vatheon | (no subject)

Who: Gorthan and everyone!
Location: the Plaza.
Time: Today, during the day
Style: Prose or anything you like, really.
Status: As open as can be.

A deep, roaring voice echoed throughout the Plaza.

"ZOSTER! What is the meaning of this?!"

The newcomer - a tall duck with violet skin and a head of blond dreadlocks, clad in an elaborate turquoise robe embroidered in gold - held both of his hands at his sides, his long-nailed fingers - four on each hand - curling up as if he was itching to use them to choke somebody. Fury quickened his breath and wrinkled his features into a terrifying mask. He may have been a duck, but those within his beak were definitely teeth, and oh, how he he was gritting them. His hair and one of his best robes... were completely soaked! That simply had to be Zoster's doing. That incompetent scientist never knew how to do anything right. Truly Zartas, the Beacon, was right, when he warned that a great leader should never trust the scientist class.

"What is this?! And WHERE AM I?" he yelled one last time, before... well, before he started noticing the details about his new surroundings.

The architecture of the buildings, so similar to that of those cities he had conquered during those fateful few months not too long before. The physical traits of the passers-by, which he associated with an extremely rare (due to the planet's resistance), yet rather efficient kind of CoolFlame... And, lastly, when he finally looked up... that blue. That shade of deep blue that he could see overhead... he recognized it. It was... the very same thing that, in an instant, had convinced him to give up on the complete destruction of...

... Earth.

"I'm on Earth..." he muttered quietly to himself as he looked up, his lower beak dropping open and his blue, pupil-less eyes widening as they stared into similar blue.

... But he didn't recall any underwater cities, unless there was something his generals had neglected to tell him, which was entirely possible. "No, that cannot be." he muttered to himself again as he shook some of the water off his long hair.

Seeing somebody approach, he approached them at a solemn step, standing very straight, with his arms folded over his chest. "Excuse me. I demand to know what this place is."

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Serph closed his eyes, thinking over what he had been told.

He had no idea what Gorthan meant when he said 'essential, timeless words,' or anything about mind etching, but perhaps that would become more clear in the near future. What he did know, however, was that for something to be easy to learn, it must be short. Concise. It was easier to recall, We're comrades than the exact contents of Gale's long status reports, after all.

While Gorthan had answered the question of what a poem was and the desirable contents of one, Serph still had no idea what a poem was like.

Opening his eyes, he asked, "Do you have an example of a poem?"

Gorthan nodded with a smile and took a step back, away from Serph.

"Listen, as I recite the words of the venerable Zartas."

He cleared his throat with a soft sound before he began, his voice even deeper than his usual, each word of the brief poem spoken slowly to emphasize each sound.

And, ah... perhaps Gorthan (this Gorthan, at any rate) was not the best teacher when it came to poetry.

"Power, might,
boundless fear in the worlds we claim...
that is our essence,
that is our only aim."

...

......

Oh. That was it? ...Well, he could still tell Gorthan took pride in the poem, though Serph didn't really get it. There was a long pause as Serph absorbed those words and thought over them. He could see that the words were likely the core beliefs of the Evronians under this Zartas' leadership, but he didn't understand how those words were different from the commandment laid down by Angel:

Rend, slaughter, devour your enemies.
There is no other way to survive.
You cannot escape your hunger, Warriors of Purgatory.

Would that be considered a poem? He was sure those words had been in the minds of all the Tribe leaders. ... Though he was the only one left who had heard those words.

Finally, he asked, "Is it only the content that separates poetry from a law or commandment?"

Gorthan furrowed his brow, once again walking closer to Serph as he answered his question, his hands moving in the air in explanatory gestures.

"The power relationships involved are very different, realize. A poet speaks to his peers. Even if they may not be his peers under a social point of view, his words create a common ground between writer and reader, placing them at the same level. A law or commandment, on the other hand, is dictated from above to those who stand below. There is no discernible common ground."

Why was he having to explain something so obvious? And yet, Serph's questions did confirm that Gorthan's time was not being wasted. This alien was an intelligent, curious individual.

That made sense. So it would be like speaking to his comrades as their friend, not their leader.

Serph nodded. "Can anyone create poetry?"

Gorthan had mentioned 'poets', so...

"As long as they have something to say and the intelligence to convey it as is proper."

Gorthan had made a few poetic efforts of his own... though, of course, he was not about to share them.

"So. Do you now see how your people would benefit from poetry?"

Serph nodded. They sounded like something worth passing down. Something that would last, after their creators were long gone. He didn't know what it was like to have a history, but he'd like to see the day where there's enough peace for one.

Ah, but he'd never made a poem before. Perhaps a little guidance...? "Have you created your own poems?"

"I..."

Gorthan was not sure how to reply to that. He had never told anyone about his secret efforts. Not to mention that, now that he found himself in this strange, R'ur Kil-like place, who knew if he would ever recover his writings and notes...

He suddenly became pensive and silent once again.

"... I might have."

Hesitation? Serph didn't think there was anything difficult about his question to answer. Gorthan seemed to look up to Zartas, so perhaps he felt his own works fell short of Zartas' poetry? A poetry writing lesson be for the future, then.

With genuine sincerity in his voice, Serph said, "I would like to learn more from you another day, when you've settled in."

Digging his SFC out of his pockets, Serph held it up for Gorthan to see. "This is the Starfish Communicator. Contact me if you need help."

Indeed, Gorthan did feel that anything he wrote would inevitably sound like a cheap imitation of Zartas' great works of art. That... did not cease to be an uncomfortable topic.

"Your assistance has been noted." Gorthan said, with a brief nod of his head. Again, obviously, saying a proper 'thank you' was out of the question.

Feeling a lump in his long robe, Gorthan searched to find a device much like the one that Serph was showing him, except decorated with intricate patterns of violet, turquoise and gold. He held it in his palm, examining it.

"... I see. Should I require you, you will be summoned to my assistance. The next time we meet, share the tales of your people with me."

The tales of his peop-- This could be problematic. While Serph didn't mind talking about his home world, it didn't feel right talking about the devouring in Vatheon. Maybe because he was currently disconnected from the strife in his home world, yet he had brought the need to devour with him. And when Vatheon was so peaceful...

Regardless, Serph gave Gorthan a curt nod in both acknowledgement and in goodbye, before turning to leave. He would not mind sharing stories of his world.

Though Gorthan's choice in words indicated superiority, Serph had no intention of being a doormat to the newcomer's whims; Gorthan was not the one who set the laws that govern Serph's life. As long as whatever request Gorthan made did not go against his own goals, then Serph had no reason to object, regardless of Gorthan's manner of address.