I'm calling you a...hmm, what is the opposite of a person who exaggerates? A downplayer?
How about the Wallachian anthem?
Sypha tucks the messaging device into one of her traveling robe's many secret pockets. Truthfully, she has only the faintest idea how the Wallachian anthem goes; yes, fine, technically she can rattle the lyrics off on demand, like so many other songs and poems and stories, but the melody has slipped the noose of her memory. She's gambling on Trevor's rather distinctive baritone here. Plus, a singing tree ought to stick out in even the densest of forests.
ty ty i actually debated what gif would best suit the ~mood~
i'm not certain that's a word but i take your point. it's probably fair.
He keeps his device out for the time being, but lowers it as he peers into the forest beneath him looking for any sign of Sypha. Nothing yet, no glimpses of blue through the green and brown -- hopefully she can follow the sound of his voice well enough. Trevor himself has never tried to follow a voice through the forest but he'd imagine the trees would bounce it a bit? Maybe? Maybe not.
Perhaps surprisingly, his voice is lovely. Deeper than his speaking voice and rich and rumbly, hard to make out at a distance at first but as she gets closer Sypha can hear the words clearly. He'll just sing it on a loop until she appears.
if the mood was 'trashfire dumpsterman' then you succeeded with aplomb
It's a nice enough morning for a woodland stroll. Last night's frost left the leaves pleasantly crunchy underfoot, though they'll turn to a slippery once the sun melts it away. She'd worry for Trevor, halfway up a tree in the overnight cold, if she didn't know 1) he'd had plenty of ale to warm him and 2) his cloak's as good as snuggling up to a sheepdog.
Sypha tucks her own hood tighter around her neck, but leaves it down so she can listen. She follows the road out of town, stopping now and then to investigate tracks at its churned-up edges. Her role is Scholar, not Hunter, but no nomad grows up wholly ignorant of trailsign. A cluster of waist-high alder saplings shows signs of recent damage, and it's as she stoops to inspect them that the hum reaches her ears.
"Aha!" lifting her sleeves away from grabby branches, she hops into the brush and follows the sound. At first it's only a tune, the melody all tumbled together like riverwater. The closer she gets, the easier it is to pick out notes, to gain an appreciation for the song, to discern words.
She finds the singing tree a stone's throw from the road. Figures: Drunk Trevor wouldn't have staggered too far in the dark. Sypha elbows past a bush and presses her hands to the tree's bark, squinting up through the branches.
"Good morning," she beams, "It seems I've treed a dryad!"
Ah, there she is. Trevor lets his song fade out as he peers down at Sypha, her blue cloak and blond hair distinctive amongst the forest colors. Despite his hangover, he smiles broadly at her, and if she can't see it it's audible in his voice.
"A dryad? Those shy creatures don't suit me at all. Perhaps I'm a woodland siren! I've lured you to your doom with my voice." He shifts a little to see her better, nearly losing his balance in the process and tumbling down onto her, which would be a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy.
"Whoop. Let's not do that. Have you brought a rope?"
"That is not even a thing," Sypha tells Trevor, or at least the soles of Trevor's boots, i.e. the only part of him clearly visible through the branches. She plants her hands on her hips. "Sirens are strictly aquatic!"
The tree gives an alarming rattle, followed by a bitten-off shout from its, um, occupant. The combination has her wondering if he's somehow still drunk, but for all Trevor's grace in battle, Sypha's seen him drop crates on his own head. If anyone alive could scale a tree while wasted and break an arm coming down perfectly sober, it's this man-shaped disaster. She hides her own smile in a sigh.
"I have, but now I'm afraid that if I try to throw you one end, I might end up knocking you out of the tree," her gaze slides away from Trevor's boots and settles appraisingly on the lower branches. "Hang on, I'm coming up."
thanksgiving ate me instead of the other way around!
"I'm an undiscovered species," he calls back down, sounding jovial. "We only sing for rescuers."
Then Sypha announces she's coming up, and he doesn't think that's necessary but he's perfectly happy for the company. He's a little worried about her climbing in sandals, but she does everything else in sandals -- his next comment may seem out of the blue but the thought train makes perfect sense to him.
"We need to get you some good boots, but yes, do come up. It's a lovely view!"
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tfln; speak_n_spell
are you calling me a liar? just because i have a slight tendency to escalate situations doesn't mean i go looking for them.
what shall i sing for you, sypha?
hello hello! first and foremost I have to applaud the 'barricade fail' gif
How about the Wallachian anthem?
Sypha tucks the messaging device into one of her traveling robe's many secret pockets. Truthfully, she has only the faintest idea how the Wallachian anthem goes; yes, fine, technically she can rattle the lyrics off on demand, like so many other songs and poems and stories, but the melody has slipped the noose of her memory. She's gambling on Trevor's rather distinctive baritone here. Plus, a singing tree ought to stick out in even the densest of forests.
ty ty i actually debated what gif would best suit the ~mood~
He keeps his device out for the time being, but lowers it as he peers into the forest beneath him looking for any sign of Sypha. Nothing yet, no glimpses of blue through the green and brown -- hopefully she can follow the sound of his voice well enough. Trevor himself has never tried to follow a voice through the forest but he'd imagine the trees would bounce it a bit? Maybe? Maybe not.
Perhaps surprisingly, his voice is lovely. Deeper than his speaking voice and rich and rumbly, hard to make out at a distance at first but as she gets closer Sypha can hear the words clearly. He'll just sing it on a loop until she appears.
if the mood was 'trashfire dumpsterman' then you succeeded with aplomb
Sypha tucks her own hood tighter around her neck, but leaves it down so she can listen. She follows the road out of town, stopping now and then to investigate tracks at its churned-up edges. Her role is Scholar, not Hunter, but no nomad grows up wholly ignorant of trailsign. A cluster of waist-high alder saplings shows signs of recent damage, and it's as she stoops to inspect them that the hum reaches her ears.
"Aha!" lifting her sleeves away from grabby branches, she hops into the brush and follows the sound. At first it's only a tune, the melody all tumbled together like riverwater. The closer she gets, the easier it is to pick out notes, to gain an appreciation for the song, to discern words.
She finds the singing tree a stone's throw from the road. Figures: Drunk Trevor wouldn't have staggered too far in the dark. Sypha elbows past a bush and presses her hands to the tree's bark, squinting up through the branches.
"Good morning," she beams, "It seems I've treed a dryad!"
sorry for the delay! i exist again!
"A dryad? Those shy creatures don't suit me at all. Perhaps I'm a woodland siren! I've lured you to your doom with my voice." He shifts a little to see her better, nearly losing his balance in the process and tumbling down onto her, which would be a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy.
"Whoop. Let's not do that. Have you brought a rope?"
no worries, the holidays are a TRAP!
The tree gives an alarming rattle, followed by a bitten-off shout from its, um, occupant. The combination has her wondering if he's somehow still drunk, but for all Trevor's grace in battle, Sypha's seen him drop crates on his own head. If anyone alive could scale a tree while wasted and break an arm coming down perfectly sober, it's this man-shaped disaster. She hides her own smile in a sigh.
"I have, but now I'm afraid that if I try to throw you one end, I might end up knocking you out of the tree," her gaze slides away from Trevor's boots and settles appraisingly on the lower branches. "Hang on, I'm coming up."
thanksgiving ate me instead of the other way around!
Then Sypha announces she's coming up, and he doesn't think that's necessary but he's perfectly happy for the company. He's a little worried about her climbing in sandals, but she does everything else in sandals -- his next comment may seem out of the blue but the thought train makes perfect sense to him.
"We need to get you some good boots, but yes, do come up. It's a lovely view!"
tfln; invincibleme
maybe not, but for once i'd turn away the drink if it were offered again. do you have any idea how rare that is?
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you don't want it then give it to me
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you want to take your chances, spend your own coin. do you even have any of your own coin?
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[ It's awful and one of the reasons Diogo tries for regular alcohol whenever he gets the chance. ]
you people no take script
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we do not, because it has no value. what are those coins even made of? nothing useful-- you could earn some of our currency, if you so wished.
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you got no taste. [ Actually Diogo's a bit worried about that, since the vast majority of his skills don't seem to translate. ] doing what?
tfln; requiemshark
i suppose drunk me necessarily isn't a fan of the truth. oof. maybe i should take my cut of your winnings and spend a bit on washing several things.
i could, you little shit. where are you?
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[ Ephemera is Helpful. ]
right where you left me. get your ass over here before i leave you in this shithole and go out to kill vampires without you
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you'd be dead within a week without me and you know it, but i'm on my way back. order another plate, will you?
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keep telling yourself that, Belmont. food's on me.
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..."on you" is definitely a technicality.
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beggars can't be choosers. you want food or not?
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i do, i do, i'm nearly there. i'll probably beat my plate.
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[ Suck it. ]
you got five minutes or its mine
[ He's teasing, a little. He's not the sort of asshole who hoards food. ]