Tśuķ
New
Roleplay posts: 5
Age: 827
Appearance: Tśuķ is a Dīraá, a creature that a human would describe as the unholy mixture between an insect and a snake. Their lower half is a coiling tail remniscent of a snake with the banding of a centipede, while their upper half is a somewhat humanoid figure with the chitinous coating of an insect and two pairs of arms. The upper pair is larger, tipped by hands that are little more than the claws they bear. The lower pair is smaller, delicate, with dextrous hands more suited to fine and difficult tasks. Their flat head is marked by three ink black eyes, and a series of sensory pits that detect heat and sound. Fin-like appendages surround their head, and a series of mostly decorative fans can flare from around their neck and upper back. Two large insectoid wings sprout from their back, wide and rounded like a beetle's, marked at the ends by two large, dark spots. The vast majority of their chitin is an iridescent peacock green, but markings of red-orange and black can be seen when they flare their wings and fans. Altogether, they would perhaps be an intimidating creature, but their size somewhat softens that effect: Tśuķ stands at only one and a half feet tall, small even by Dīraá standards.
Equipment: --------------------------------------
One leather Dīraá-style sling bag, filled with scribe's tools, two week's emergency rations, a set of fine robes, a set of warm robes, a brass mirror, a lantern, lantern oil, blowdarts, a vial of their own poison, climbing hooks, a length of silk rope, and two handfuls of pure silver currency.
Skills and Abilities: --------------------------------------
Tśuķ is, quite literally, a born diplomat. In their most recent incarnation, they chose to metamorphize as a Ķáhšātù, a class of Dīraá that acts as an emissary for the swarm. They have spent 47 years in this incarnation, learning politesse and political maneuvering above all other arts. They are proficient at writing and speaking the many dialects of the Dīraá, though they find themselves frustrated by their lack of knowledge concerning the languages and cultures of other Mistborne refugees.
They have some small capacity form magic, though even their paltry talents have been greatly reduced by the Mist. As of now, Tśuķ is only capable of purifying small containers of water and casting preservation charms, and even then, they now require more ingredients and complicated rituals than they ever used to.
Their Emissary status means they are smaller and weaker than their counterparts, but every member of their swarm values hand-to-hand combat as a form of high art, and so Tśuķ is proficient in using their claws and fangs to fight. Their most deadly defense is their own natural venom, which they refine and use in their preferred weapon: blowdarts. The venom causes only sleep and mild paralysis, but it is enough to incapacitate a foe long enough for Tśuķ to finish the job or escape.
Tśuķ has plentiful experience surviving in desert wilderness, capable of surviving the heat and finding shelter and sustenance almost indefinately. Other climates, however, are more of a challenge. Cold climates are especially dangerous, as the cold blooded Dīraá cannot produce their own source of heat. Tśuķ is also, overall, quite fragile, with paper-thin wings and a thin, shimmering carapace. They do best amongst the other members of their swarm, both in terms of physical protection and their very sanity— emissaries can hold out longer than most, but all Dīraá ultimately need the companionship of other Dīraá, and will begin to go mad the longer they are kept seperate from their swarm.
Biography: --------------------------------------
Tśuķ-Þáhsúē-Ķáhšātù-Țóhśē, like all of their people, carries a whole resumé in their title alone. Among the Dīraá, Tśuķ's standard title is "The Nintieth incarnation of the one for whom 'Tśuķ' is shouted, honorable bearer-of-discussion for the swarm of Þáhsúē." Their own people would see it as a great offense to shorten it outside of dire circumstance— Tśuķ has since discovered that outsiders tend to barely manage their shout-name, nevermind their full title. But as a polite and generous diplomat, they've gracefully accepted that pretty much everyone they meet ends up calling them something like "Zook."
Tśuķ has the patience that only a nigh-immortal being can manage, and the friendliness of a creature who has never known a sentient being that does not strive for the good-of-all. Conversely, they are also quite violent: injury and death are mild inconviniences at most, to the Dīraá. Overall, Tśuķ is most definitely in for the culture shock of their life as they pursue their mission as the voice of their swarm.
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Allegiances: The Þáhsúē Swarm
Registered: Jul 22, 2021 21:51:52 GMT -5
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Post by Tśuķ on Aug 29, 2021 3:15:23 GMT -5
Some uncharted place in the southeastern desert, a voice rose over the winds. Among the quiet sound of shifting dunes and the susurrus of boat hulls dragged over sand, a storyteller wove an old tale in the flutelike tones of their native tongue. "…and Wàtýē said to the sea, 'though you bore me I forsake you, and like the nymph that leaves the mother-nest for the House of another T'ò, I sever my blood from your blood.' Yet the sea loves with ignoble jealousy, and so unlike the honorable Zā who sends a nymph from their halls and burns their first-silks, the Mother Waters hid Wàtýē's silks in the deepest of ocean trenches…"
Then, Tśuķ trailed off—the last of the nymphs had finally fallen asleep.
The Emissary, being too slight to help pull the boats, had been left to entertain and watch over the young. Normally, Tśuķ would have relished the chance to regale the nymphs with their swarm's chronicles. Today, they just felt hollow. So much that was, was now lost. Worse, there was no telling what more they would lose in the coming days. Fate always took its due. Tśuķ could only hope that it waited for some more distant day. To at least forstall until these young ones had the chance for their soft scales to harden against the harsh world.
The two Matriarchs gazed at Tśuķ from their own perch, curled protectively along the mast with their tails interwound. Though it was rare for two of the same Cadre to clutch at the same time, Āsìt and Sáŕ had wished to raise their young as one. Thus any of their nymphs who succeeded in reaching adulthood would be granted the rights of both lineages. After all, the two Matriarchs were of such similar mind as to be considered one-soul-in-two-hearts, and their offspring likewise should be bound to both regardless of which Zā carried their egg.
Even with the full support of a Cadre, however, raising such a large clutch was a difficult task. Now the Matriarchs had only one cadremate beside them, and the only nymphs left living were theirs. Tśuķ wondered if this last story had offended them—if they would wish for some of the young to find other Halls, or if this tragedy would make the pair cling tighter to what legacy remained of their Cadre. But Āsìt, catching their gaze, merely blinked and folded their caudal hands in a silent show of approval. Tśuķ flicked open the fans along their hips in acknowledgement, and slithered over the side of the boat to tread the sands of their new home. They would watch for the unknown dangers of the horizon. After all, regardless of the T'ò that the young ones claimed, it was the duty of the whole swarm to protect them.
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Foxgloves
Established
Roleplay posts: 28 
Appearance: Foxgloves is shaped like a man for the most part, tall and lanky. He wears a long coat with innumerable pockets and a hood with two long points that flop about like a rabbit's ears. The fingers of his gloves are long and thin, and his pointed boots are unadorned. Most notably, he wears a white mask, behind which only darkness can be seen. He is very light, as though stuffed nothing but cotton and cobwebs.
Skills and Abilities: Foxgloves, at his very core, is a salesman. He primarily sells glass eyes and body parts, although can generally find anything the customer could possibly desire for the right price. He tends to be very curious, and loves nothing more than a good story or a secret. In general, he displays a casual disregard for rules of all kinds, whether they be posted signs, regulations of a nation, or the laws of nature itself.
Biography: Foxgloves is quiet and focused, with a calm voice that hides how high-strung he can be. He has the habit of becoming fixated on certain people or things, usually things he finds particularly beautiful. A soft-spoken individual, Foxgloves’ lack of vocal cords prevents him from speaking above a loud whisper. Very few things upset him, except when it comes to things that he cannot have. If Foxgloves wants something, he will bargain incessantly, before resorting to begging or stealing. If deprived of something he wants badly, he falls into a deep melancholy. Usually, he perks up again once he manages to find or create a facsimile of the desired object, even if it’s nothing more than a piece of painted paper-mache.
Allegiances: Himself
Registered: Mar 19, 2021 19:18:12 GMT -5
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Post by Foxgloves on Sept 8, 2021 22:12:11 GMT -5
As the arid wind howled across the golden dunes, it carried more than just sand through the cool night air. Foxgloves found himself, as he so often did these days, being blown about on a particularly strong gust of wind like little more than a bundle of clothes. It was a fair comparison, for Foxgloves was made mostly of cloth with naught but a painted mask to serve as a face. Still, it was rather undignified to be tossed to and fro, limbs and hood points flopping and flailing as he sailed over the darkened dunes. He supposed that he ought to find it somewhat uncomfortable, being buffeted about by gusts and breezes, but the thought of meeting somebody new kept his spirits high. The winds were kind in these parts, and they always seemed to deposit him near a new stranger with tales to tell. Sure enough, as another gust hurled him up and over a dune, another breeze carried unfamiliar words in an unknown language. Someone was there, alright. Many someones, by the sound of things.
The kindness of the wind, however, did not extend to landing. The strong gusts died down, and Foxgloves fell unceremoniously into the sand with a soft rustle of cloth. The odd pile of coats and clothing took a moment to untangle himself, untwisting legs and shaking out arms before flexing his long, gloved fingers and getting to his feet. The twin points of Foxgloves' hood perked straight up in the air as he spotted the odd insectoid figure nearby him, standing over a collection of smaller creatures. Children, perhaps? Or food? He wasn't quite sure, and supposed that it could just as easily be both. People tended to be rather odd, and one could never quite tell how they would treat their offspring. He'd recorded a number of anecdotes on the matter in one of his notebooks, but the volume had slipped from his pocket somewhere over the great eastern plains. A regrettable loss indeed, for he now found himself unable to recall exactly how one was expected to greet a child. If only he had his notes...but notes could be rewritten, and it seemed that he'd have ample opportunity to do so now. Taking long strides across the sand in his pointed purple boots, he stepped up to the standing figure.
"Hello there, my chitinous friend," he said, spreading his arms wide. "Do you happen to speak my tongue? Quite a curious phrase, that. Speaking one's tongue...it never seemed to fit before I got one of my own. Now, though, I suppose I'm well equipped to use it. I must say, though, I'm quite tired of tasting sand. I had more than my fill on the way in, I'm afraid."
A long, blackish-purple tongue extended down from beneath the mask, flicking back and forth like a questing snake searching for a meal. Golden sand flecked the worm-like appendage, glittering in the firelight. Pulling an embroidered silk handkerchief from his pocket, Foxgloves carefully wiped the sand from his tongue, which retreated back behind the painted mask once his cleaning was done.
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Tśuķ
New
Roleplay posts: 5
Age: 827
Appearance: Tśuķ is a Dīraá, a creature that a human would describe as the unholy mixture between an insect and a snake. Their lower half is a coiling tail remniscent of a snake with the banding of a centipede, while their upper half is a somewhat humanoid figure with the chitinous coating of an insect and two pairs of arms. The upper pair is larger, tipped by hands that are little more than the claws they bear. The lower pair is smaller, delicate, with dextrous hands more suited to fine and difficult tasks. Their flat head is marked by three ink black eyes, and a series of sensory pits that detect heat and sound. Fin-like appendages surround their head, and a series of mostly decorative fans can flare from around their neck and upper back. Two large insectoid wings sprout from their back, wide and rounded like a beetle's, marked at the ends by two large, dark spots. The vast majority of their chitin is an iridescent peacock green, but markings of red-orange and black can be seen when they flare their wings and fans. Altogether, they would perhaps be an intimidating creature, but their size somewhat softens that effect: Tśuķ stands at only one and a half feet tall, small even by Dīraá standards.
Equipment: --------------------------------------
One leather Dīraá-style sling bag, filled with scribe's tools, two week's emergency rations, a set of fine robes, a set of warm robes, a brass mirror, a lantern, lantern oil, blowdarts, a vial of their own poison, climbing hooks, a length of silk rope, and two handfuls of pure silver currency.
Skills and Abilities: --------------------------------------
Tśuķ is, quite literally, a born diplomat. In their most recent incarnation, they chose to metamorphize as a Ķáhšātù, a class of Dīraá that acts as an emissary for the swarm. They have spent 47 years in this incarnation, learning politesse and political maneuvering above all other arts. They are proficient at writing and speaking the many dialects of the Dīraá, though they find themselves frustrated by their lack of knowledge concerning the languages and cultures of other Mistborne refugees.
They have some small capacity form magic, though even their paltry talents have been greatly reduced by the Mist. As of now, Tśuķ is only capable of purifying small containers of water and casting preservation charms, and even then, they now require more ingredients and complicated rituals than they ever used to.
Their Emissary status means they are smaller and weaker than their counterparts, but every member of their swarm values hand-to-hand combat as a form of high art, and so Tśuķ is proficient in using their claws and fangs to fight. Their most deadly defense is their own natural venom, which they refine and use in their preferred weapon: blowdarts. The venom causes only sleep and mild paralysis, but it is enough to incapacitate a foe long enough for Tśuķ to finish the job or escape.
Tśuķ has plentiful experience surviving in desert wilderness, capable of surviving the heat and finding shelter and sustenance almost indefinately. Other climates, however, are more of a challenge. Cold climates are especially dangerous, as the cold blooded Dīraá cannot produce their own source of heat. Tśuķ is also, overall, quite fragile, with paper-thin wings and a thin, shimmering carapace. They do best amongst the other members of their swarm, both in terms of physical protection and their very sanity— emissaries can hold out longer than most, but all Dīraá ultimately need the companionship of other Dīraá, and will begin to go mad the longer they are kept seperate from their swarm.
Biography: --------------------------------------
Tśuķ-Þáhsúē-Ķáhšātù-Țóhśē, like all of their people, carries a whole resumé in their title alone. Among the Dīraá, Tśuķ's standard title is "The Nintieth incarnation of the one for whom 'Tśuķ' is shouted, honorable bearer-of-discussion for the swarm of Þáhsúē." Their own people would see it as a great offense to shorten it outside of dire circumstance— Tśuķ has since discovered that outsiders tend to barely manage their shout-name, nevermind their full title. But as a polite and generous diplomat, they've gracefully accepted that pretty much everyone they meet ends up calling them something like "Zook."
Tśuķ has the patience that only a nigh-immortal being can manage, and the friendliness of a creature who has never known a sentient being that does not strive for the good-of-all. Conversely, they are also quite violent: injury and death are mild inconviniences at most, to the Dīraá. Overall, Tśuķ is most definitely in for the culture shock of their life as they pursue their mission as the voice of their swarm.
--------------------------------------
Allegiances: The Þáhsúē Swarm
Registered: Jul 22, 2021 21:51:52 GMT -5
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Post by Tśuķ on Sept 13, 2021 10:01:00 GMT -5
Not long after Tśuķ began their watch, it bore fruit in the form of something drifting aimlessly with the wind. They could not say for certain if it was an odd creature or the cast-off clothing of one, but the look of it certainly reminded them of fabric. The emissary looked at the delicate unfurling of cloth and thought wistfully of fine scroll-silks.
When the thing collapsed into a crumpled pile, Tśuķ thought the matter settled. They slithered closer to examine the lost item only for it to suddenly stretch and flutter into form. Alive after all then, perhaps, though Tśuķ mused that this being seemed more spirit than flesh. Ghosts were notoriously tricky, strange and their manner and lacking understanding for the ethics and emotions of the living. They would need to tread with care.
The stranger approached with outstretched arms, and Tśuķ's instincts prickled at the gesture. The rest of the swarm did more than prickle—an offended hiss rose from anyone in viewing distance. Tśuķ's cilia twitched in exasperation, and they gestured for the swarm to quiet. Honestly, it wasn't as if they could expect this floating peice of fabric to abide by their customs! Or speak their language, for that matter. The noises that the stranger made certainly seemed like speech; rising and falling in complex patterns of intonation and intent. Yet it was not a language Tśuķ had ever heard before.
That was unsurprising. After all, Tśuķ had never met a being such as this one. The diplomat had certainly never seen a tongue quite so long before, either. They struggled not to express their revulsion. After all, few cultures had the same taboos regarding the mouth. Dealing with the unseemly baring of mouth-parts was par for the course in their role as emissary. The rest of the swarm, far less desensitized, did their level best to project expressions other than scandalized horror, to little success. Tśuķ prayed their expressions were as unreadable to the stranger as the stranger's were to them.
Tśuķ waited for the visitor to put away their tongue before speaking themself. Tentatively, the diplomat mimicked the first part of the stranger's speech, tasting the edges of the unfamiliar syllables. At first, they stumbled, but as they continued to repeat the stranger's words, the recitation grew clear and precise. By the end, Tśuķ had copied the sound of their strange guest's voice with uncanny precision. Then, they switched to their own language, on the off chance that the wanderer might know of it. Or, at least, to demonstrate that they, too, were beings with language. (In Tśuķ's experience, strangers were less likely to eat you if they knew you could talk).
"Hello, stranger-who-could-be-friend. I am called Tśuķ-Þáhsúē-Ķáhšātù-Țóhśē. I do not yet know your language, and I am uncertain as to whether you understand mine. My people welcome you as guest of our swarm, though we have regrettably little to offer…" Tśuķ trailed off, the speech feeling futile and foolish. Oh, how all of their diligent training had come to naught in an instant! They were useless to the swarm like this; a diplomat who knew nothing of the world in which they found themself. They would give much for even the most paltry of travel guides.
Still, foolish or no, Tśuķ would not be inhospitable. They had some pride left. So they gestured to the nearest member of the swarm—Sáŕ, apparently—who nodded and slithered quickly for the main boat. She returned with one of the few remaining wrap-cloaks, a long rectangle of rich ink-blue silk interwoven with copper in delicate geometric patterns. Tśuķ offered it to the stranger with a prideful flourish of spread wings and fans. Their swarm may be depleted, but at least enough wealth remained for them to treat guests and observe the rituals of hospitality.
"…We welcome you," they repeated, voice softer this time, more certain, with the cloth held delicately between their outstretched forelimbs.
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Foxgloves
Established
Roleplay posts: 28
Appearance: Foxgloves is shaped like a man for the most part, tall and lanky. He wears a long coat with innumerable pockets and a hood with two long points that flop about like a rabbit's ears. The fingers of his gloves are long and thin, and his pointed boots are unadorned. Most notably, he wears a white mask, behind which only darkness can be seen. He is very light, as though stuffed nothing but cotton and cobwebs.
Skills and Abilities: Foxgloves, at his very core, is a salesman. He primarily sells glass eyes and body parts, although can generally find anything the customer could possibly desire for the right price. He tends to be very curious, and loves nothing more than a good story or a secret. In general, he displays a casual disregard for rules of all kinds, whether they be posted signs, regulations of a nation, or the laws of nature itself.
Biography: Foxgloves is quiet and focused, with a calm voice that hides how high-strung he can be. He has the habit of becoming fixated on certain people or things, usually things he finds particularly beautiful. A soft-spoken individual, Foxgloves’ lack of vocal cords prevents him from speaking above a loud whisper. Very few things upset him, except when it comes to things that he cannot have. If Foxgloves wants something, he will bargain incessantly, before resorting to begging or stealing. If deprived of something he wants badly, he falls into a deep melancholy. Usually, he perks up again once he manages to find or create a facsimile of the desired object, even if it’s nothing more than a piece of painted paper-mache.
Allegiances: Himself
Registered: Mar 19, 2021 19:18:12 GMT -5
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Post by Foxgloves on Sept 16, 2021 13:20:43 GMT -5
The odd, insectoid creatures that stood before him were certainly not like any sort of person Foxgloves had ever seen, and he'd seen quite a few people. Still, people they undoubtedly were, for the one before him managed to repeat exactly what he'd said in a rather remarkable display of mimicry. It then began to speak in some other language, something inscrutable and alien, but that was of little matter. The fact that they could speak at all spoke to their intelligence, and so Foxgloves was sure that they held stories to be told. All that remained was the simple matter of understanding them.
"Aren't you clever," he said, cocking his head to one side and letting the points of his hood flop down. "Such a strange sort of people you are. Do you understand, or simply repeat? Of course, that's of little consequence, for even a mere mimic-bird has tales to tell. Even if they belong to others, every story must be heard. Will you tell, my mimic-bird friend? Will you spill the secrets of the desert to an outsider? Do you even understand the words that I'm saying? Oh, silly me. Of course not. Not everybody speaks the common tongue...until they do."
He paused as the massive arthropod sent another scuttling off towards the beached boat, wondering how it had gotten so far inland. When it returned with the beautiful cloth, the shining copper threads inlaid in the fabric caught his eye. The points of his hood perked up as he peered at the thing, then stood straight up as the creature offered it to him. It was obviously meant as a gift, and he accepted it graciously with a small bow. Holding the fabric up to the sun, he wondered if the strange insects had created it themselves. Where had they gotten the fabric? Was it spun from some sort of pupal silk? It was a marvelous gift indeed, and spoke to the generosity and hospitality of the creatures. Perhaps he would stitch it into his own cloak later. If only he'd had a seamstress's hand...but most of his collection of hands had gone missing during the long journey to the island. Folding the cloth and putting it within his cloak, he started rummaging around in his pockets for a gift of his own. His arm sank down to the elbow within the depths of his coat before he retrieved what he was looking for: a pink, fresh, vaguely twitching human tongue. The tongue in question had belonged to a linguist, who had held quite the understanding of the common language before her untimely demise. Placing the flopping appendage on the flat of his palm, he offered it up to the insectoid creature as a gift of his own.
"You must eat it," he said, miming bringing the tongue to the mouth of his mask. "They say that you are what you eat, and in this case it really is very true. Consume the common tongue, and in doing so, gain an understanding of the language. It's clear that you're able to speak our language, at least in the physical sense. All you need do now is to simply learn the meaning behind the words. A simple matter."
He proffered the severed tongue insistently, miming the motion of eating it again. Did these creatures eat meat, he wondered? That was of little concern. Anyone could eat a little tongue like this, and it was quite imperative that at least one of them consumed it. A translator was of vital importance, lest their stories of metamorphosis and pupation vanish into the sand.
"Can you understand me?" he asked, once the tongue had been consumed. "Oh, I do so hope that you can. I'm afraid I haven't another tongue to spare."
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Tśuķ
New
Roleplay posts: 5
Age: 827
Appearance: Tśuķ is a Dīraá, a creature that a human would describe as the unholy mixture between an insect and a snake. Their lower half is a coiling tail remniscent of a snake with the banding of a centipede, while their upper half is a somewhat humanoid figure with the chitinous coating of an insect and two pairs of arms. The upper pair is larger, tipped by hands that are little more than the claws they bear. The lower pair is smaller, delicate, with dextrous hands more suited to fine and difficult tasks. Their flat head is marked by three ink black eyes, and a series of sensory pits that detect heat and sound. Fin-like appendages surround their head, and a series of mostly decorative fans can flare from around their neck and upper back. Two large insectoid wings sprout from their back, wide and rounded like a beetle's, marked at the ends by two large, dark spots. The vast majority of their chitin is an iridescent peacock green, but markings of red-orange and black can be seen when they flare their wings and fans. Altogether, they would perhaps be an intimidating creature, but their size somewhat softens that effect: Tśuķ stands at only one and a half feet tall, small even by Dīraá standards.
Equipment: --------------------------------------
One leather Dīraá-style sling bag, filled with scribe's tools, two week's emergency rations, a set of fine robes, a set of warm robes, a brass mirror, a lantern, lantern oil, blowdarts, a vial of their own poison, climbing hooks, a length of silk rope, and two handfuls of pure silver currency.
Skills and Abilities: --------------------------------------
Tśuķ is, quite literally, a born diplomat. In their most recent incarnation, they chose to metamorphize as a Ķáhšātù, a class of Dīraá that acts as an emissary for the swarm. They have spent 47 years in this incarnation, learning politesse and political maneuvering above all other arts. They are proficient at writing and speaking the many dialects of the Dīraá, though they find themselves frustrated by their lack of knowledge concerning the languages and cultures of other Mistborne refugees.
They have some small capacity form magic, though even their paltry talents have been greatly reduced by the Mist. As of now, Tśuķ is only capable of purifying small containers of water and casting preservation charms, and even then, they now require more ingredients and complicated rituals than they ever used to.
Their Emissary status means they are smaller and weaker than their counterparts, but every member of their swarm values hand-to-hand combat as a form of high art, and so Tśuķ is proficient in using their claws and fangs to fight. Their most deadly defense is their own natural venom, which they refine and use in their preferred weapon: blowdarts. The venom causes only sleep and mild paralysis, but it is enough to incapacitate a foe long enough for Tśuķ to finish the job or escape.
Tśuķ has plentiful experience surviving in desert wilderness, capable of surviving the heat and finding shelter and sustenance almost indefinately. Other climates, however, are more of a challenge. Cold climates are especially dangerous, as the cold blooded Dīraá cannot produce their own source of heat. Tśuķ is also, overall, quite fragile, with paper-thin wings and a thin, shimmering carapace. They do best amongst the other members of their swarm, both in terms of physical protection and their very sanity— emissaries can hold out longer than most, but all Dīraá ultimately need the companionship of other Dīraá, and will begin to go mad the longer they are kept seperate from their swarm.
Biography: --------------------------------------
Tśuķ-Þáhsúē-Ķáhšātù-Țóhśē, like all of their people, carries a whole resumé in their title alone. Among the Dīraá, Tśuķ's standard title is "The Nintieth incarnation of the one for whom 'Tśuķ' is shouted, honorable bearer-of-discussion for the swarm of Þáhsúē." Their own people would see it as a great offense to shorten it outside of dire circumstance— Tśuķ has since discovered that outsiders tend to barely manage their shout-name, nevermind their full title. But as a polite and generous diplomat, they've gracefully accepted that pretty much everyone they meet ends up calling them something like "Zook."
Tśuķ has the patience that only a nigh-immortal being can manage, and the friendliness of a creature who has never known a sentient being that does not strive for the good-of-all. Conversely, they are also quite violent: injury and death are mild inconviniences at most, to the Dīraá. Overall, Tśuķ is most definitely in for the culture shock of their life as they pursue their mission as the voice of their swarm.
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Allegiances: The Þáhsúē Swarm
Registered: Jul 22, 2021 21:51:52 GMT -5
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Post by Tśuķ on Sept 21, 2021 1:52:19 GMT -5
The stranger took the offering with a shallow bow, and Tśuķ was struck with the sense memory of another stranger in another world. The Mćuùā people of the mountains bowed much the same. Were there any Mćuùā left, now, they wondered? Their soul ached at the thought. They had lives that came and went as quickly as cocoons, but they were warm and joyous and lovely in their own strange ways. This stranger was not one of them. But, for a moment…
Well. Tśuķ was just glad that there were other sentient peoples in this new world. It would have been terribly lonely, otherwise.
The stranger continued to speak, just as inscrutible as before, before presenting his own gift. From his baffling and volumnous cloak, the cloth-spirit produced some wet, twitching organ, then mimicked an eating motion. Curious, Tśuķ extended a forelimb from their wide sleeves, careful to keep their thorny spines away from the stranger's own clothes. A light touch of a tarsus to the offering revealed the distinctive taste of fresh meat, albeit one that was unfamiliar. Had this stranger been hunting just before their paths had crossed? In any case, it was a fine offering, clearly a choice cut of whatever prey it had come from.
Tśuķ bobbed a short bow of their own as they received the gift. Such a fresh thing would be a shame to waste, and appreciation must be shown, so Tśuķ was quick to consume it. They raised one trailing sleeve to hide their face as they savored the strange meal. They had been unsure at the disembodied sight of it, but the texture firmly convinced them it was some sort of tongue. The taste was mammalian and heavy with iron. Odd, but rather enjoyable. Tśuķ wondered what sort of creature it came from.
If only they could ask, but alas, the diplomat wasn't even sure where to begin with learning their odd guest's equally odd language. It was completely foriegn. Or it was, until…
Somehow, though the sounds did not change, they gained shape and clarity in Tśuķ's mind. The rythm of the words gained structure and meaning. The stranger's speech stood out in sharp relief, where once it was inscrutable as the winds. "Can you understand me?" Said the stranger, in a voice that Tśuķ registered as pleasantly soft, now that they could understand it. "Oh, I do so hope that you can. I'm afraid I haven't another tongue to spare."
Tśuķ worried that finding their own words would be more difficult than mere understanding. They needn't have–the words flowed like water from a spring. "Yes, I believe I do. Thank you, kind stranger. It was a most lovely gift–especially so if it was the reason I can now speak with you. What brings you to cross our path? And, oh! I had almost forgotten. I could not greet you properly, with our earlier miscommunication. I am an Emissary—the Emissary, I suppose—of this swarm. On the behalf of all, I welcome you as a guest."
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Foxgloves
Established
Roleplay posts: 28
Appearance: Foxgloves is shaped like a man for the most part, tall and lanky. He wears a long coat with innumerable pockets and a hood with two long points that flop about like a rabbit's ears. The fingers of his gloves are long and thin, and his pointed boots are unadorned. Most notably, he wears a white mask, behind which only darkness can be seen. He is very light, as though stuffed nothing but cotton and cobwebs.
Skills and Abilities: Foxgloves, at his very core, is a salesman. He primarily sells glass eyes and body parts, although can generally find anything the customer could possibly desire for the right price. He tends to be very curious, and loves nothing more than a good story or a secret. In general, he displays a casual disregard for rules of all kinds, whether they be posted signs, regulations of a nation, or the laws of nature itself.
Biography: Foxgloves is quiet and focused, with a calm voice that hides how high-strung he can be. He has the habit of becoming fixated on certain people or things, usually things he finds particularly beautiful. A soft-spoken individual, Foxgloves’ lack of vocal cords prevents him from speaking above a loud whisper. Very few things upset him, except when it comes to things that he cannot have. If Foxgloves wants something, he will bargain incessantly, before resorting to begging or stealing. If deprived of something he wants badly, he falls into a deep melancholy. Usually, he perks up again once he manages to find or create a facsimile of the desired object, even if it’s nothing more than a piece of painted paper-mache.
Allegiances: Himself
Registered: Mar 19, 2021 19:18:12 GMT -5
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Post by Foxgloves on Sept 22, 2021 9:57:00 GMT -5
In truth, Foxgloves hadn't been entirely sure that the tongue would do the trick. Sure, it was as clever and cunning as any he'd ever found, but he'd been a bit dubious about its freshness. The few remaining parts that he'd managed to keep with him on the long voyage over the sea had all begun to show their age, and he'd been reluctantly forced to discard several severed hands and disembodied appendages when they'd started to rot. Thankfully, the tongue managed to retain its knowledge of the language well enough, and he was rewarded with the Emissary's smooth voice speaking words that he understood. The points of his hood perked up as the creature spoke to him, and he clapped his gloves together with a soft pat.
"Ah, lovely," he said, bobbing his head up and down. "I'm so very glad to meet you, Emissary. I am Foxgloves, a...travelling merchant, you might say. I'm afraid I've little in the way of wares, however. It's been such a very long time since I've been able to restock on things, but that is of little consequence. You are the emissary of the swarm, you say? I suppose that makes these lovely creatures the swarm. Oh, but what interesting people you are. Thank you for the warm welcome, and for the wonderful gift as well. As for what brings me here...I must confess that it's little more than chance and the blowing wind. I'm very light, you see, and gusts of wind often carry me to new places. It's a lucky thing indeed that there weren't any trees for me to get caught in this time."
Standing on the tiptoes of his long, pointed boots, Foxgloves peered up and over the emissary's shoulder at the smaller, soft-bodied creatures dozing behind. An odd species indeed. Did they metamorphose, he wondered? Did they bury themselves in the sand to pupate and emerge as the adult that he saw standing before him?
"Young ones?" he asked, one hood point bending downwards to point at the sleeping creatures. "You've many children, if so. Are they yours, or do you watch over the offspring of others? In any case, I've a gift for them as well. A novelty for them to enjoy when they wake."
Reaching deep into his pocket once more, Foxgloves folded in half at the waist as his arm sank nearly to the shoulder into the inscrutable depths of his coat. When his hand finally emerged, he clutched a small wooden box engraved with a dizzying mess of spiraling patterns that seemed almost to move when stared at. A tiny brass key sprouted from the side of the box, its head another intricate spiral. Foxgloves twisted the key several times, then sat the box on the ground and opened the lid. A small, faceless puppet-figure popped up and began to dance as a haunting, unsettling tune played from within the music-box.
"I found this in the belly of a beached whale," said Foxgloves, giving the dancing doll a pat on the head with a fingertip. "Quite a strange thing, don't you think? Don't worry, I cleaned it off. I don't know what it does, but the children may enjoy it. How is it that you odd folk are all the way out in this desert, though? I see boats, but there's precious little water around here. Do you live among the sands?"
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Tśuķ
New
Roleplay posts: 5
Age: 827
Appearance: Tśuķ is a Dīraá, a creature that a human would describe as the unholy mixture between an insect and a snake. Their lower half is a coiling tail remniscent of a snake with the banding of a centipede, while their upper half is a somewhat humanoid figure with the chitinous coating of an insect and two pairs of arms. The upper pair is larger, tipped by hands that are little more than the claws they bear. The lower pair is smaller, delicate, with dextrous hands more suited to fine and difficult tasks. Their flat head is marked by three ink black eyes, and a series of sensory pits that detect heat and sound. Fin-like appendages surround their head, and a series of mostly decorative fans can flare from around their neck and upper back. Two large insectoid wings sprout from their back, wide and rounded like a beetle's, marked at the ends by two large, dark spots. The vast majority of their chitin is an iridescent peacock green, but markings of red-orange and black can be seen when they flare their wings and fans. Altogether, they would perhaps be an intimidating creature, but their size somewhat softens that effect: Tśuķ stands at only one and a half feet tall, small even by Dīraá standards.
Equipment: --------------------------------------
One leather Dīraá-style sling bag, filled with scribe's tools, two week's emergency rations, a set of fine robes, a set of warm robes, a brass mirror, a lantern, lantern oil, blowdarts, a vial of their own poison, climbing hooks, a length of silk rope, and two handfuls of pure silver currency.
Skills and Abilities: --------------------------------------
Tśuķ is, quite literally, a born diplomat. In their most recent incarnation, they chose to metamorphize as a Ķáhšātù, a class of Dīraá that acts as an emissary for the swarm. They have spent 47 years in this incarnation, learning politesse and political maneuvering above all other arts. They are proficient at writing and speaking the many dialects of the Dīraá, though they find themselves frustrated by their lack of knowledge concerning the languages and cultures of other Mistborne refugees.
They have some small capacity form magic, though even their paltry talents have been greatly reduced by the Mist. As of now, Tśuķ is only capable of purifying small containers of water and casting preservation charms, and even then, they now require more ingredients and complicated rituals than they ever used to.
Their Emissary status means they are smaller and weaker than their counterparts, but every member of their swarm values hand-to-hand combat as a form of high art, and so Tśuķ is proficient in using their claws and fangs to fight. Their most deadly defense is their own natural venom, which they refine and use in their preferred weapon: blowdarts. The venom causes only sleep and mild paralysis, but it is enough to incapacitate a foe long enough for Tśuķ to finish the job or escape.
Tśuķ has plentiful experience surviving in desert wilderness, capable of surviving the heat and finding shelter and sustenance almost indefinately. Other climates, however, are more of a challenge. Cold climates are especially dangerous, as the cold blooded Dīraá cannot produce their own source of heat. Tśuķ is also, overall, quite fragile, with paper-thin wings and a thin, shimmering carapace. They do best amongst the other members of their swarm, both in terms of physical protection and their very sanity— emissaries can hold out longer than most, but all Dīraá ultimately need the companionship of other Dīraá, and will begin to go mad the longer they are kept seperate from their swarm.
Biography: --------------------------------------
Tśuķ-Þáhsúē-Ķáhšātù-Țóhśē, like all of their people, carries a whole resumé in their title alone. Among the Dīraá, Tśuķ's standard title is "The Nintieth incarnation of the one for whom 'Tśuķ' is shouted, honorable bearer-of-discussion for the swarm of Þáhsúē." Their own people would see it as a great offense to shorten it outside of dire circumstance— Tśuķ has since discovered that outsiders tend to barely manage their shout-name, nevermind their full title. But as a polite and generous diplomat, they've gracefully accepted that pretty much everyone they meet ends up calling them something like "Zook."
Tśuķ has the patience that only a nigh-immortal being can manage, and the friendliness of a creature who has never known a sentient being that does not strive for the good-of-all. Conversely, they are also quite violent: injury and death are mild inconviniences at most, to the Dīraá. Overall, Tśuķ is most definitely in for the culture shock of their life as they pursue their mission as the voice of their swarm.
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Allegiances: The Þáhsúē Swarm
Registered: Jul 22, 2021 21:51:52 GMT -5
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Post by Tśuķ on Oct 11, 2021 15:28:07 GMT -5
Tśuķ was much relieved to find that they could speak the guest's—Foxgloves's—language, but theirs was not a curiosity easily sated. The Emissary watched the way that Foxgloves bobbed his head, tapped his hands together, and moved those... ears?... in all sorts of ways. Very emotive, Tśuķ thought, but also utterly incomprehensible. They hoped the guest might stay long enough for them to puzzle it out.
Apparently, this Foxgloves was a travelling merchant. From his questions, Tśuķ was pleased to find that he was like many of his trades's ilk: open-minded, silver-tongued, and relentlessly inquisitive. Perhaps, more than most, he had to be. Blowing with the winds sounded romantic and lovely for just a moment, and then horrific after only a second's thought. Their guest seemed unconcerned, though, aside from a mild distaste for trees.
Their guest peered over at the drowsing nymphs, asking if they were children and to whom they belonged. Āsìt slithered closer as Tśuķ waved a hand at the question. "No, not mine, merely my turn to watch them. I am the most practiced in speaking the Chronicles, and so I am often their storyteller. This clutch is shared by Āsìt and Sáŕ, our honorable Matriarchs."
Tśuķ watched as Foxgloves set up a small music-box before lifting the object to study it closer. Complex spirals seemed to shift before their eyes like a mirage. Tśuķ presumed the dancing figure must be a fascimile of whatever species had created the box. As for the music, the tune was complex and slightly disharmonius in a way that felt unsettlingly intentional. The thing was certainly odd, but it was lovely, and a rich gift to be sure. "We thank you," said Tśuķ. "I am sure the nymphs will enjoy it very much. It is strange, I agree, but young ones are always eager for novelty.
"As for how we are here... the boats were a fortuitous means of escape. We are not a seafaring people. As you say, we live amongst the sands. Once, long before living memory, we were creatures of the ocean. But we turned our backs to the sea, and now we live in vigilance lest the sea reclaim us, or so tradition goes. We never had to test it until now. These boats were once tombs. Largely symbolic protections for the souls of our kin resting between incarnations. The ones that are left proved to be seaworthy in truth, but not all of us were so lucky.
"The water that came was unfamiliar to us. Dead. My people fear the seas, but we acknowledge that there is still a sort of life to the Mother Waters, even if that life blooms and rots in cycles of decay. The waters that bore us here were different. Empty, at least until the mists lifted and we reached the shore. We are still unsure what it all means, but our ancestors walked away from the sea into the heart of the desert, and the sea could not reach them for thousands of years. What is left of the swarm will do the same. And so we are travelling. You may travel alongside us, for as long as you would like."
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Foxgloves
Established
Roleplay posts: 28
Appearance: Foxgloves is shaped like a man for the most part, tall and lanky. He wears a long coat with innumerable pockets and a hood with two long points that flop about like a rabbit's ears. The fingers of his gloves are long and thin, and his pointed boots are unadorned. Most notably, he wears a white mask, behind which only darkness can be seen. He is very light, as though stuffed nothing but cotton and cobwebs.
Skills and Abilities: Foxgloves, at his very core, is a salesman. He primarily sells glass eyes and body parts, although can generally find anything the customer could possibly desire for the right price. He tends to be very curious, and loves nothing more than a good story or a secret. In general, he displays a casual disregard for rules of all kinds, whether they be posted signs, regulations of a nation, or the laws of nature itself.
Biography: Foxgloves is quiet and focused, with a calm voice that hides how high-strung he can be. He has the habit of becoming fixated on certain people or things, usually things he finds particularly beautiful. A soft-spoken individual, Foxgloves’ lack of vocal cords prevents him from speaking above a loud whisper. Very few things upset him, except when it comes to things that he cannot have. If Foxgloves wants something, he will bargain incessantly, before resorting to begging or stealing. If deprived of something he wants badly, he falls into a deep melancholy. Usually, he perks up again once he manages to find or create a facsimile of the desired object, even if it’s nothing more than a piece of painted paper-mache.
Allegiances: Himself
Registered: Mar 19, 2021 19:18:12 GMT -5
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Post by Foxgloves on Oct 16, 2021 18:50:59 GMT -5
As Tśuķ lifted the little music-box to inspect it more closely, the dancing puppet's faceless head turned to meet their eyes. The bouncing, gyrating novelty watched the emissary, its smooth, featureless face tracking Tśuķ's own face with its uncanny gaze. The music picked up, its unsettling tune vaguely discordant in a way that would put one's nerves on edge. Foxgloves clapped his hands together in time with the beat, his gloves making soft pats as they collided. As the insectoid creature explained how their people had arrived to this place, he nodded, the points of his hood flopping back and forth.
"From the sea to the sand and back again," he said, scooping up a handful of sand and letting it slip through his fingers. "I often hear people say that once they've left a place, they can never go back. I suppose that's especially true for you fine chitinous folk, is it not? Lucky indeed that you had a few boats that still floated. Perhaps you have your ancestors to thank for your continued survival. You say the waters were different from the ones that originally brought life? Interesting indeed. I found the taste of the water to be rather unfortunate, myself. Too much salt and sadness. There's life to be found everywhere, though, even in these seas."
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small glass bottle full of seawater. A small shelled creature swam around inside, reaching out thin grey tendrils that stretched out and stuck to the walls of the bottle. Popping off the cork, he dropped in a tiny lump of flesh from another pocket, which the odd creature snapped up in an instant.
"I found this one after it was thrown from the sea by an errant wave," he said, resealing the bottle. "An odd thing indeed. I'm not sure what it's called. Perhaps it hasn't a name of its own at all...but that's silly, surely everything has a name. If something didn't have a name, how would people refer to it? Even I was given a name, and I'm hardly even something."
He returned the bottle to his pocket and looked back up to Tśuķ, nodding his head once more. These were interesting people indeed, and he wondered how they differed from others that he'd encountered. If only he still had his notes, he'd be able to compare...but notes could be rewritten, and he had no doubt that he'd run into the other sort of people eventually. For now, he contented himself with pulling a fresh notebook from his pocket and making a few notes on what he'd learned so far.
"Thank you for the invitation," he said. "I believe I will travel for you for as long as I am able, which may not be very long at all. I'm very light, you see. Strong winds have a tendency to carry me off, and I've seen quite a few sandstorms blowing about this desert. While I'm here, though, I appreciate your hospitality. Tell me, don't most living things require water? Where does one find fresh water in a desert? Melons, perhaps? I've met quite a few people who were very fond of those, but it seems that I've lost all of mine."
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