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.
????
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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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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... ]
no subject
( 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.
no subject
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. ]