plumage of his brothers, seeming almost bald within the feathery ruff. A faint splotch of red marks his eyes, and his beak seems somehow crooked.
"My greetings, oh noble King of Saxony." There is something in the bow that sweeps from head to wing that seems almost mockingly deferential, and something in the wheedling voice immediately dislikable. He croaks like a toad instead of a songbird. "Octavius Descant. Magician to the King of all Birds. I couldn't help but notice the runes you used, the draconic form, so like our dear Keeper of Wards. If I could beg the smallest indulgence, I think we would all treasure a demonstration of your vaunted magic?"
The swelling of agreement from the court, chirped and warbled from all sides, leaves little room to escape, and there is something steely and triumphant in the old pigeon's eyes as it lifts its head from the floor.
"I fear I lack the panache to captivate a crowd."

[Deathkeeper]

Palace of Birds

See.
This is why you tell people things, Livret. And why you should let plan things around doing so, like how he really should have not mentioned magic and let that have been a surprise.

"Of course, of course. I do actually know two schools, but the draconic runes are a bit prettier, focused, and overall useful than the techniques I worked out myself when I was younger. Here, back up everyone, please. This will be a bit dangerous to be near." Spako titters, rising up into the air on his wings. Octavius (could has name be any more pompous?) may be disappointed by the proceeding series of events. Fire is a Brass' natural inclination, but electricity is Spako's very special personal specialty. So the first thing he did once he learned the basics of runes is to learn how to mimic all of his normal attacks with rune magic.

Spako hovers in the air, and thrusts his wings downward, creating a small glowing rune, crackling with power. He loops, waving a talon one direction to create another, which immediately begins arcing power to the first and back. He repeats the process a few more, performing rather simple aerial maneuvers that are likely looking more impressive than they are with the very distracting magic show, until a rough electrical cage forms around him. Then he comes up one last time, and all the lightning shoots into the rune above, the rest winking out. He dives, making a sliding landing, and just as he stops moving the rune fizzles, splitting into a trio of bolts that fly into the nearest unoccupied patch of dry ground to arc into.

A very simple thing, lightning runes. Such control would be difficult for Spako, were he himself, but producing a rune the size of your head is much easier when your head is the size of a walnut.

[Recaiden]

[Palace of Sandsweeping]

"You had boasted that you would be ready to perform magic before the month was out. Are you ready to work a transformation?"
The sorcerer is right there all of a sudden, in the hall next to Zen on the way to lunch.

[Deathkeeper]

Palace of Sandsweeping

Zen spins around, straightening as much as humanly possible.
"D-did I say that out loud, Master? I'm sure I'll be ready if you say so. What am I to be transforming?" he says, have excited out of his mind and half terrified.
Where did the Master come from?! Those scorpion legs usually click all over the nice tile floors. Can he zap himself across rooms or something?!

[Recaiden]

[Palace of Sandsweeping]

Yes; he can.
"You did. Sand. Follow me."

And he's walking with his clicky scorpion-legs towards the main entrance.

[Deathkeeper]

Sandsweeping Palace

Oh, boy. Sand.
Zen hopes it isn't something lame, like changing it pink.
He should be forming it into stuff! Cool stuff!
Like....like hammers or something. Zen doesn't know, he's ten.
"Yes, sir." he says, following alongside his Master. He doesn't like being directly behind him. Looking right at that tail kind of freaks him out. It always looks like it could whip down and smack him right in the face!

[Recaiden]

[Palace of Sandsweeping --> Great Desert]

The sorcerer leads him off the path and around to the sandy side of the palace.
Once there he stops, careful to keep his tail from not whipping down and smacking the student.
The sands under them harden and shift and arrange themselves into a shiny little raft.

It starts zipping across the sand out to the west.
"All this sand was once the rocks and soil of the earth. Now it is dust. You saw how I undid much of that in my lands across the palace."

[Deathkeeper]

Great Desert

Zen gives a small yelp of surprise as the sand-raft takes off, and nearly tumbles backwards off of it, just barely keeping his balance.
"Yeah, the palace has at least a square kilo-meter or three around it, and you got a big chunk of it again a few weeks ago. If you have only gotten that much when there's so much desert it must be really hard though, master." he says, worried.

[Recaiden]

[Great Desert]

"You will start with just a handful."
The sorcerer almost smiles.

The sand-raft heads off until the palace is fully out of sight, and then slows to a stop.

[Deathkeeper]

Great Desert

Zen looks down at the sand as the raft stops.
"So...uh...what do I do, Master?" he asks, looking between the sand at his feet and his well-dressed gentleman of a master.
He should have brought a hat. The sun is bright.

[Recaiden]

[Great Desert]

The sorcerer steps out of the raft and onto the sand, quite in-place there.

"First, rest on the sand and meditate. Center yourself. Then you must gain an appreciation of the sand, holding it in your mind. As you become practiced, it will become quick and simple, but now, take as long as you need."

[Deathkeeper]

Great Desert

Zen tries to sit down on the sand, but it's so hot! He scoops some up, but that's also really hot!
"The sand is very hot, Master. It's hard to meditate." he says, though he's clearly trying anyway. Hot hot hot! It'll take a while for the boy to concentrate like this.

[Recaiden]

[Great Desert]

"It is, isn't it?"

The sorcerer reaches down and rests a hand on the sands.

"One must be able to maintain concentration in all situations. The heat is always present, always the same, flowing in from all sides. Show me that you are ready. Empty your mind even of the heat."
And he'll sit and watch until the boy manages it, gives up, or is in danger of being seriously burned. Then, if it works, and he notices Zen in the right state to work magic, he'll move on.
"Think of what separates the sand from the sandstone. See it broken apart, and imagine it joined together, made solid and one."

[ThirdEmperor]

[Palace of Birds]

The crowd coos and ahs as he weaves runes through the air, the pale and writhing light overwhelming the thin sunbeams that creep through the pillars, all eyes watching the little shadow that darts between the brilliant bars of the cage. There is a slow shuffling back at the rear of the crowd as the final rune is formed, and a far more energetic flight of the front as he drops and the cage shatters into three blinding arcs.
There is a warbled scream from one overly excited courtier, and a wave of clapping as Spako skids to a halt upon the water. They rush forward, pushing and jostling past Octavius - and the crooked bird has barely moved an inch, only a single cautious step back at the finale - but now the leaders among them are becoming clear, pushing their way to the fore as much by glares and pointedly insincere apology as muscle, and among these a tall and dark winged thrush with brilliant yellow along his crest.
"Marvelous, marvelous! You really must meet the owl!" He chirps, and the words murmur back through the crowd, returning in a wave of agreement, 'Yes, the owl!'

"Yes, I do think they must." The voice is quiet, and thinly melodic, but every head turns to the Princess upon the throne, a drab handpigeon hopping after to hold her trailing plumage as she descends to the sunken pool. The crowd parts in deference at her approach. She bows her head faintly to foreign King, and snaps, without the measured softness of tone, "Octavius!" The magician slinks out of the mob, ruffling his wings with an uncomfortable sigh.

"Yes, I suppose he must." He groans, and is swept past in short without so much as a look. In the island of calm the Princess opens on the crowd, he flaps his ungainly wings, rising up into the air. "If your Majesties would only follow.."
Follow, through the perches and the pillars, spiraling up past the tiered arches, to perch upon the lip off the South Eastern tower. The entrance before them is darkened, the wind whistling through with a faint sigh.

[Deathkeeper]

Great Desert

Eventually the sand will cool, being under the shade of Zen instead of the sun. It's ever so hot, though. It takes Zen a while to learn to ignore it.
He concentrates on the image of sandstone. Yes, the rock that just looks like sand stuck together. It looks like it should just crumble at the touch, but it doesn't! Sand to sandstone. That image is an easy one. Easy!
"All right." he says quietly as he focuses on it.

Island of Birds

Success! There is nothing better than a successful plan! And so our dragon-in-training is saved by a Princess. He could kiss her, but he has no lips to do so. So he settles on giving a very sincerely smug look as the magician turns his back and takes off. He follows suit, and hopefully no one in the court will be looking past his trailing tail to really notice the lack of any true grace in his flight now that his light show is gone.
"May I ask, your Highness, who this Owl is, who holds so much esteem within your court?" he asks as he pulls alongside the Princess. Hopefully out of earshot of the magician.
"And ah, thank you. It was getting nuts in there." he says, his facade momentarily cracking. "My own Court is not nearly so large and...exciteable."
And this true, considering its members include a large group of servant spiders and Livret.

[Recaiden]

[Great Desert]

"Form your hands as if you were in the Initial Hollow Mudra." Zen remembers that from his reading and practice, right?

"Know that the sand before you is the same as the sand in your thoughts. Bring your hands swiftly together and make it so."

[Deathkeeper]

Great Desert

Of course Zen remembers. He's only done it a million times in the last few weeks in an attempt to get something to happen (it hasn't).

Zen makes the hand-signs, though it does make it a bit hard to hold much sand with that hand position. He does bring them together as fast as he can, and though he spills some sand in the process, there should be some reward for his efforts. Namely, a few lumps of sandstone amid the remaining powdery sand.
Zen's eyes remain shut though, not daring to see if he has failed or not.

[Recaiden]

[Great Desert]

The sorcerer scuttles over, his feet tapping on the sand.
"Open your eyes."

[Deathkeeper]

Great Desert

Zen does open his eyes, and stares hesitantly at the stones in his hand, mostly in disbelief.
"It...it worked, Master?" he asks shakily.
Did he really do that?