It depends on the season. What ingredients are available and what I catch... but I like to make stew or soup.
[ Which he realizes may not be the most convenient of foods for Getian to eat. Quincy opens his mouth, about to say that he could feed Getian himself if he'd like to try it, but the words ultimately don't come out. Feeding someone is an intimate gesture and he isn't sure how Getian would feel about his offering to, so he decides to leave that aside for now. ]
Otherwise, dried meats. They make good snacks, are easy to travel with, and last longer. I have a little friend back home that particularly enjoys these.
[ Topper would be delighted to eat the snoggleboffs. As a small stoat, Topper doesn't need much to feel satisfied either. Quincy pauses a moment—he does quite miss that little friend of his, but he would not wish for Topper to show up here of all places—before tying the bag and tossing it over his shoulder. There's no need for excessive hunting with this many seems enough for some dried meat and bones. ]
Let's head back. I'll skin and strip these, and then we can check the bones to see if they're useful for you.
( he can’t say it’s a common thing for Miemeng birds to eat, no, but it’s not that he can’t. if quincy had gone so far as to make that offer, he might realize that, surprisingly enough, they hadn’t shared enough meals together for the man to realize that his kind had adapted to their shortcoming in that regard. he may not have hands to pick up a bowl or a spoon with, but his people had developed an arcane skill which allowed them to manipulate small objects telepathically. it’s not only convenient, but it became necessary when the Miemeng birds began to more and more imitate the culture and innovations they had seen below in the world of men. musical instruments, visual art, calligraphy… they would have struggled to reproduce these only using their wings and claws. )
I see…
( getian can understand missing those from home, but also not really wishing to see them here as well. he had made many friends that he had gotten to see regularly enough within the Timekeeper’s suitcase… but he thinks it best that those young arcanists remain there, to continue to strive to save the world from Manus Vindictae’s machinations. )
Well, ( he lifts off from the branch he’d perched upon, following quincy as he had before, ) Whatever it is that you make, I would like to try it. Truthfully, I do not eat much, and typically get by on what fruit, berries, and grains I can find in the Vale and in the gardens. But I am interested to try more of the food that humans make. …Such a thing seems to mean more to your kind than it did to my own.
( it wasn’t that it didn’t matter at all. there had still been occasions of care or affection wrapped around presenting another with food, such as bringing food to the sick or gifting a particularly rare treat to a loved one. but Miemeng birds had not gone so far as to cook elaborate preparations for their food; it had typically been plain or raw. it’s a mighty adjustment to make, considering how complicated some human food is, but… he is still interested to try and learn more. )
[ Quincy watches as Getian swiftly takes off from his perch above. It’s funny—he’s long lived in the wood territory surrounded by wildlife, but he never grows tired of watching Getian flit through the air. His feathers glint in the light, catching color in a way that gives Quincy pause every time. He is beautiful, a picture so lovely that it’s difficult to not stare.
Watching him now comes with a thread of something else. Satisfaction, but stronger. Quincy’s gaze lingers on the cloak snug around Getian’s body, the cloak he had spent hours lining and hemming. Getian isn’t his… nor is the bird a creature one could ever possess. But while wearing a cloak tended to by his own hand, it’s as if Quincy’s painted him in his colors. It feels—good.
He is quiet until they make their way to the lake. Quincy settles down with a knife, deftly skinning the snoggleboff corpses, first carefully removing their fur to use later and then stripping them of their meat. Quincy lays out bone after bone as they work; not all of them look as though they are usable for a flute, but he wants Getian to freely choose and keep whichever ones that catch his eye. A flute may not be the only thing he is interested in carving. Among them there are a few long bones, originating from that particularly large snoggleboff. ]
They’re fatty.
[ Quincy sounds a little surprised while trimming the meat. They’re so small, after all. Were they fed in captivity to get so round and chunky? Either way, fat means more flavor. ]
( it’s a quiet yet comfortable trek together to the lake. this sort of casual, easy companionship… it’s not something getian has felt in centuries. it’s one thing to get along well enough to spend time with someone, but it’s another to feel comfortable in the lapses and silences of the quieter, more mundane parts of life. he had shared such an experience with different members of his own kin, a very long time ago, but memories of those times have long since faded into the warm glow of distant nostalgia. humans, seemingly by a default nature of theirs, tend to be louder, more energetic, and more communal than the Miemeng birds had been. quincy feels different. he similarly enjoys the solitude that can be found in the bastion of nature. they are kindred souls in that, and in many other things.
getian settles on a small formation of rocks, folding his wings and wordlessly watching quincy as he works. he has always been fascinated by humans’ ingenuity. a knife may seem a simple tool, but, considering they do not have sharp fangs or keen talons, it’s a necessary one for them to do things that many beasts of the wild could do unaided. he might even be more skillful with it than getian might have been, if he tried flensing the fur and skin away from the creatures himself with his claws. they are not so deft and dexterous as human hands are; he likely would have torn it to pieces on accident. when hard at work crafting something, he tended to rely on his telekinesis more than his actual limbs.
he supposes it makes sense that the little creature was fattier rather than lean and gamey. it did seem as though they were risen as livestock somewhere, before being released here. )
They should make for an unctuous stew, then.
( as he replies, he is already looking at the bones. most are too small to be used as instruments or wands, to be certain, but it’s not as though they aren’t useful. )
Mm. They are beautiful, aren’t they? All bones are, I believe. Strong, yet elegant. Theirs is an important role and function—they provide us support and structure, both physically and spiritually.
( he wonders what he could make for quincy that might begin to repay him for the gift he currently wears. the bones may be small, but there are many things they could be used for. a sewing needle, perhaps, or something else useful, like… buttons, or chopsticks? hm, there aren’t very many large enough that could be used for chopsticks… a pendant or carving, then? )
Their markings are less pronounced for animals, but our fates make themselves known in them, for all living creatures.
As material, they're much better than most of what I've seen around this resort. Plastic, mainly. So much waste.
[ But everything about the resort is wasteful. That's the point. Indulgence in drink, luxury, material goods. They throw clothing away once it's boring to wear regardless of the shape it's in. Meals go unfinished. Drinks tossed after a few sips. He spends his time in the vale for numerous reasons. Yes, it feels like the wood territory back home and quiet, but it's a place where he can use the resources and reuse them. Even here, Quincy respects nature and the natural order.
His gaze falls over the bones after he cleans his hands. Curious, he glances between Getain and the selection, wondering which ones he'll choose and what he may be planning to make. The fact that it might be something for him doesn't cross his mind; he had given that cloak to Getian without any expectation of reciprocity. ]
That must be because of how they were bred. For a single moment.
[ This moment. To be hunted for pleasure by guests that fancy themselves hunters for a weekend. They had been so easy to catch that even the lazy and unskilled guests that have permanently made the resort their home could do so. Offered up on a platter, so the entitled and spoiled need not struggle. What Getian had said earlier was true. They are pathetic creatures.
Quincy won't waste their meat or their fur. Between the both of them, these bones won't go to waste either. ]
( the concept of “plastic” would’ve been alien to him if he hadn’t have spent some time in different, more “modern” eras before being brought to the Golden Peacock. getian tends to find most human inventions interesting, simply because he finds the way their minds think and innovate to be interesting, but that particular technological advancement was… less so. quincy is right that it makes a lot of waste. getian has a habit of collecting random bits of shiny material he finds in the Wilderness at home—precious stones, metal, jewels, and other things felt like treasure to him, but that which he’d discovered was plastic just ended up feeling like trash.
getian himself spends the majority of his time in the Vale because it feels necessary. he had seen the room he’d been provided only once, but he’d only needed that one look to know it wasn’t properly outfitted for a bird like himself. now even that entire room goes to waste, but it wouldn’t have been comfortable for him to try to make it work. he is painfully aware that the Vale, albeit as close as one can get to the “outdoors” in the resort as possible, is a constructed fake. false wind, false streams, earnest trees sprouting from false soil growing beneath a false sun. sometimes he feels as though he’s on display, like a specimen in some zoo, though he would be forced to admit it was still the best option for him—the one that makes him happiest. he can sense that those things don’t originate from a true “nature,” but at least they still exist here. it’s not all dim lights, loud noises, and chaos. )
Yes, that is likely. Their fate was dictated by their creation, their rearing, their purpose.
( they live to die. if there are any markings to be found on these bones, they would speak of captivity. he has to wonder if all livestock would look similar to him, or if these are particularly sad examples.
when it comes to the bones themselves, getian picks many. those that are long and straight are especially valuable, but smaller, rounder bones, teeth, ribs… they are all beautiful, and all shapes can be useful, depending on what he decides to use them for.
there are some, though, that he leaves aside for quincy. if he wanted to make a good stew, he would need them for the stock, yes? he has seen humans do such a thing with the game that they have killed. )
It is an arcane skill shared by all of my kind. ( though, considering he is the last, he supposes that makes it more unique. ) Our help has often been sought as diviners of fate. But to know one’s fate can be a heavy burden, and few possess the strength and tenacity to change it themselves.
[ Quincy nods in understanding. Though he possesses no such skills of his own, to know one’s fate is a burden that not all can carry. For humans most of all. Sensitive, proud, hopeful, stubborn, a thousand other shades—not all are the same, and not all can accept what they can and cannot change. Had Quincy known how his life would turn out after accepting the Grand Sorcerer’s contract, would he have had the strength to keep going back then? Knowing that the tribe that he had given himself away to protect would later ostracize and mark him as a dangerous existence? Impossible to say.
He collects the bones that are not as aesthetically pleasing. Looks don’t matter when they’re going to be boiled down into stew. Though they are pathetic creatures, he quietly thanks them, assuring their departing souls that nothing will go to waste. Respect has always been paramount to Quincy. ]
These will do nicely. [ it isn’t quite time to prepare stew, so he puts them aside, looking pleased with their haul for the day. ] How long will it take you to carve your flute? I would like to hear you play.
( humans are very easily tempted by that which can be incredibly dangerous to them. the thing about fate is that it is very rarely kind. sometimes, it tends that way, but in general, sorrow will find all eventually. the world is an ever-changing place, and mortals ephemeral sparks which are born, live, and die in it in what feels like the span of a breath. the others of his clan were always more empathetic to their plight. seeing the tragic ends and outcomes they believed they could change—that they should change. getian does not fault them for their decision. it is a noble one, he believes, even if it had ultimately cost them their lives. where his bitterness had grown over the centuries was how the humans responded to it (or, perhaps it would be better to say, how they failed to). when he himself had descended from his mountain and stayed in Pei City to help with their troubles, he had been cast as the villain of the plot simply because he was a strange creature they did not understand. he could have fallen into anger over such mistreatment, but… it had mostly just injured his heart. no one ever wants to have their kindness taken for granted; they would even less want for it to be spurned outright.
ultimately, things had turned out for the best, and getian had befriended enough humans and arcanists to realize the foolishness of painting them with such a broad brush. it’s probably very much for the best that he had ended up with such a conclusion. he might have been tempted to be more of a harbinger of ill tidings that humans had often thought his kind to be. )
Hmm… I am not certain. ( his head tilts to the side as he continues to study the bones, though his mismatched gaze eventually returns to quincy’s as he answers the question. ) I do not have the same tools I used in my own world. If I can either find or make some that are similar to use… a few days. A week, perhaps.
( he smiles at the idea of quincy wanting to hear him play, flattered. )
I have a different flute. If you wished to hear me play, all you need do is ask.
( and perhaps… promise not to laugh, when he sees that it’s shaped like a human dick. or perhaps not be so aroused…? (or… no, maybe that would be okay, hm.) )
Though this one will likely be much smaller, so its voice will be higher. Suitable for different music.
I have some tools at the cabin. You can look through them and see if any can be used. I trust you to treat them well.
[ How long it takes doesn't really matter. Quincy is a patient man and rarely minds waiting. Such is the way when you've lived a long life, existing outside the stream of teeming human activity and in the solace of a rarely changing forest.
But mention of a different flute has his eyebrows lifting in surprise. If Getian's had one, he's surprised he hasn't seen the bird using it before, even just in passing. He nods, intrigued by this turn of events. So he doesn't need to wait to listen to Getian play at all. It's a pleasant surprise, though he would very much still like to listen to him play with the bone flute carved with his own talons. ]
I'd like to, if you don't mind. I didn't realize you already had one.
[ Of course, Quincy is completely oblivious to why Getian may not be whipping out his dick flute... ]
( there are certain, more specialized tools he had used for finer details and more specific stages of the crafting process, but it’s likely there are some that could be useful to get him started. if there are any others he feels he might need, he can either try to make them himself or perhaps go into the resort itself to see if he can find a store that sells them. that, or something close enough to them, or perhaps a place that might take commissions for certain things… he doesn’t know. he doesn’t really have much experience shopping, so that might be just as stressful as it was novel. )
I used the same set of tools for many centuries, so your trust should be well-founded.
( he actually does play the flue relatively often, but he tends to play at odd hours—very late at night, very early in the morning, randomly in the middle of the day… and he also tends to find more isolated places in the Vale. this isn’t just out of sheepishness, though that might be part of it, given how erotic the design of the flute seems to be. even before, when living in the Timekeeper’s suitcase, he had been given feedback for playing music too loudly during nighttime hours, too close to those wishing to sleep. so he had tried to find quiet places to play where he could not disturb others. at this point, it’s more habit than anything else. that, and the fact that he’s never really needed an audience—for hundreds of years, music had been an enjoyment just for himself. the thought of others wanting to listen is almost strange after all that time.
but if quincy wished to listen, he would be willing to play. )
Mm. I typically do not keep it with me. ( for reasons quincy will understand very soon. ) Give me one moment.
( with a rustle of feathers and the heavy beating of wings, the Miemeng bird lifts off and flies towards what he would consider his “main” tree—a very tall, stately tree located close to the center of the Vale, not too far from where quincy had constructed his cabin. he has a small collection of items he keeps in a hollow several dozen feet up in the tree, far away where they might be stumbled upon.
a few minutes later, he returns, settling on the same perch he had been in previously. he eyes quincy closely; for the moment, the flute is tucked into the sash around his waist, and he has his wings folded in a way that it was hidden. )
I will play, so long as you promise not to laugh.
( he does say this with some humor in his words, but he does have that slight sheepishness as well as he pulls the flute from where it was tucked into his belt, levitating it with his telekinesis towards his face. the flute is, honestly, a remarkable construction considering it has uncanny likeness to a realistic human penis while also being a well-constructed and beautiful-sounding instrument. as it is, as it settles with the mouthpiece beneath his lips (which is, of course, stylized as the slit on the “cockhead” of the flute), he pauses for a moment, studying quincy as if daring him to crack a smile or chuckle.
or perhaps just curious to his response. who can say?
but after that, he begins to play. the flute is well-sized, so its voice is a middling alto with the ability to go somewhat lower and higher. because of this, the song he plays is a slower, more sonorous ballad—a steady stream of sound that wraps around them for a few minutes before it drifts off into silence. his feathers fluff up a bit, perhaps a little embarrassed, and he lowers the flute, commenting, ) There are other instruments I have been working on collecting, should you be interested in hearing them as well.
[ Quincy waits patiently while Getian flies off, taking care of some of the meat and carcasses while tidying up their spot beside the river. When he returns, Quincy has made himself comfortable in a spot closer to his perch, a jacket spread across his lap like a blanket and looking serene in the quiet of the forest around them.
Laugh? What a strange comment. Regardless, Quincy nods, assuming that Getian is shy to play around others. He won’t judge, certainly not, even if his playing isn’t very good. But the real meaning soon becomes clear: Quincy’s lips part when that flute comes into view, dropped in an almost perfect ‘o’ before he remembers himself and snaps his jaw off the floor.
????
????????
??????????????????????????
Quincy can’t be blamed for staring. The flute is so intricately made that one could easily mistake it for a floating penis. Especially when levitated by telekineses toward Getian’s mouth. It’s such a surprising and lurid image that, for a moment, Quincy is dumbfounded.
Rather than smile or chuckle, his expression remains relaxed… but that doesn’t mean he’s calm. Far from it. He is grateful that he had moved into a different position and drawn his coat over his lap for the sake of comfort, because his cock is hard. It’s too easy to imagine that being his penis, particularly when Getian rests his pretty lips against the tip and begins to play.
Who did this. Who gave him this erotic flute!
Quincy’s expression remains set, as if he’s only enjoying the music and not imagining Getian sucking his dick. He is skillful and the music sweet to the ear, gently drifting on the vale’s breeze. It would be relaxing if not for how his cock’s stiffened; Quincy shifts slightly to hide the shape, unwilling to disturb Getian with these lustful thoughts. Though, when the bird mention his collection, he can’t help but to wonder if those instruments are … similarly lewd … is it just a personal preference for him? ]
I would. You’re very skilled. [ finally, Quincy smiles, a gentle curve of lips. ] Your music is beautiful. I like it very much.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ Which he realizes may not be the most convenient of foods for Getian to eat. Quincy opens his mouth, about to say that he could feed Getian himself if he'd like to try it, but the words ultimately don't come out. Feeding someone is an intimate gesture and he isn't sure how Getian would feel about his offering to, so he decides to leave that aside for now. ]
Otherwise, dried meats. They make good snacks, are easy to travel with, and last longer. I have a little friend back home that particularly enjoys these.
[ Topper would be delighted to eat the snoggleboffs. As a small stoat, Topper doesn't need much to feel satisfied either. Quincy pauses a moment—he does quite miss that little friend of his, but he would not wish for Topper to show up here of all places—before tying the bag and tossing it over his shoulder. There's no need for excessive hunting with this many seems enough for some dried meat and bones. ]
Let's head back. I'll skin and strip these, and then we can check the bones to see if they're useful for you.
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I see…
( getian can understand missing those from home, but also not really wishing to see them here as well. he had made many friends that he had gotten to see regularly enough within the Timekeeper’s suitcase… but he thinks it best that those young arcanists remain there, to continue to strive to save the world from Manus Vindictae’s machinations. )
Well, ( he lifts off from the branch he’d perched upon, following quincy as he had before, ) Whatever it is that you make, I would like to try it. Truthfully, I do not eat much, and typically get by on what fruit, berries, and grains I can find in the Vale and in the gardens. But I am interested to try more of the food that humans make. …Such a thing seems to mean more to your kind than it did to my own.
( it wasn’t that it didn’t matter at all. there had still been occasions of care or affection wrapped around presenting another with food, such as bringing food to the sick or gifting a particularly rare treat to a loved one. but Miemeng birds had not gone so far as to cook elaborate preparations for their food; it had typically been plain or raw. it’s a mighty adjustment to make, considering how complicated some human food is, but… he is still interested to try and learn more. )
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[ Quincy watches as Getian swiftly takes off from his perch above. It’s funny—he’s long lived in the wood territory surrounded by wildlife, but he never grows tired of watching Getian flit through the air. His feathers glint in the light, catching color in a way that gives Quincy pause every time. He is beautiful, a picture so lovely that it’s difficult to not stare.
Watching him now comes with a thread of something else. Satisfaction, but stronger. Quincy’s gaze lingers on the cloak snug around Getian’s body, the cloak he had spent hours lining and hemming. Getian isn’t his… nor is the bird a creature one could ever possess. But while wearing a cloak tended to by his own hand, it’s as if Quincy’s painted him in his colors. It feels—good.
He is quiet until they make their way to the lake. Quincy settles down with a knife, deftly skinning the snoggleboff corpses, first carefully removing their fur to use later and then stripping them of their meat. Quincy lays out bone after bone as they work; not all of them look as though they are usable for a flute, but he wants Getian to freely choose and keep whichever ones that catch his eye. A flute may not be the only thing he is interested in carving. Among them there are a few long bones, originating from that particularly large snoggleboff. ]
They’re fatty.
[ Quincy sounds a little surprised while trimming the meat. They’re so small, after all. Were they fed in captivity to get so round and chunky? Either way, fat means more flavor. ]
Do you like any of these bones?
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( it’s a quiet yet comfortable trek together to the lake. this sort of casual, easy companionship… it’s not something getian has felt in centuries. it’s one thing to get along well enough to spend time with someone, but it’s another to feel comfortable in the lapses and silences of the quieter, more mundane parts of life. he had shared such an experience with different members of his own kin, a very long time ago, but memories of those times have long since faded into the warm glow of distant nostalgia. humans, seemingly by a default nature of theirs, tend to be louder, more energetic, and more communal than the Miemeng birds had been. quincy feels different. he similarly enjoys the solitude that can be found in the bastion of nature. they are kindred souls in that, and in many other things.
getian settles on a small formation of rocks, folding his wings and wordlessly watching quincy as he works. he has always been fascinated by humans’ ingenuity. a knife may seem a simple tool, but, considering they do not have sharp fangs or keen talons, it’s a necessary one for them to do things that many beasts of the wild could do unaided. he might even be more skillful with it than getian might have been, if he tried flensing the fur and skin away from the creatures himself with his claws. they are not so deft and dexterous as human hands are; he likely would have torn it to pieces on accident. when hard at work crafting something, he tended to rely on his telekinesis more than his actual limbs.
he supposes it makes sense that the little creature was fattier rather than lean and gamey. it did seem as though they were risen as livestock somewhere, before being released here. )
They should make for an unctuous stew, then.
( as he replies, he is already looking at the bones. most are too small to be used as instruments or wands, to be certain, but it’s not as though they aren’t useful. )
Mm. They are beautiful, aren’t they? All bones are, I believe. Strong, yet elegant. Theirs is an important role and function—they provide us support and structure, both physically and spiritually.
( he wonders what he could make for quincy that might begin to repay him for the gift he currently wears. the bones may be small, but there are many things they could be used for. a sewing needle, perhaps, or something else useful, like… buttons, or chopsticks? hm, there aren’t very many large enough that could be used for chopsticks… a pendant or carving, then? )
Their markings are less pronounced for animals, but our fates make themselves known in them, for all living creatures.
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[ But everything about the resort is wasteful. That's the point. Indulgence in drink, luxury, material goods. They throw clothing away once it's boring to wear regardless of the shape it's in. Meals go unfinished. Drinks tossed after a few sips. He spends his time in the vale for numerous reasons. Yes, it feels like the wood territory back home and quiet, but it's a place where he can use the resources and reuse them. Even here, Quincy respects nature and the natural order.
His gaze falls over the bones after he cleans his hands. Curious, he glances between Getain and the selection, wondering which ones he'll choose and what he may be planning to make. The fact that it might be something for him doesn't cross his mind; he had given that cloak to Getian without any expectation of reciprocity. ]
That must be because of how they were bred. For a single moment.
[ This moment. To be hunted for pleasure by guests that fancy themselves hunters for a weekend. They had been so easy to catch that even the lazy and unskilled guests that have permanently made the resort their home could do so. Offered up on a platter, so the entitled and spoiled need not struggle. What Getian had said earlier was true. They are pathetic creatures.
Quincy won't waste their meat or their fur. Between the both of them, these bones won't go to waste either. ]
Bone reading? You are quite the bird, Getian.
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getian himself spends the majority of his time in the Vale because it feels necessary. he had seen the room he’d been provided only once, but he’d only needed that one look to know it wasn’t properly outfitted for a bird like himself. now even that entire room goes to waste, but it wouldn’t have been comfortable for him to try to make it work. he is painfully aware that the Vale, albeit as close as one can get to the “outdoors” in the resort as possible, is a constructed fake. false wind, false streams, earnest trees sprouting from false soil growing beneath a false sun. sometimes he feels as though he’s on display, like a specimen in some zoo, though he would be forced to admit it was still the best option for him—the one that makes him happiest. he can sense that those things don’t originate from a true “nature,” but at least they still exist here. it’s not all dim lights, loud noises, and chaos. )
Yes, that is likely. Their fate was dictated by their creation, their rearing, their purpose.
( they live to die. if there are any markings to be found on these bones, they would speak of captivity. he has to wonder if all livestock would look similar to him, or if these are particularly sad examples.
when it comes to the bones themselves, getian picks many. those that are long and straight are especially valuable, but smaller, rounder bones, teeth, ribs… they are all beautiful, and all shapes can be useful, depending on what he decides to use them for.
there are some, though, that he leaves aside for quincy. if he wanted to make a good stew, he would need them for the stock, yes? he has seen humans do such a thing with the game that they have killed. )
It is an arcane skill shared by all of my kind. ( though, considering he is the last, he supposes that makes it more unique. ) Our help has often been sought as diviners of fate. But to know one’s fate can be a heavy burden, and few possess the strength and tenacity to change it themselves.
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He collects the bones that are not as aesthetically pleasing. Looks don’t matter when they’re going to be boiled down into stew. Though they are pathetic creatures, he quietly thanks them, assuring their departing souls that nothing will go to waste. Respect has always been paramount to Quincy. ]
These will do nicely. [ it isn’t quite time to prepare stew, so he puts them aside, looking pleased with their haul for the day. ] How long will it take you to carve your flute? I would like to hear you play.
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ultimately, things had turned out for the best, and getian had befriended enough humans and arcanists to realize the foolishness of painting them with such a broad brush. it’s probably very much for the best that he had ended up with such a conclusion. he might have been tempted to be more of a harbinger of ill tidings that humans had often thought his kind to be. )
Hmm… I am not certain. ( his head tilts to the side as he continues to study the bones, though his mismatched gaze eventually returns to quincy’s as he answers the question. ) I do not have the same tools I used in my own world. If I can either find or make some that are similar to use… a few days. A week, perhaps.
( he smiles at the idea of quincy wanting to hear him play, flattered. )
I have a different flute. If you wished to hear me play, all you need do is ask.
( and perhaps… promise not to laugh, when he sees that it’s shaped like a human dick. or perhaps not be so aroused…? (or… no, maybe that would be okay, hm.) )
Though this one will likely be much smaller, so its voice will be higher. Suitable for different music.
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[ How long it takes doesn't really matter. Quincy is a patient man and rarely minds waiting. Such is the way when you've lived a long life, existing outside the stream of teeming human activity and in the solace of a rarely changing forest.
But mention of a different flute has his eyebrows lifting in surprise. If Getian's had one, he's surprised he hasn't seen the bird using it before, even just in passing. He nods, intrigued by this turn of events. So he doesn't need to wait to listen to Getian play at all. It's a pleasant surprise, though he would very much still like to listen to him play with the bone flute carved with his own talons. ]
I'd like to, if you don't mind. I didn't realize you already had one.
[ Of course, Quincy is completely oblivious to why Getian may not be whipping out his dick flute... ]
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( there are certain, more specialized tools he had used for finer details and more specific stages of the crafting process, but it’s likely there are some that could be useful to get him started. if there are any others he feels he might need, he can either try to make them himself or perhaps go into the resort itself to see if he can find a store that sells them. that, or something close enough to them, or perhaps a place that might take commissions for certain things… he doesn’t know. he doesn’t really have much experience shopping, so that might be just as stressful as it was novel. )
I used the same set of tools for many centuries, so your trust should be well-founded.
( he actually does play the flue relatively often, but he tends to play at odd hours—very late at night, very early in the morning, randomly in the middle of the day… and he also tends to find more isolated places in the Vale. this isn’t just out of sheepishness, though that might be part of it, given how erotic the design of the flute seems to be. even before, when living in the Timekeeper’s suitcase, he had been given feedback for playing music too loudly during nighttime hours, too close to those wishing to sleep. so he had tried to find quiet places to play where he could not disturb others. at this point, it’s more habit than anything else. that, and the fact that he’s never really needed an audience—for hundreds of years, music had been an enjoyment just for himself. the thought of others wanting to listen is almost strange after all that time.
but if quincy wished to listen, he would be willing to play. )
Mm. I typically do not keep it with me. ( for reasons quincy will understand very soon. ) Give me one moment.
( with a rustle of feathers and the heavy beating of wings, the Miemeng bird lifts off and flies towards what he would consider his “main” tree—a very tall, stately tree located close to the center of the Vale, not too far from where quincy had constructed his cabin. he has a small collection of items he keeps in a hollow several dozen feet up in the tree, far away where they might be stumbled upon.
a few minutes later, he returns, settling on the same perch he had been in previously. he eyes quincy closely; for the moment, the flute is tucked into the sash around his waist, and he has his wings folded in a way that it was hidden. )
I will play, so long as you promise not to laugh.
( he does say this with some humor in his words, but he does have that slight sheepishness as well as he pulls the flute from where it was tucked into his belt, levitating it with his telekinesis towards his face. the flute is, honestly, a remarkable construction considering it has uncanny likeness to a realistic human penis while also being a well-constructed and beautiful-sounding instrument. as it is, as it settles with the mouthpiece beneath his lips (which is, of course, stylized as the slit on the “cockhead” of the flute), he pauses for a moment, studying quincy as if daring him to crack a smile or chuckle.
or perhaps just curious to his response. who can say?
but after that, he begins to play. the flute is well-sized, so its voice is a middling alto with the ability to go somewhat lower and higher. because of this, the song he plays is a slower, more sonorous ballad—a steady stream of sound that wraps around them for a few minutes before it drifts off into silence. his feathers fluff up a bit, perhaps a little embarrassed, and he lowers the flute, commenting, ) There are other instruments I have been working on collecting, should you be interested in hearing them as well.
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Laugh? What a strange comment. Regardless, Quincy nods, assuming that Getian is shy to play around others. He won’t judge, certainly not, even if his playing isn’t very good. But the real meaning soon becomes clear: Quincy’s lips part when that flute comes into view, dropped in an almost perfect ‘o’ before he remembers himself and snaps his jaw off the floor.
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Quincy can’t be blamed for staring. The flute is so intricately made that one could easily mistake it for a floating penis. Especially when levitated by telekineses toward Getian’s mouth. It’s such a surprising and lurid image that, for a moment, Quincy is dumbfounded.
Rather than smile or chuckle, his expression remains relaxed… but that doesn’t mean he’s calm. Far from it. He is grateful that he had moved into a different position and drawn his coat over his lap for the sake of comfort, because his cock is hard. It’s too easy to imagine that being his penis, particularly when Getian rests his pretty lips against the tip and begins to play.
Who did this. Who gave him this erotic flute!
Quincy’s expression remains set, as if he’s only enjoying the music and not imagining Getian sucking his dick. He is skillful and the music sweet to the ear, gently drifting on the vale’s breeze. It would be relaxing if not for how his cock’s stiffened; Quincy shifts slightly to hide the shape, unwilling to disturb Getian with these lustful thoughts. Though, when the bird mention his collection, he can’t help but to wonder if those instruments are … similarly lewd … is it just a personal preference for him? ]
I would. You’re very skilled. [ finally, Quincy smiles, a gentle curve of lips. ] Your music is beautiful. I like it very much.
[ He won’t comment on the blowjob imagery. ]