Tales of Aeri'Siri

[Pedantry INC]

Aeri'Siri



One of the rare wild elves. Often considered insular and savage people, the curious bright eyed mannerism of this youth may seem unusual for one of her kind.

Small of stature: 5'2"
Slim of build: 95lbs.

Straight black hair, held back with a leather tie.
Amber eyes with deeper flecks of brass.

Accent: Speaks with a sylvan lilt.
Garb: Simple and minimalistic.
Mannerisms: Playful, bold and prideful.


Typically she is covered with more tattoos than clothes:

Emerging from her hairline down the left side of her face is a thick band of intricate scales that crosses her brow, over her eye, and down her cheek before curving to slip along her jaw and then coil under her chin, around her neck and over her shoulder where it curves to her spine and in a gentle wave follows her spine all the way down to her lower back where it tapers off towards her tailbone. Her changing expressions, usually different degrees of wry smiles to joyful grins, as well as the flexing of her lithe muscles as she dances cause this tattoo to ripple like a living serpent.

Her right arm from wrist to upper bicep is a flock of birds rendered in silhouette style, wings in various position of flight, coiling about her limb in a spiral.

Her right bicep hosts a crest of feathers that are etched as if hanging in a loose fan. Often this tattoo is covered by an actual crest of feathers that hangs from the hilt of a simple bone knife that she keeps in a leather thong bound tightly to her limb.

Little wind blown feathers adorn her left hip bone. curling up and whisking under her ribs.

Up both of her legs are curling vines that sprout both flowers and star bursts. The left side stops at her upper thigh, though the vines on the right extend up to curl along her hip and flank.

[Pedantry INC]

Aeri'Siri held a finely crafted set of bird pipes as she listened to the words of the man that sat with her. He told her that in his life little he had held sentimental meaning. With a laugh she told him that everything can change. And so she told him a story.

-----

In a time that was perhaps seventy high seasons past the Poison Boughs were alive with stories and song. The people of the secluded stretch of jungle, nestled into a tight canyon breached by a wide and murky river, were as reclusive as one might expect. Yet for all the tales the civilized will tell of these insular and savage folk, in truth, their days were filled with laughter and joy, for they were a people that loved life and each other and reveled in their heritage.

The center of their lives was the known as the 'Eldest of the Grandfathers', an ancient story teller that would visit and stay with the dark skinned elves of the wood, often for many years at a time. His visage often changed, but in this time he wore his true colors and lay along a wide bank at a bend in the river where the sun would shimmer warmly upon his brass complexion. There he shared with 'his people' whom he considered his family, and they would share with him.

The wild elves of the Poison Boughs might be considered crude by the more refined folk, yet they were artists of superb ability, crafting the finest vases of clay, and the most intricate carvings of hard jungle woods. Their weaving took on brilliant adaption, from intricate ceremonial garb, baskets, to little figurines. They made the finest bows from the natural world, spears and daggers from bone and fire glass, a black hard rock found in the deep crevasses of the mountain rise that sheltered the gorge they considered their territory. While the Eldest of the Grandfathers stayed the people would bring him gifts they had made, and sit at his feet while he told his stories. While not a creature of greed, the ancient one was a collector of many things, and so the fine gifts crafted with such loving care were adored and accepted gladly.

One young elf, a sprite of a girl who had not yet earned her first tattoo, was entranced by the Eldest of the Grandfathers. All she wanted was to join those that sat at his feet to listen to his stories yet she could not -- for she had no gift go give him and in her heart she did not feel worthy. At the river bank where the rich clay was thick she spent days struggling, to the bemusement of her kin, yet everything she worked became misshapen or cracked in the hardening fire. In the trees she carefully picked reeds and leaves to weave with, yet her patterns became twisted and her works unraveled no matter how carefully she strove to bind them. Frustrated she spent weeks finding fine wood, yet as she worked to carve her vision, she gave herself splinters and soon found herself at a loss to continue.

So after her long toils the young elf returned to the high boughs of the thick trees that framed the rivers edge and watched from afar, tears in her eyes, as the Eldest of the Grandfathers told another tale to those that sat at his feet. She felt as if she would never be able to join them. It was a blessing that the Eldest of the Grandfathers voice, deep and strong carried so easily upon the wind, that from her perch she could listen. This night he told a tale of an elf that loved the birds of the world more than any other thing, and wish of nothing more than to sing as they could sing. Yet he had been born with a weak voice and could not raise such pure melodies. Instead he made a flute and went from tree to tree, calling the birds to teach him their songs. So the elf that could not sing was glad in his heart and soul, for he had found his way. The tale went on yet the young wild elf was no longer listening. She slipped off amid he branches, skipping from bough to bough, knowing what she needed.

Though it was dangerous she went to the rivers edge where the strongest river reeds grew and cut herself a set of the finest shoots of various sizes, and then in the trees gathered young vine shoots. She spent days carefully carving and tying the hollow reeds. Though many times she failed she persisted, and finally she held a simple set of birdpipes. Her people would not see her or hear from her for several weeks, yet when she emerged from the wood, she shimmied down the trunk of one of the great trees that lined the Eldest of the Grandfathers rest, and skipped to him with an airy elation about her that made those watching smile in wonder.

At the Eldest of the Grandfathers feet she said nothing, but rose the birdpipes to her lips and played a sweet chiming chorus, the songs of a dozen birds of the forest brought together into a single melody that was both sweet and pure. Around the clearing birds burst into eager accompaniment, and the elves, who venerated such creatures, cried out with joy. Even the Eldest of the Grandfathers threw back his head, the echos of his laughter shaking the branches. From that day on the young elf sat easily at the feet of the great story teller and was very glad.

-----

Her tale told, Aeri'Siri gestured to the crude set of birdpipes that she had given to the man before telling her tale. They were nothing next to the fine pipes that he had given her, but he looked at them in wonder as she told him:

"Those are the pipes that I played for the Eldest of the Grandfather. You see, things change now you have something sentimental!"