The Poetry Slam Winner

Log Info

• Title: The Poetry Slam Winner

• Emitter: Ravenstongue

• Characters: Carver, Ravenstongue

• Place: Alexandria - Theatre District

• Summary: Carver comes across Ravenstongue at the Theatre District in the middle of performing at a poetry slam. The ranger is happy to see Ravenstongue again, and the two discuss Ravenstongue's ability to engage in diplomacy with fey queens but struggle on occasion with crowds. Carver is introduced to Pothy, and they rejoice when Ravenstongue is awarded top prize: a free month of food from a bakery in the Theatre District.

GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Perform/Oratory: (16)+14: 30

Theatre District, late evening.

There's a chill in the air in the Theatre District, made all the chillier by the light rain that threatens to soak anyone who is still gallivanting about in summer clothes. Autumn is here.

There's a corner of the District that's sheltered underneath a tarp, however. A small crowd of people quietly listen to a procession of people, who go one-by-one onto the equally makeshift stage under the tarp and recite poetry.

There's a violet-eyed woman who takes the stand tonight, however. Her white raven is on her shoulder. There's a person in the audience who murmurs, "Ah, the bird lady's up."

Cor'lana Lúpecyll looks around for a moment. There's hesitation in her violet eyes, fear displayed in her pale face. The hand that clutches her poem trembles as she tries to lift it up. But then she takes a breath.

And the hand falls away.

"Some lament fall's arrival.

They weep for the flowers of plenty

And for the haze of heat that dances

Upon the horizon of the sea waters

That lap gently on the bank shores--

But I know better, autumn spirit.

I welcome your colors and your chill.

I cherish your festivals and food.

Shorter are the days, but far longer

Are the nights with the stars in view--

Who saw me on an autumn day in gloom

And left me with the seeds that bloom'd

Into sonorous beauty and hues.

And so I owe you all of my joy,

And so I give you my gratitude,

And so I exalt your name in verse.

I will always cherish the autumn

That saw me as a newly-married bride."

Cor'lana opens her eyes as the last syllable falls from her lips. She seems surprised when the crowd claps for her, an impressed murmur from the people that are gathered.

"Hup!" Carver brings her heavy backpack up onto her shoulder, fresh from her most recent adventures, and the bath houses that took the sweat and grime of a day's work away and left her fresh; though still heavy in her leathers and furs. In fact, she looks like she's planning on going on another expedition entirely except for one small detail. For the first time, she's not wearing her facepaint. None of the concentric blue swirls, or the heavy coal around the eyes that imitate a raccoon's intense stare. Nope, she's completely fresh faced and for the first time, it's painfully obvious just how young she must be without the ample 'war mask' concealing the fact.

She might have completely missed Cor'lana, even with the murmur of 'Bird Lady' identifier, but that voice? She could not. It is enrapturing. Wonderful to the ears.

She Spoke but she Sang.

Carver slowly pushed forward to the head of the crowd, curiosity drawing her closer, just as the last syllables were carried away by the wind, plucked and then replaced by resounding applause. The ranger's enthusiasm is unbridled, and it carries, callused palms slapping together in time with the crowd's like thunderclaps. To one unfortunate merchant, she elbows him hard, and proudly proclaims, "I know her from work!"

Cor'lana quickly flushes as the crowd continues to applaud for her--her body language quickly becoming a little more flustered as she holds the paper that she ended up not needing to read from closer to her chest. "Oh, umm. It... I, umm. Thank you," she murmurs.

She steps off the stage. The crowd parts slightly for her to rejoin them, and when she spots Carver, she makes a beeline for the familiar face. "I didn't know you liked poetry," she says quietly, peering intently at Carver's face. With a moment's realization, it might be apparent that she's focusing on Carver because looking at the sea of faces might be a little much for her.

The white raven on Cor'lana's shoulder nuzzles into the sorceress's black hair, however. "I'm a poet and I didn't know it," he says, mimicking Cor'lana's voice. This gets a small chuckle out of Cor'lana, and she finally relaxes a little.

Three people get up to the makeshift stand and appear to be discussing something in hushed tones. Pothy stops what he's doing to stare daggers into them. Blue eyes judge their souls.

"Well, I don't. Not really. Not like tha'." Carver admits, "The words, some of the time, they go righ' over m'head. Like, when you called flowers son-or-yes? I don't even know wha' that means. It's not the words. Ye, for a moment, reminded me of Mada. When she spoke. She Sang. It had power. You felt things, things not there, things that could be. Things she wanted. Fears she felt? I dunno, is a magic in Mada when she spoke. It fel' like home for a momen-- Oi, whassit?" Carver's nostalgia-spilling stumbles and falters once she realized that Cor'lana's gaze is intensely spotlighting her in the face. She reaches up and wipes at her nose and cheeks, then gives the half-elf a quirked eyebrow. Her question is interrupted by the raven's timely interjection. Cor'lana chuckles. Refined, reserved, musical. Elfy?

Carver snorts, earthy and unfettered, going to wrap an arm around Cor's shoulder. "You got a gift!" She empathizes this statement with a poking finger. "Your weird talkin' bird I don't remember from before knows it. I knows it."

Cor'lana relaxes a little more as Carver just... keeps talking. She doesn't seem to mind it at all, in fact, where others might be begging for the ranger to be quiet, nor does she seem to mind the arm around her shoulder. "I just, umm, get overwhelmed by things sometimes," Cor'lana explains. "But it's easier to calm down when I have a friend or an ally to focus on. Now, Mada--is that your mother?" Her violet eyes just as curious as the question. "I don't think my mother had a talent for poetry, but she had a way with words, or so Pothy's told me."

Pothy's mid-stare at the three people continuing to discuss things up by the stand before he realizes his name's been mentioned. He turns around and politely says, "Talkin' bird," in a perfect mimicry of Carver's voice. Then he goes back to staring at the three people.

"Mada? Ye. She, uh, always asked us to call 'er that. I don't think she was my mother, but she was Mada. To me, an' my sisters, when we had nothin' but a blanket between us. She was the smallest woman. Smaller, even, then you, but the Chieftain listened to her jus' as quickly as we did. Wha' she said, went. Jus' how things were."

Carver sniffs, as if to clear sinuses. "Maybe, like your mom, she jus' had that sort of power in'r."

She does a doubletake when 'her voice' comes out Pothy's mouth. "Damn, they're good at that. Uncanny. Soundin' jus' like me. A real talker." She gives Cor'lana's shoulder one last squeeze, still unaware that the three on the stage are conspiring on something. "I'm surprised, y'know, to hear you weren't comfortable aroun' crowds. I guess, really, I only seen you a few times an' once was when you were dolled up with hair streaming and eyes gleamin' and tits pushed together like a valley of wonder in one of those noblewoman's corsets while you made friends with a friggin' fairy Queen so... it's funny, to think of you as, shy? Shy ain't the word.. but shylike."

"Anyway, I'm blabberin'. I don't think I ever gave you my name on account of the drunk. I'm Carver."

Cor'lana flushes as Carver describes her in such colorful words regarding the meeting of the Wee Queen. She coughs politely into her sleeve before she manages to say, "Well, it's... something I've dealt with since I've arrived in Alexandria over a year and a half ago. I was originally quite shy and... I got overwhelmed a lot. Now it's just when I do things that push me out of my comfort zone... like reading the poetry I've written in front of other people at a poetry contest."

She offers Carver a little smile. "And in some way, I was a little more at ease attempting to befriend the Wee Queen than I was up there doing my reading just now. I've read my poetry before--I've won a couple of prizes, too--but it's still a little... nerve-wracking, every single time." Then she pauses. "Oh! Well, it's nice to know your name, Carver. You may call me Cor'lana Lúpecyll--or Lana for short. Most people call me that, or 'Ravenstongue', or even just RT if you feel like it."

"Too many names," Pothy complains, mimicking Cor'lana's voice again. This gets him a little scritch on his fluffy throat feathers.

"This is my familiar, Apotheosis--Pothy for short." Cor'lana smiles more broadly as she introduces him. "He's a lovely friend. Although he seems to keep giving the judges the stink-eye. Staring at them won't make them decide my poetry's good enough to win the prize."

"I can see tha'." Carver says. "I was nervous, righ' short of paralyzed. I don't 'member much about the, uh, get together but I know that I remember startin' to drink cause I was scared. The fey don't party like upper crust humans do, maybe even the elves. It helped. Though I /do/ think they were havin' a giggle at my expense after my third lil' acorn cup." She squints, as if digging through the fey drink fog of memory takes actual effort. "Well. Anyhoo. It's nice to put a name to the face, RT." She ain't even gonna try with Cor'lana or a Miss Lúpecyll. She's not /mad/. "Ah, is 'that' what Mr. Pothy's doing." Ahem. She breaks the friendly side embrace. To join Pothy in just staring down the judges.

"Luckily for you," Cor'lana says with a small grin, "the Wee Queen and her people seemed more interested in merriment than trickery. There are fey who are... not nearly so kind. So I would be careful in the future with accepting fey food and drink--save for the kind served at my home."

Before Cor'lana has a chance to elaborate on that last bit, the judges turn around. The shortest and portliest among them, a khazad man, adjusts his jacket as he announces two runners-up, who will receive a small gift certificate to a bakery within the Theatre District, redeemable for one breakfast sandwich. "And the winner of the grand prize is Cor'lana Lúpecyll," he elaborates. "Her prize is a month's supply of food at the Thistle and Vine Bakery."

"SNACKS," Pothy crows happily, and he tip-tap-dances on Cor'lana's shoulder. The staring worked!

Carver fist pumps. A short, stiff jab of appreciation of the judges's correct decision. Even if they took an embarrassingly long time to come to it. She does not hit anyone with it out of politeness, not even Cor'lana's shoulder. Politeness is key.

"See!" She excitedly slaps the half-elf on the back, "See?! You got a gift." The finger wags near the smaller woman's nose. "Mouth-Gift. /Word/ Gift." The second one sounds a lot better. "An' SNACKS." She snorts as she echoes Pothy, albeit contralto. "Congratulations. See." The finger is back and it's waggin' near the tip of her nose again. "Bravery carves a path."

Cor'lana is a little bewildered at first--a few blinks, followed by the widening of those violet eyes of hers. "I, umm--I didn't expect to win grand prize," she murmurs quietly, but she looks at Carver and smiles. "I guess you're right."

"SNACKS," Pothy says again, and he flies onto the khazad man's shoulder. He snatches the document certifying the recipient is due one month's supply of food and takes flight again, flapping back to Cor'lana. The crowd laughs and claps for the sorceress-poet, and the people begin to disperse.

Pothy returns to Cor'lana and drops the certificate into her hands. His feathers all puff up as he looks rather proud of himself. "Thanks, Pothy," Cor'lana says, and she pats him again for his troubles.

Carver says, “I sometimes am." Carver nods, and though self-satisfied, could never be quite as pleased with themselves as Pothy. Not in this lifetime.

"I got a pick up from my last gig, a sweet lil' gnomish fella. A beekeepin' gnome whose name is Snickerdoodle, what a strange world we all share innit?" She's backing up and points at Cor'lana, prepping to get back on the road. "'ey treat me to some of your winnings next time?"”

"A gnome named..." Cor'lana can't even finish the sentence before she shakes her head and chuckles. "Yes, a very strange world we live in. But I'd never trade it for anything." There's a sparkle in her eyes as she looks briefly down to her hands.

"Snacks," Pothy urges Cor'lana. He is very insistent that they go redeem that document for some food.

The sorceress gets the cue, and she laughs again. "Yes," she says to both him and to Carver. "We'll have to share some snacks together. Soon! For now, I better go placate this sweet boy before he decides to run off with the document without me. It was wonderful to see you again."

The prize-winning poet starts off into the evening, with a victory cry of "SNACKS!" ringing out happily from her shoulder into the Theatre District.