It's night, and you, in your human form, are exploring a … castle? Or maybe it'd be more accurate to call it a palace. Whatever it is, it's fancy as all fuck, with huge vaulted ceilings and ancient white walls so polished they glitter. And yet, somehow, it all seems almost … organic. Tree-like? Something here is alive; you can feel it in your bones, in your blood, like a whisper of song. It's familiar.
Your way is lit by equally fancy sconces, but they aren't fitted with torches. Instead, motes of light flit around them like fireflies. They're not trapped there, it seems like they could fly wherever they want, whenever they want — but when you approach, curious you realise they're embers, tiny sparks of flame with no source. Magic. Familiar, familiar, familiar —
You're yanked out of your reverie by a dull, thudding clatter and a squeak of dismay, and spin around, startled, just in time to watch one of the vayad'ai throw themselves to the floor amongst the dozen or so large, heavy, leatherbound books they'd just dropped. They're bowing.
To you.
Uhhhhhh —
"Oh, Starsinger, Weaver, forgive me! I, uh, I, th, that is, I ..." They're bowing so low their forehead almost touches cold stone, and their frantic babbling is cut off by an odd sound like a strangled goose when you kneel down and offer them a hand.
"Nothing to apologise for!" You say. They gawk at you, their green, slit-pupiled eyes wide, mouth opening and closing uselessly, all while they make a thin, high-pitched sound like a kettle boiling over. You're not sure if it's terror or awe. Neither sit right with you.
You try again, "Here, c'mon, up you get, you really don't need to go around bowing to me. I'll help you with your books."
Slowly, fumbling and shaking all the while, they take your hand. You smile encouragingly, and they squeak, a dark blush spreading from their cheeks to the tips of their ears. They won't meet your eyes for more than a split second at a time.
Finally, they manage to stammer a few words out, "S-Starsinger, I, I am, I am unworthy of—"
"Nope!" Maybe it's rude to interrupt, but also, nope. "You're as worthy as anyone, alright?" Whatever it may be that they think they're unworthy of, because you don't have a clue. You help them up to their feet. "And while we're at it, you can just use my name, it's -"
Now it's their turn to interrupt you, but they do it by … uh.
Swooning.
The memory ends just as you catch them.
Notes ✯ The vayad'ai she's talking to looks sort of like a tiefling-esque space elf, with deer-like ears, a lion-like tufted tail, and a tiny pair of horns. They're covered in a very fine, silky coat of dusky rose-coloured fur.
13
Your way is lit by equally fancy sconces, but they aren't fitted with torches. Instead, motes of light flit around them like fireflies. They're not trapped there, it seems like they could fly wherever they want, whenever they want — but when you approach, curious you realise they're embers, tiny sparks of flame with no source. Magic. Familiar, familiar, familiar —
You're yanked out of your reverie by a dull, thudding clatter and a squeak of dismay, and spin around, startled, just in time to watch one of the vayad'ai throw themselves to the floor amongst the dozen or so large, heavy, leatherbound books they'd just dropped. They're bowing.
To you.
Uhhhhhh —
"Oh, Starsinger, Weaver, forgive me! I, uh, I, th, that is, I ..." They're bowing so low their forehead almost touches cold stone, and their frantic babbling is cut off by an odd sound like a strangled goose when you kneel down and offer them a hand.
"Nothing to apologise for!" You say. They gawk at you, their green, slit-pupiled eyes wide, mouth opening and closing uselessly, all while they make a thin, high-pitched sound like a kettle boiling over. You're not sure if it's terror or awe. Neither sit right with you.
You try again, "Here, c'mon, up you get, you really don't need to go around bowing to me. I'll help you with your books."
Slowly, fumbling and shaking all the while, they take your hand. You smile encouragingly, and they squeak, a dark blush spreading from their cheeks to the tips of their ears. They won't meet your eyes for more than a split second at a time.
Finally, they manage to stammer a few words out, "S-Starsinger, I, I am, I am unworthy of—"
"Nope!" Maybe it's rude to interrupt, but also, nope. "You're as worthy as anyone, alright?" Whatever it may be that they think they're unworthy of, because you don't have a clue. You help them up to their feet. "And while we're at it, you can just use my name, it's -"
Now it's their turn to interrupt you, but they do it by … uh.
Swooning.
The memory ends just as you catch them.
Notes
✯ The vayad'ai she's talking to looks sort of like a tiefling-esque space elf, with deer-like ears, a lion-like tufted tail, and a tiny pair of horns. They're covered in a very fine, silky coat of dusky rose-coloured fur.