The Amphiptere and the Fruit
There was an amphiptere one day
Just flying in a lazy way
He was so tired of stealing loot
That he decided to find fruit
The amphiptere then ate an apple,
And felt he had the urge to grapple
Then he ate a pair of pears
At the top of some old stairs
The amphiptere then ate a guava,
Which made him spew out flaming lava
Then he ate a big strawberry,
And made faces that were scary
The amphiptere then ate an orange,
But crashed mid-flight into a door hinge
Then he ate a bunch of grapes,
Watching cats claw up new drapes
The amphiptere then ate a fig
And picked his teeth with willow twig
Then he ate a sun-ripe mango
So sweet it made him want to tango
The amphiptere then ate a plum
And soon he did not feel so glum
Then he ate some passionfuit
Dancing with a tuneful flute
The amphiptere then ate nice dates
And helped a man lifting some weights
Then he ate an apricot
Looking for another spot
The amphiptere then ate a melon
While he stopped a running felon
Then he ate an avocado
And spoke out with brash bravado
The amphiptere then ate pomelos
And paired them with some Jell-Os
Then he ate some honeydew
And recovered a lost shoe
The amphiptere then ate a cherry
And found he now felt rather merry
Then he ate some nectarines
From a man with magic beans
The amphiptere then ate a lime
And now was running out of time
Then he ate a peach for fun
And decided he was done.
The amphiptere flew out of town
Now with his frown turned upside-down.
A slightly harrowed-looking Kiryu walks out of the convenience store a few minutes later, carrying a small bag of edibles. Sylvain, perched on a wooden fence made of rough-hewn tree branches, looks up and tilts his head as she approaches.
Kiryu takes a deep breath as her companion hops off the fence and regards the bag with some interest. Motioning to the path leading back towards the woods, Kiryu begins walking, and speaks when she hears Sylvain falling into step beside her.
“Look… the present circumstances are not exactly thrilling to me, but I am willing to work with you until we can change things. I’d… like to learn what you’re willing to teach me. I’m willing to learn.” She pauses and rummages in the bag. “And, um, I apologize for being irritable earlier. This isn’t exactly something I was expecting, or prepared for.” She extracts a sizeable package of birdseed from the bag, holding it out to Sylvain. “Here. I thought it might be of some use, if your friends are willing to help us.”
Sylvain accepts the birdseed with murmured thanks, and opens the package. Kiryu eyes him curiously, wondering if he could possibly summon anything more powerful in flight than a sparrow or crow in this area. She has to muffle a noise of surprise when the bird mage scoops a few seeds from the package, eats them, and then repeats the action, eventually munching on small handfuls of the birdseed at a time as he continues walking.
“Are… are you going to call any of your friends here…?” Kiryu, rather baffled, manages to stammer out as she quickens her pace to catch up with her newfound guide. Sylvain just looks over his shoulder, shakes his head, and resumes shoveling birdseed into his mouth.
Apparatus: name/type of thing
Custodian: Is there a current owner?
- whoever currently possesses it
- If the writer of the entry does not know this information, parenthesis can be used, or the section can be marked “Unknown”
Craftsmanship: (how was it made and what is it made of?)
- pick from: handmade/forged/summoned(ritual)/machined (if separate pieces were made with different processes, list all of applicable)
- add name of creator, if known
- note if this was a special commission
- elemental incorporation: what kind of raw materials with elemental affinities are incorporated in significant amounts into the making of the item?
- focus: one specific component that is key to the function or making of the item
Approach:
- invocation: words or phrases that when spoken aloud have an effect on the object
- handling: how to treat the object when using it
- maintenance: how to keep the object in good condition
- loyalty: how well will the object’s effects manifest when used by different people
- Steadfast = effects will only manifest for one individual at a time (must be passed on willingly if new custodian)
- Predestined = effects will manifest for only one predetermined individual (common with commissions)
- Competence = effects will manifest for any individual with a certain level of ability or talent
- Trial = effects will manifest for any individual who has completed a challenge specific to the item, required to unlock the capabilities of the apparatus (can involve carrying the item for a length of time, besting the previous custodian in a duel, or even killing the previous custodian)
- Unfixed = effects will manifest for any individual
- any further notes about observations made when interacting/using object
Notes:
- primary use/abilities of item
- any further notes about effects of modifications made to object
Entity: Name, titles, aliases
Custodian:
- If an entity (due to age, fragility, etc.) is in the active care/protection of another individual, that individual is the custodian.
- If the entity takes care of themselves, the custodian would be listed as “None”
- If the writer of the entry does not know this information, parenthesis can be used, or the section can be marked “Unknown”
Approach:
- invocation: words or phrases that when spoken aloud have an effect on the entity
- handling: how to behave around the entity
- information on behavior of entity
- information on relationships entity has with other individuals/groups
Notes:
- any miscellaneous things that don’t fit in previous sections
** Location:** Name/general description of place, general global location (continent)
Custodian:
- If the location is in the active care/protection of another individual, that individual is the custodian.
- If there is no known guardian or protector, custodian is noted as “None”
- If the writer of the entry does not know this information, parenthesis can be used, or the section can be marked “Unknown”
Approach:
- invocation: words or phrases that when spoken aloud have an effect on location
- handling: how to behave while at the location
- maintenance: information on any cleaning/rituals to follow upon entering or exiting location
-
Notes:
- information on origin of location/involvement of individuals in shaping it
Apparatus: Spirit Staff
Custodian: Sylvain Ailier
Craftsmanship:
- handmade, Master Ishikawa (mountainkin)
- elemental incorporation: wood, river crystals, rice straw twine
- focus: feathers
- maintenance: none required, though handle with care.
- invocation is “see with my eyes, let me fly with thee”
- if treated respectfully, will be resistant to most damage. Not suitable for combat, repairs must be made by active custodian
-
-
Notes:
- will change loyalty with strength of affinity with birdkin
- primary use is mental/astral communing over long distances with birds or greater birdkin (does not appear to influence communication with ostrich or other flightless birds, will need to rectify)
- temperament is docile, if protective. Will disrupt communing connection if danger approaches either party
- dependable. Does not require physical contact to activate innate effects, though I have not figured the true extent of the staff’s abilities.
- additional affinities may be established with addition of feathers from regular contacts too many added feathers confuses the linking, do not attempt to add further decoration
-
-
My master made this for me when I completed my seventh year of apprenticeship. He might have seen my wary expression, as with a spoken word the staff became a feather, which he suggested could be carried by “even the smallest of your friends”. The same word, and the feather was a staff once more. He sent me out into the world the next day, to master the new tool and to make friends outside of the mountains I’d wandered those seven years. To see the sights of the world, to travel, as I’d always longed to. Mountains, rivers, yes, I have seen the wonders of my home and loved them, but still I am curious about what humans have built, the works of their passion of metal and stone. In the wide world, the birds are my only constant companions. It is a relief to have a means to speak with old friends from far away. ~SA
Gentleman Terracotta Soldier (has a terracotta monocle that is canon yes it is)
"Here let me get that door for you OH GOODNESS MY HAND BROKE OFF NO DON'T BOTHER I'LL PICK IT UP IT'S ALRIGHT"
"Dear me I seem to have partially dissolved in my tea."
"Heavens, it is so difficult becoming well-acquainted with the ladies when I clash terribly with every carpet in existence"
"It's rude to ask a gentleman what glaze he uses"
"But I use faience when the occasion presents itself"
Vivax we will write this someday :V
Silent skies and sleepy sighs
Shaky lies and shifting eyes
Are you afraid to say goodbye
Are you afraid to cut the thread?
Are you afraid the end will come
And blame will be upon your head?
Static skies and silky sighs
Softened lies and sightless eyes
Are you afraid to be apart
Are you afraid to be alone?
Are you afraid to know for sure
Your only comfort is your own?
There is a tree with mystic leaves that appears every once in a while.
Some say it looks like an oak, grand and majestic, others say that it resembles a graceful willow, yet still others claim it could only be a birch tree, cloaked in pure white bark.
Despite the deviations in the descriptions, the accounts and whispers all acknowledge one thing as true: the tree possesses leaves that shine with the brilliance of rainbows.
Those who have seen the tree from afar swear that nothing seemed unique about it.
Those who ventured closer speak of leaves that glisten like jewels, leaves that fall towards them and reveal words intertwined with the iridescent veins crisscrossing the surface.
Leaves that collapse to dust and dry earth when taken too far from the tree itself.
A select few remember the words written in the leaves, remember the wonder and curiosity that overtook them as they stared at the shimmering script and thought about the tree itself. Some remember the words years afterwards, asserting that it was not simply idle conversation, rather, it was poetry written to them, for them, only them:
The skies are clear
the clouds are sheer
nothing is here
that you should fear
the skies are clear.
The man who was given those words held a long-lived terror of the darkness. He was last seen sitting on the gnarled roots of the tree, staring into its branches. At midnight he wandered off into the shadows. A lone scrap of paper, torn from a notebook of some sort, was all that remained when morning arrived.
Oh sweet sea breeze
wrap through the trees
whisper to me
just once more please,
oh sweet sea breeze.
The woman the tree gave these words to was a widow thrice over. Three days after her meeting with the tree, she allegedly drowned in a river. No body was ever recovered, but the words were discovered in a diary left behind.
Ah, if I said I need you
what would that mean to you?
and if I said I love you
I swear it would be true
ah, if I said I need you.
The child these words were given to lost her best friend the night before the tree appeared. She spent the entire day under the branches of the tree, tying chains of flowers around the trunk, making crowns of leaves, and chanting an odd series of words. She eventually worked up the courage to climb the tree. She never climbed down.
Oh please tell me you won’t depart
our friendship is about to start
it’s simply hard to be apart
won’t you please lend me your heart?
oh please tell me you won’t depart.
The one these words were given to realized the secret of the tree, carries it to this day, and pens the words you read now. One simply cannot spend too much time in its presence, simply cannot spend too long looking into the ethereal and forgetting reality as it drowns in false words. What is the truth?
The tree is lonely. It seeks companionship, it seeks to be remembered, it seeks readers of its words.
It grows where the wandering least expect it, and flourishes only for those who walk the earth without a destination in mind. It is said to spirit away those it favors, and by the time it returns, no one remembers it, but it doesn’t mind, because new companions are always delightful.
There is a tree with mystic leaves that appears every once in a while.
Twitter. Tweet. Chirp. Cheep. Glarblegurglewurblebruuuupslurp.
There are many words for the sounds of birds, Sylvain Ailier thinks to himself. But it’s hard to get the sounds of the words right.
Slllsslsllggglglgllsllsggg.
A hummingbird, he guesses. He’s heard that strange combination of gurgling and slurping before, and usually the sound is accompanied by the sight of a deceptively innocent-looking tiny bird. Sylvain yawns and hops out of the almost cradle-like circle of weeping willow branches he’d picked out as a sleeping spot the night before.
Stretching out his arms and rotating his neck, the bird mage glances at the coat he’d been using as a blanket. Rummaging in the pockets, he withdraws a small cloth bag of birdseed. Smiling to himself, he pulls aside the hanging leaves of the weeping willow and walks out into the crisp morning air.
His wandering journeys had taken him to many picturesque places, and the mountain lake he’d stumbled upon while following a swallow was no exception. He enjoys this carefree, never-tied-down life, learning a little spellcasting here, learning some new words there. Whistling cheerfully, Sylvain pours a liberal amount of birdseed into his open hand. He considers the amount, then sprinkles some of the seeds on his shoulders and sits down. His trusty spirit staff, a keepsake of his first mentor, rests on the ground in front of him.
First a small songbird wings its way towards him, perching on his shoulder and pecking at the bird seed. An oriole stops by for a brief moment to sit on his hand and look at him, and soon Sylvain is surrounded by bright eyes and feathers.
He looks up when a shadow passes over and something with a wingspan the length of fifty little birds lands in front of him.
A Legendary Crow, Sylvain recognizes as the figure approaches on silent feet. Traditional clothes, avian and human features (arms, legs, wings), Japanese Tengu, perhaps. Whatever it is, it seems to be eying the still-open bag of birdseed lying on the ground. Sylvain waits patiently for the birds swarming around him to fly off into the trees, and wordlessly picks up the bag of birdseed and hands it to the crow-man, who rasps a word of thanks.
“Honored brother, what brings you to me?”
The crow-man pauses in his inspection of the birdseed, pulling his beak out of the bag. He folds his wings neatly, rummages in a traveler’s pack slung over his back, and withdraws a small paper-wrapped box. Sylvain takes the proffered item and the crow goes back to pecking at the bag of birdseed.
Puzzling out the scrawled characters in black ink on the paper wrapping, Sylvain figures out that he is to make a delivery, to someone who lives deep in these mountains. Very deep. At least half the day’s journey, plus time for stopping to ask directions many times. Sylvain glances at his spirit staff, glad for the many birds that live in the area.
Remembering his manners, the bird mage bows to the Tengu, tucking the box into a pocket of his coat. “Consider it done,” Sylvain says, and is rewarded with a friendly squawk from the crow-man before he takes off into the sky again.
Sylvain is halfway to his destination and thoroughly lost when he realizes that the Tengu never gave back the birdseed.
—-
Shiritori Zakuro looks up from the elegant spray of leaves she is carving on the wooden handle of what will soon be a demon priestess’s comb. “Come in,” she calls over her shoulder, as she shifts in her seat and leaves her workspace. Her cotton robe trails a bit on the ground as she creeps toward the entryway of her home, but it is the layers upon layers of folded paper decorations that she wears that weigh her down more. Paper birds and delicate kusudama tied with thin silk cord are woven into her long hair, and rustle with every move she makes.
When he first meets her, Sylvain wonders if Shiritori considers herself a fire hazard, what with all the paper she wears. He does not bring up this point at any time he converses with her.
Shiritori greets the bird mage graciously, serves him some tea, and takes the package he has delivered, unwrapping the paper and opening the box to find several gold pieces tucked into cloth padding. She smiles at the metal, murmuring something about “payment”, and tucks the gold pieces into her sleeve.
Sipping his tea, Sylvain reflects on his unusual luck. Z.S. of famed Hand lore was said to be a fabled apparatus-maker, a master of the crafting arts and item enchantments, and she’d praised the excellent condition of his spirit staff. Perhaps it was worth wandering through path-less mountain scrub and needing to stop more times than he remembered for directions. He’d had to call several birds out of their daily routines, including one or two rather shady-looking ones with beady eyes and sharp beaks—
Snapping back to attention at the movement of something being pushed across the table towards him, Sylvain breaks through his fog of thoughts in time to hear master Shiritori inquire as to if he’d be willing to make a delivery to a dear friend of hers in the forest on the western mountainside. It is some paper made of pressed leaves, nothing fancy, but it is something the friend has asked for many times. Sylvain agrees before he completely processes the information that said friend is roughly a thousand years old, somewhat eccentric, and also the relative of many beetles, so please don’t eat any during your visit.
“…how many years, again?” He repeats when the silence has stretched just too far for his liking, and Master Shiritori just laughs, her voice like the wind chimes made of bones over her home’s door. “Do not worry about meeting her. A journey born of friendship is always worthwhile.”
—-
A small figure is crouched before a large mossy rock, eyes fixed on what looks like an empty jar with small holes poked into the lid, sitting atop the stone in a cushion of lichen. Dressed in a tunic and long skirt fashioned from small, multicolored and interconnected metal pieces, the beetle girl Julodis is a bright spot of color in the otherwise dark undergrowth of the forest. Her metallic hair gleams with a blue sheen, which emphasizes the small but noticeable pair of antennae that sprouts from the crown of her head.
It has taken nearly three hours for Sylvain to find her, but fortunately the bundle of paper he is delivering is light. Still, he could use a nap, Sylvain thinks. There are many other things he would like to think on as well. What sound does a beetle make when it flies?
The bird mage pauses, setting his foot down carefully so as to not startle the girl who is so intent on her observation that she does not seem to move, to breathe. He approaches, slower, more steadily, and when he is close to the beetle girl he peers intently into the jar. He stares.
“…what are you doing?” is the first thing that leaves his mouth, though other questions in his mind are vying for recognition, questions such as “Where did you get that spider” and “Where did you get that large ant” and “Why are you staring at them climb around a jar.”
Flapping a hand at him silently, the beetle girl whispers back, “Shh. I’m writing a love story.” She smiles a dreamy smile, and continues with a slightly faraway look, “She’s a queen ant. He’s not that special so far as spider kind goes, usually he just barely capture enough of the regular ants to survive, fate threw them together…” she trails off and prods the side of the jar, knocking the spider back to the bottom, where the queen ant is pacing restlessly.
“Much as he admires her, much as he intrigues her, he will be her tragic end.” She tilts her head, and the faint, muted sunlight catches on the iridescent beetle wing ornaments that glitter at her ears. Sylvain blinks and looks backwards over his shoulder, checking for something. He prods one of the feathers on his spirit staff.
A few heartbeats of silence later, and he almost timidly offers, “If it’s meant to be a tragedy, I can ask one of my friends to eat them both. Birds eat bugs…” he breaks off, wondering how to word the rest of the statement. “That way the spider doesn’t have to kill his, erm, love.”
The beetle girl turns around and stares at the bird mage from where she sits, her antennae waving back and forth in agitation. “No. It must be their own nature that tears them apart. The heartbreak is more tangible—”
“I think,” Sylvain interrupts mildly, “You should stop shaking the jar…?”
Julodis’s head whips back to the mossy stone, where her hand is, indeed, clenched around the jar and jostling it. She gasps. “When did the spider catch the ant? He must have been spinning web all this time they were walking in circles around each other!” She holds the jar up to her eyes, chattering on, “The spider isn’t even moving. Just resting on the web, isn’t moving, just—‘the spider holds his hapless victim close, mourning the law of nature that has led him to kill his queen.’” She sighs as she regards the jar fondly. A passing blue-gold beetle in flight lands on a leaf nearby, and begins to warble an aria in a high, tinny flutter of wings.
Sylvain somewhat spoils the effect by muttering, “Actually, I think the spider’s eating.”
“She had gnawed on his heart for too long! Artistic license. Look at how the spider cradles the body.”
Sylvain manages an awkward chuckle, but quickly stops when he sees Julodis’s expression.
“Are… is that a tear?”
“Shut up,” is the brisk response.
Sylvain directs his eyes skyward (or in the forest’s case, canopy-ward) and stifles an exasperated comment. He withdraws the stack of leaf-pressed paper from his coat, and places it carefully on the mossy stone, in the space vacated by the jar. “Here. From Lady Shiritori. I wonder if these will soon bear words of tragedy and love.”
Julodis eyes the paper and grins, and Sylvain is reminded that a thousand years is young for someone who can live to be ten times that age. “Thank you, bird mage,” She says politely. “When you take the path back, take the turn that is lined with mint. Sing your avian songs as you walk, and you will find yourself at a wooden house. Please visit my brother at the foot of the mountain and let him know I have a new story for him. He will ensure the journey is worthwhile.”
“A journey born of friendship is always worthwhile. Sayonara.” Sylvain bows slightly, shoulders his staff, and beats a hasty getaway before he starts to feel too uncomfortably sorry for a spider and an ant.
—-
“Ah, still writing, is she? That live-action as-it-happens tragic fanfiction stuff?” Vansoni, preferred name Vans, smiles a smile that showed a mouth full of unnaturally (and spiny) sharp teeth. “My sister was always a dreamer. Perhaps that’s why she sees more than most.” The beetle man chuckles as he organizes a pile of assorted small debris on a table that he and the bird mage are seated at.
Vans continues to sort through a series of small dark pellets as Sylvain looks around the inside of the house. There are no walls that separate the space into rooms, but small wickerwork contraptions are suspended from cut tree branches that crisscross the ceiling like a web. Metallic beetles crawl like an ever-undulating blanket of color along the network. Vans himself, clad in a colorful loose-fitting coarse-cloth robe seems to blend in well with them.
“In any event, it is good to hear from my little sister again, and good to hear that she has the means to remember her stories. Things are easy to forget over a thousand years, if one cannot write them down.” Vans reaches for a shelving unit under the table and takes something out of one of the drawers. “Please, accept this from the two of us.”
Sylvain accepts the cloth sack, hearing whatever it contains rustle as the pouch changes hands. “Thank you.”
Vans grins. “The beetles around here are on good terms with the birds. The smaller the limbs, the more delicate work can be done, the more food can be gathered. This blend convinces the birds around here to leave the beetles alone so they can keep gathering the ingredients.”
“Blend?” Sylvain inquires, though he feels he knows what the answer will be.
The beetle man nods, his stubby antennae bending once in a nod of their own. “Birdseed. Hope you like it.”
—-
Sylvain walks through the dwindling light of dusk, holding a bag of birdseed, nigh-identical to the one he’d taken from his coat pocket less than a turn of the sun ago.
A hundred steps later finds him at the base of a magnolia tree his feet have led him to without his head being aware of it. Sylvain leans his staff against the tree and looks up. He shrugs off his coat, tosses it onto a low branch, and scrambles up the crisscrossing sections of wood at the trunk. Leaning back against smooth bark, he opens the package. A moment later he is eating small handfuls of birdseed and humming snatches of avian lullabies as he chews.
He hears twittering from somewhere near the large white flowers on the eastern side of the tree. Smiling, the bird mage shifts to the side a little, and pours a neat pile of birdseed onto the three branches he can reach without getting up.
The chattering of birdsong lasts long into the evening. It is good to have friends, he thinks before dozing off.