The full seasonal event can be read here! Below are the main seasonal items for quick reference:
1. A thread reacting to the season's weather in some ways.
2. A thread in the part of the city your character doesn't live in!
3. A thread relating to your vocation.
Of The Season
Quote
"Tell Dr. Nate that Gale sent you, and he still owes me for the mushrooms. Except that it takes you a while to reach the clinic, and by the time you do your fever is spiking, and so instead of the requisite message you instead tell the poor soul who greets you that 'A gale'a m'shrooms sent me cus'a my hands.'" - Zephyr in Oh help me, please doctor, I'm damaged
you've got the wrong stretch of sunset they've got the wrong idea ingrained in your mind if only you could let it out
It’s a slow day, which is surprising to the young woman as Tanul’s sun breaks over the skylights through the clouds. It litters her family store with bright light along the edges of her exhibits, but she doesn’t partake in wandering them and watching the way the light reflects off of all the pieces. No, instead, she’s dressed impeccably well for a woman that has the worst Plate posture one could see, half slumped over the front desk, twirling a pen between her fingers.
Lockdown has been tiresome and it’s been harder and harder to find different pieces to rotate through, and she’s exhausted the list that sits in front of her on the desk, each one marked through with blank space beneath the options as if more might miraculously come to mind. And it’s here that Rexanna runs her hands through her hair, emitting a quiet groan of her own frustration, before pushing her hair back and opening up yet another address book to scan through old contacts.
Sam had kept his promise to come and see Rexanna's gallery in mind, but thankfully had been too busy with his work to make time yet. It wasn't quite that he didn't want to go, but that time with Rexanna put him in a strange mood, one that was unfamiliar and unhelpful for his position in the Plates. Talking to her felt light, easy, not like he was speaking to a Plates Noble at all. Like a friend, almost.
A strategic advisor to the Arbiter had no need for friends.
However, he'd promised, and the yawning hole in his schedule approached, obvious and easily filled with a trip to the gallery. So Sam went.
He was surprised by how empty it seemed, as he came in the door - immediately he spotted Rexanna, slumped over the desk. Sam stifled a little laugh that caught him by surprise - that was twice now he'd come across her being less than Plates-perfect. Politely, he cleared his throat behind his hand, giving her a chance to straighten up before he approached.
"I...thought I'd come and see the gallery, but is it a bad time?"
This planet's overrun There's nothing left for you or for me
you've got the wrong stretch of sunset they've got the wrong idea ingrained in your mind if only you could let it out
She doesn’t hear him approach, which is for the best – given that he’s absolutely correct in saying that she’s being less than Plates-perfect. But it’s also probably incredibly hilarious to watch the second that he clears his throat and she straightens out like a bullet, so quickly that her hair bounces above her shoulders from the movement that she goes through, fixing her back into perfect posture and forearms resting on the desk as if she were doing that the entire time.
He'd know she wasn’t, though, but something tells her that he probably won’t tell on her. Hopefully. Maybe.
Instead, she flashes him a smile of greeting, pretending that her slouch and frustration hadn’t happened, and instead moves to stand effortlessly, setting her pen down in the little holder as she moves to step toward him. “No, not at all! Just slow. I’ve been trying to find new pieces for the gallery and hit a few dead ends.” She gestures to the book still open on the desk before moving on quickly, focusing on him with all of her attention. “I’m so glad you stopped by!” She chimes. "Welcome in!" It's such a relief to see him that she's almost taken aback by her sudden excitement that he'd taken her up on the offer.
Seeing Rexanna bolt upright recalled to Sam images of early recruits being caught sleeping in; he had to stifle another laugh, lips pressing against each other hard to maintain a politely neutral expression.
As she stood up, he graciously didn't mention her slump either, joining her in pretending it hadn't happened. Coming closer to greet her and glancing at the book, he tilted his head. "I was under the impression most artists yearned to have their work seen and struggled to find recognition. Are they not clamouring for the chance to be chosen?" Never would Sam have predicted the gallery could have this problem, as his main perception of those that chose art as a career was attention-hungry beggars who spent too much time reading poetry.
Regardless, he'd promised he'd come and try to give the art a fair go, so he had tried to clear those kind of preconceptions from his mind. "So...would it be too imposing to ask for a personal tour? I fear on my own I may miss everything the paintings are going to attempt to tell me."
This planet's overrun There's nothing left for you or for me
you've got the wrong stretch of sunset they've got the wrong idea ingrained in your mind if only you could let it out
His comment and question are valid ones, and she flashes a slightly awkward smile toward him as she nods. “Usually, yes, but lately my mother’s been a bit picky.” So she takes the options given, shows her the pictures of them to see if they would be good for the gallery, and oftentimes gets some rant about how much they derive their inspiration from someone else they’ve already shown and how she didn’t want to have too similar of events too close together. “So I’m still looking for options she’ll approve.” She finishes up with a softer edge to her smile.
One that grows a bit brighter at his question. “No, no, not imposing at all. I would love to!” She chimes, boldly moving to take his arm in hers to guide him toward the entrance – the lights above illuminating the first painting. This one, in a swathe of tail and blues, what appears to be rain cascading over the canvas onto what looks like a window looking out over a blurry city, and yet despite the dark cool tones of the painting there’s almost a semblance of hope in the strokes, the way it seems to find comfort in it almost.
She looks at it for a few long seconds before she glances over to Samuel with a soft edge to her smile. “What do you see from this one?”
"Oh, I see. What are her requirements?" Maybe it was unfair, but Sam's mind immediately conjured an image of what he considered to be the average middle-aged rich Plater, a snob who denied things for the pleasure of the denial, walking around with little fingers in the air and a snooty upturned nose.
The arm that came to take his was a surprise, one that made him tense for a quarter of a second - years of training, of instinctively not letting anyone close - but it was Rexanna, and he was fine. He relaxed and settled into a walking rhythm with her, his cane on the other side. As always, he did worry that someone might see them and get the wrong idea, that he may be the subject of gossip or receive some kind of reprimand...but the gallery was empty, he could probably excuse it as some kind of escorting or guarding and besides, he found he quite liked walking with her.
Stopping before the first painting, he took in a quiet breath and tried to genuinely look it over. His first instinct, when asked to describe it, was to say simply 'it's a window', but he suspected that wasn't what Rexanna was hoping for. "It...doesn't look like Unk'Kotoll. I've never seen a view like this from any window I've looked from. It seems like it might be pleasant to be there." Unsure if he'd correctly engaged with the art, Sam glanced over to Rexanna.
This planet's overrun There's nothing left for you or for me
you've got the wrong stretch of sunset they've got the wrong idea ingrained in your mind if only you could let it out
Her requirements were… A lot admittedly. “Can’t be the same mediums that were used for the previous showing. Must have a completely different theme. Can’t be from the same location twice in a row.” The list goes on and on, but those were the more difficult ones. So because this one was more of a painting gallery, the next would have to be something different enough. And that has been the main struggle recently.
Regardless, she takes his arm and guides him to the first painting, thinking nothing of what it meant to potentially be caught. For her, there would be no reprimands – if anything, it could mean a potential status symbol, because as far as her family and the Platers she knew, Samuel was the success story – the removal of the Drench born into the perfect ideal of a Plater. Rexanna, however, simply enjoys his company, and something about him being Drench born seemed to suggest that she didn’t have to hold herself up to as high of standards as usual, which certainly was a breath of relief.
Her eyes remain on the painting, however, listening for his explanation. He is correct in assuming she doesn’t want to hear the literal answer, and the smile that blooms on her face when he actually engages with the art is gentle and tender, internally pleased. The smile even remains as she looks away briefly from the painting to look back at her companion. “It’s called Vonoven’s Blessing. It’s supposed to be an idealistic Unk’Kotoll, hopeful and blessed by the rains during the height of Kivan.” Which is why it would appear to be light and hopeful, when Drenak typically brought cold, depressing looks. “What about this one?” She asks, guiding him a few steps over to the next one – full of green strokes and blooming flowers, decorated and beautiful scarecrows dotting the farmlands that seem to go for miles, fluffy and bright clouds hanging in the sky.
"Why should the mediums matter? Surely there are not so many..." Sam frowned, then realised he'd let his confusion cloud his judgement and he'd disparaged the choices of a Plates noblewoman. "Oh - forgive me. I'm sure your mother has her reasons. I know nothing of this, after all." Damn, he was getting too comfortable. Rexanna seemed trustworthy, but the easyness of being with her wouldn't save him from overhearing strangers.
Strangers who wouldn't like an uppity Drench-born mouthing off, he was sure.
When it came to the painting, he was relieved to see Rexanna smile at his interpretation. He doubted it was the most insightful thing she'd heard, but at least he hadn't disappointed. "Idealistic...hm. I suppose I've never thought what that might look like." Really, his vision of a perfect Kotoll had more to do with politics and attitudes than weather, but he kept those comments to himself, walking with her to the next piece.
"Well..." He looked over the painting - his immediate thought was that it was boring. He'd seen many such images, pastoral scenes and cute cottages in wide fields...they felt like art's equivalent of radio static, a filler. Unsure if that would offend, Sam searched for a diplomatic way to put his thoughts: "It doesn't particularly call to me. I feel like I've seen a lot of paintings like this before. The technical skill is apparent, but the subject..." He shrugged.
This planet's overrun There's nothing left for you or for me
you've got the wrong stretch of sunset they've got the wrong idea ingrained in your mind if only you could let it out
His brutal honesty is truthfully one that she can agree with, but disappointment flares momentarily when he realizes his overstep and she shakes her head lightly to him with that same bright smile, leaning in slightly against his arm where she still holds onto him to guide him. “Between you and I, I agree with you.” She whispers, as if her mother could hear them. She couldn’t, of course, but one could never be too careful up here on the Plates.
Regardless, her smile brightens at his admission. “See? Art can make you think.” She teases him as they move onto the next one and she nods. It is a simple one, the type of painting one would expect in a café here on the Plates to make it look and appear brighter and warmer than it realistically was. Perhaps the term she’s thinking of immediately is commercialized, but the difference for this painting versus the rest sit in the scarecrows that dot along the fields.
“The subject, believe it or not, isn’t the fields or the clouds or the warmth of the sun. It’s the little scarecrows.” She uses her free hand to point them out. “They call this one Tintaren’s Fable.” She hums thoughtfully, shrugging a shoulder but finding it relatively boring as well.
But they move on, her guiding him toward the next painting that’s bright and full of whites and light blues and pinks and streams of gold and yellows. The entire painting harbors what look to be a close up of a wing, folded up and half in motion, taking up the entire canvas. “And this?” The overall feeling of this painting is supposed to resemble that of dreams, hope, and enlightenment. As close to the Saints as one could get.
His own smile was far more understated, but once he'd made himself sure that no one else had heard his opinion, Sam relaxed. Unlike most Nobles he'd met, Rexanna seemed to have her ego in check, which made her fasincating to talk to. A glimpse into a world he'd been skirting around for years, without the snobbery to keep him out.
Art had been one of those things he'd felt too 'Drench' for (of course, there was art in the Drench, but it had never been to Sam's tastes, too revolutionary, too edgy). "Indeed. I can only hope my thoughts are worthwhile."
Thankfully, it seemed she wasn't offended or too taken aback at his lukewarm opinion of the current painting. Rexanna pointed out the scarecrows and he dutifully leaned in to study them closer, but nothing in particular changed his mind about the image upon the second look. They moved on.
The next piece was certainly bright; it took Sam a moment to blink and organise the paint before him into a whole image (he had once been told he needed glasses, but rejected that idea in favour of simply making his eyes work harder). Once the picture was clear he took a step back to better see the whole, eyes scanning the painting as he slowly nodded. "I...like this one. I feel as if the wing is moving; it must take some skill to produce that sort of effect."
Suddenly tired of his own staggered and hesitant analysis, he turned to Rexanna: "And you? What do you think of it?"
This planet's overrun There's nothing left for you or for me
