♕ 3rd - video - waxing poetic

[skjalf]

[ elizabeth sits in the grass, with white roses in her hair and her skirts pooled about her. she looks thoughtful and placid to most, and only those who know her passably well may note an undercurrent of sadness in her features. it is there, but not readily apparent unless one has seen and interacted with her often.

her mother's absence and the hell that awaits her family in the future have not been forgotten. they hang like a great weight about her neck, and in the way her shoulders bow a little despite being straight and stiff otherwise. she keeps her eyes averted from the camera for now, as she speaks up quietly: ]

It all began upon a lovely day in spring
A maiden fair stumbled upon a King
Beneath the boughs of a mighty oak
Whilst two boys clutch'd at her cloak

And lo he came upon them there
Stricken at once by the maiden so fair
He gaze'd at her and she at him
Love-struck and helpless to its whim

[ she releases a long breath of air, and finally looks up at her comm device. her face still appears peaceful, as though the words and the act of writing them have had a calming effect. and perhaps they have. she effects a small smile, though, for good measure. ]

I think it a good beginning. What say you, Tranquility? Putting such a tale to words has been a daunting task, indeed.

I shall continue, and add more to it. But I must ask, are there such tales whence you hail from?

[ and if poetry is not your jam, elizabeth has another query. she holds up a plastic container (a stick of deodorant) and a glass bottle (perfume) and various other sundry items she has found. all sweet-smelling, all utterly confusing to a girl from the late middle ages. ]

And I must beg another query of you, if you please: what are these? What purpose have they?

[ anyone who knows her will see that this is only an attempt on her part to distract herself. sitting idle and stewing over the heaps of negativity life loves to send her fmaily's way has never been her thing. ]

Comments

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[elvenking]

It sounds not unlike a tale my people have of the meeting of Thingol and Melian, although there were no boys there to clutch her cloak. But I wonder what occupation would drive two boys to cling so.

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[skjalf]

Would Your Grace tell me the tale sometime?

[ she pauses, and smiles a little. ]

They were my mother's sons. She took them to meet my father originally in order to reclaim their inheritance. For their land had been taken from them by their paternal grandmother.

[elvenking]

I would be glad to tell you the tale, if in exchange you would tell me yours.

Text.

[naytheist]

[Cesare is far from a poet but, in specific circumstances, he is not beyond trying his hand at it. He is quite aware of how maudlin it sounds, but a man needs to do what he needs to do.]

The maiden fair bore many more who grew to great esteem
'til God saw fit to pluck them out and put them in a dream.
He crafted up a world for them that was not much like ours
but now, her daughter and herself may rule a ship of stars.

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[skjalf]

[ he has employed text to communicate, yet she is still on video. the camera captures her reaction perfectly, all pink cheeks and a hand drawn over her mouth as a burst of sudden shyness overtakes her. when her hand falls, he will be able to see her smiling softly. ]

In a land of dreams the princess did wake
Then a curious turn her life did take
For she met upon that ship she met a young man
Who would mean a great deal more to her than she would understand

[ too many syllables in the last sentence, there are. but it fits, and it conveys exactly what she means it to. so she leaves it alone, glancing at the camera with a flush still in her cheeks. ]

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[naytheist]

[If Lizzie insists on video, he'll follow her, though unfortunately that's about as much poetry as he, himself, can muster up. Somewhat embarrassed by his attempt at verse, but seeing the good humour in Lizzie's words and undoubtedly flattered by them, he laughs softly and smiles.]

You write well, Elizabeth.

[trouvaille]

It's not my style, ( in the tone of someone who does have a style when it comes to poetry ) but it's solid.

( she can see 'distraction tactic' from a mile away; she could use one herself, though, and so. )

The stick's an underarm deoderant - I think that's one you twist. Can you turn the perfume bottle toward your device? I might know the scent.

[skjalf]

You are too kind. I know not if I have a style, myself. [ she just writes what pops into her head and tries to rhyme. ]

I should like to hear some of your work should you ever be willing to share it.

[ this is a major distraction tactic. thank god ilde goes along with it. ]

Underarm deodorant? What does it do? [ elizabeth obliges, turning the bottle, it is rather fancy and smells a bit like vanilla. ]

It is a sweet scent.

[trouvaille]

( very little of ilde's poetry rhymes. )

I've got some copies written down here-- I wrote it out for Spike, he wanted to read it and I haven't got the book with me.

It more or less does exactly what it sounds like; de-odors. I haven't got any with me, but I don't tend to need it so much as long as I shower regularly, which... ( of course she showers regularly. ) I've got perfume, which is what you've got in that bottle. I don't recognize it particularly, though.

[vivelavenir]

Most certainly, there is verse where I hail from, Mademoiselle.

[A slight bow of the head in greeting.]

You make a lovely start, if you will take the word of a poor poet.

As for the items- perfume is surely one? In the bottle. It is for smelling like flowers and the like.

[The other, he has no idea. High five for being from a long time ago.]

[skjalf]

The French have produced some truly beautiful verses and songs, I agree, Monsieur.

[ another frenchman! elizabeth inclines her head, the look on her face remaining pleasant. ]

I thank you most humbly for your praise. I will honour your word, sir.

Ah, perfume, you say? It does not smell much at all like flowers. It has a rather sweet aroma to it.

[vivelavenir]

I thank you for that, though I might say our traditions somewhat pale to that of the Greeks and the Romans. We are a work in progress.

I hope you should be willing to share with us the final product, whence it is done? Ah- and I equally hope I am not too forward in wishing it...

[A pause, however, to consider the perfume again.]

Perhaps to smell like... like cakes then? [Such toiletries were beyond him, though Courfeyrac swore by them.] Cake is very popular.

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[longestnose]

That is very beautiful.

[Different than the poems and stories that dwarves write, but beautiful none the less.]

I--I think the latter is something to make one smell good, artificially.

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[skjalf]

I thank you my lo—Fili. It is a tale of my parents.

[ no doubt! and she would be interested in hearing them. the longer she remains here, the more curious she becomes about other lands. ]

You mean like oil to put in one's bathwater? Or of something different?

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[longestnose]

It seems fitting of grand tales.

My own parents story is a bit less...peaceful.

[He chuckles.]

My father was rude to her, and she hit him with a hammer.

[He gives a slight nod, but looks a bit confused.]

I believe? I am not--I am not one to be able to give you good information that, I fear.

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[needsheadphones]

I like it.

[ Rebecca isn't much of a poet herself, but it sounds nice. ]

They make you smell good. Or help you stay smelling good, if you start sweating or something.

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[skjalf]

Lady Rebecca! I thank you most kindly.

[ ooo smelling good! yes, very good. she holds up a pink razor, made of plastic and completely alien to her, and asks innocently: ]

And what of this contraption?

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[wroughtsteel]

[ She greets Elizabeth with a small nod. ]

Tales of true love are quite common where I am from, though perhaps not all of them told in the same manner. Are you writing of people that you know?

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[skjalf]

[ elizabeth inclines her head, glad to see her. ]

I must confess that I am envious, for love is but a luxury to be dreamed of where I am from. For it is so very rare.

And yes. The tale is that of my parents.

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[wolfdreamer]

What is the tale that you wish to write of?

[He asks, though he thinks that he has probably guessed it. A tale of love. But perhaps there is more to it than that.]

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[skjalf]

Ah, my brave escort. [ her features soften, and she even smiles a little. ]

It is the tale of the love between my mother and father. How they met and came to be together.

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[allbloodyhail]

Reminds me of one of my favorites.

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[skjalf]

Which tale would that be?

[northerner]

Love poetry, Elizabeth? My lady wife should advise you better than I, though I find it a pretty verse.

[ dude don't ask him he is not touching the question about deodorant ]

[skjalf]

My parents were quite the couple, yes. This verse recounts their initial meeting.

[ she nods, smiling brightly. none will see that she is upset. this will be her burden to bear alone. ]

I thank you, Robb. It is high praise, indeed.