Aria Jenneth
Societas Imperialis Sceptri Coronaeque
2994
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Posted - 2017.02.27 19:00:03 -
[1] - Quote
Video footage:
The scene opens on candlelit gloom. A tiny figure, swathed all in black, a dark shawl draped over head and face for a cowl, kneels before an outlayed cloth from whose pale surface stares the sigil of an eye drawn as the center of an arcane star, all in black.* She sways and chants in a strange tongue**, pallid hands upraised, then continues to chant as she lifts from beside her a porcelain teacup. She lifts this upwards as though in supplication, then sets it down in the center of the circle as she continues to chant, louder now.
She produces a tattered State Protectorate patch and presses it onto the cloth at the side nearest herself, then dips her fingers into the surrounding dishes, flicking their contents-- dried leaves and powders-- around the circle with sharp, aggressive gestures as the chanting grows more emphatic, then, as the chant reaches a screaming climax, lifts a bowl of some murky substance high before pressing it down upon the patch before her as though to crush it from existence.
She falls silent.
Deft fingers flip back the shawl to reveal Aria's elfin features. She leans forward and picks up the teacup from the circle's center. She takes a sip.
"Damn," she mutters.
The recording ends.
* The attentive may notice that it's a place mat, the circle inscribed in magic marker.
** The litany, for those who trouble to download the software patch needed to translate a specific regional dialect of rural Achuran, goes:
"In the name of slight dimness,
The legions of ineffable mild moodiness,
Whose banner is tinted a middling gray,
Stained with tea too-long-steeped,
"And of the legions of the anxious,
Whose banner is of varrigated and mottled hues,
Speckled with tears of needless worry,
Grant to me this minor spell I seek:
"Oh powers of insufficient photons,
I am wearied and sore beset by the trials
Of using only physics to heat my cup.
The fire singes my fingers now and again;
"The molecules excite too slowly, cool too quickly,
Despite their much-vaunted specific heat.
The tea first burns my lips, then waxes chill.
It vexes me sorely.
"Therefore let this cup of mine be ever blessed
With a the perfect temperature,
Be it fresh-brewed or a day stale,
From now until the last star dies in the sky, or at least next Monday.
"In trade to I offer this, owed to those of my blood
By karmic right for cruelties done: An ingrown hair to be bestowed
Upon the hindquarters of Tibus Heth,
To trouble his ghost in eternity.
"By parsley, cardamom, and fennel,
By saffron, mace, and this zesty seven-spice blend,
By the leftovers from last night's vegetable-beef soup,
And by my will: LET IT BE DONE!" |