PAI'MU TAN
Peony
she is but a whisper in the wind. the moonlight that draws the moth, a ghostly chill on one’s neck. the first flakes of snowfall and the ruby red blood drawn from a mistaken pinprick.
seraph dynamis
death's handmaiden
✓ walk ups. ✓ tells. ✓ mature rp.
if life is so fleeting, then her laugh is only a far-off echo through hallowed halls. she holds herself with the ephemerality of a ghost or the delicacy of a bloom that is here and gone. she acts as the morning fog that slips through your fingers just as quietly as it arrived, but do not fear. she is not death herself, but the handmaiden of.
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general.
name Pai'mu Tan aliases Peony age appears late 20s nameday 21st sun of the 6th umbral moon gender trans female (she/her)
orientation bisexual species xaela au ra birth place the azim steppe residence ul'dah profession wandering healer height 5'2" | 157cm class BLM, AST
" Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword, Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door "
from eden - hozier
▊▊ notable features:fangs, split tongue, black-stained fingers, deep black scales, and ruby red lips.voice is rich and sultry, speaking eorzean common with a doman accent. her cadence has a particular rhythmic quality to it, and in rare occassions can even be considered melodious.for those with aethersight, her aether is clouded with a deep dark purple, indicative of her true form.
about.
personality If asked, Peony will tell you she's a wandering healer, should she even decide to grant you that much. She's morbid, curious, with a piercing gaze meant to unsettle. Every step she takes is intentional, evocative even, observing those around her through dark, heavy lashes. She is a devastating discovery hidden in the shadows.She much prefers hearing about others over talking about herself, but we all have our secrets, don't we?
biography what she won't tell you is that Her mother was a songbird that resided on the Steppe, while her father was a Doman man who reckoned with primordial darkness beyond his control.Peony lived most of her life on The Azim Steppe by a different name, known as a child who was weak of aether— a hunger mistaken for deficiency. on those vast plains, she found herself closely intertwined with the dead and the dying. despite being a heralded udgan priestess, when her mother passed due to illness, she found little reason to stay with her tribe.She has loved and lost. For now, she wanders, doing hired work where healing (or black) magicks may be needed and sating herself in the dark of the night.
› PLACES OF INTEREST
ul'dah is where she currently resides. whilst not fond of the thanalan sun, she can be found shopping the sapphire avenue exchange, researching in the thamauturge's guild, or operating out of what she wouldn't call a clinic in the goblet. the central shroud is home to both of her places of work. one is only spread through whispers, and the other is only found under the auspicious light of the full moon. ishgard hides the various dalliances of multiple noble houses that peony finds herself involved with, secrets to be kept far within its stony walls. eastern skies look over the lands of the azim steppe, doma, and kugane alike. peony has notable history in each, though, it's unlikely you'll find her anywhere across the sea of jade other than the occasional visit to hingashi nowadays.
THIS SECTION IS A work in progress
feel free to ignore
& key items.
important items commonly found in their inventory.
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lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. sed ornare libero eu nulla vehicula, vel semper metus tristique. curabitur nisl nunc, dapibus id nisi vel, dictum aliquet urna. curabitur venenatis mollis sagittis. donec gravida ultrices magna, quis imperdiet neque porta sit amet. vestibulum ante ipsum primis in faucibus orci luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia curae; suspendisse potenti. nullam euismod sem vel auctor sagittis. donec at venenatis enim. curabitur dui risus, gravida at venenatis venenatis, commodo vel turpis. quisque rutrum malesuada velit nec lacinia. donec aliquet, libero eget dignissim ultrices, odio urna viverra ante, a lacinia magna mi sed lorem. duis dui ligula, aliquam at vulputate vitae, ornare ut ex.sed luctus dui interdum pellentesque vestibulum. aenean finibus lectus ut fermentum suscipit. vestibulum lobortis est in tempus consequat. quisque non sem viverra, tempor est sed, placerat odio. praesent non magna ac orci rutrum maximus eu ac nisi. mauris ultricies vestibulum tellus, auctor tempor dui feugiat quis. mauris sagittis justo eu dui elementum, non rutrum arcu efficitur. orci varius natoque penatibus et magnis dis parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. aliquam eleifend quam vitae ligula accumsan, quis sagittis nibh posuere. donec at elit non diam sagittis feugiat. nullam suscipit nisl turpis, non aliquet ante sagittis in.
miscellaneous.
mbti mbti alignment here. dnd dnd alignment here. likes a few likes of theirs i.e. seafood, light romance novels, rainy weather, etc. dislikes a few dislikes of theirs i.e. thunder, insects, spicy food, etc. fears a few fears here. phobias or deep-rooted fears or silly, non-rational fears.
hobbies list their hobbies here i.e. gambling, drinking, reading, cooking, training, etc. skills list their skills / what they're good at here i.e. swordplay, gunplay, painting, singing, dancing, public speaking, etc.
" a short quote from your character, or lyrics, or a literature snippet here. whatever you want to fill the space, not too much longer than this. "
meta title
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any miscellaneous headcanons/meta you have for your character that doesn't fit into the dossier.lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. sed ornare libero eu nulla vehicula, vel semper metus tristique. curabitur nisl nunc, dapibus id nisi vel, dictum aliquet urna. curabitur venenatis mollis sagittis. donec gravida ultrices magna, quis imperdiet neque porta sit amet. vestibulum ante ipsum primis in faucibus orci luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia curae; suspendisse potenti. nullam euismod sem vel auctor sagittis. donec at venenatis enim. curabitur dui risus, gravida at venenatis venenatis, commodo vel turpis.
meta title
any miscellaneous headcanons/meta you have for your character that doesn't fit into the dossier.lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. sed ornare libero eu nulla vehicula, vel semper metus tristique. curabitur nisl nunc, dapibus id nisi vel, dictum aliquet urna. curabitur venenatis mollis sagittis. donec gravida ultrices magna, quis imperdiet neque porta sit amet. vestibulum ante ipsum primis in faucibus orci luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia curae; suspendisse potenti. nullam euismod sem vel auctor sagittis. donec at venenatis enim. curabitur dui risus, gravida at venenatis venenatis, commodo vel turpis.
in shadow.
these are major character spoilers, but vital knowledge for any deeper intrigue or nuanced interactions— you have been warned.
peony is a voidsent, plain and simple. the nature of her being is unclear to her, something that afflicted her either in the womb or shortly out of it, but as far as she knows, there is no pact nor voidsent possession, she just is. she is often seen wearing gloves or some sort of hand covering, hiding inky-black fingertips stained from corrupted aether.she is only able to generate a small amount of her own aether, gaining little through the physical act of eating food and requires feeding off of others to sustain the appearance of being healthy. when she's weak, her 'ailment' could be likened to anemia.Her method of finding prey is... a bit more unorthodox, but her charms are well-wielded for a reason. She can assess one's aether in close proximity, and is drawn to those who possess more unique properties.
gallery.
reference | gpose | artwork
credits via twitter handle
▊▊ 01. kuponutmilk 02. ennokos 03. oftheholybooty 04. kuponutmilk
05. _tigerine 06-09. kuponutmilk
▊▊ 01. sanquines 02. kuponutmilk 03. kuponutmilk 04. smrsltdrpkck
05. c0nill 06. oftheholybooty 07. sanquines 08. steppewarrlor 09. AureusAbditory
O1
basic etiquette *
IC≠OOC - peony might have a sharp tongue on her on occassion, please take it as no indication of my ooc feelings or intentions.feel free to send me a tell to discuss things oocly, including levels of comfort if a scene becomes awkward or intense. safety first!
preferred themes *
i will happily engage in all sorts of scenes with peony, and do not shy away from mature scenes or topics. she is available for anything ranging from pleasant conversation at your average tavern to witnessing bloodshed in a shady alleyway. she is a dark woman, in both looks and dealings.while erp may be a possibility, and peony is definitely a flirt, it is not my primary interest — feel free to discuss the topic oocly, but please do not assume this is necessarily my intention during salacious conversation.mature scenes, including ERP may require extensive OOC discussion, and i will not write these topics with anyone under the age of 21.
O2
O3
things to avoid *
once again, do not conflate ic with ooc. my characters morals do not necessarily reflect my own, and i will assume the same of yours.it goes without saying that i will not tolerate any sort of homophobia, transphobia, sexism, or racism.i will absolutely avoid any topics, even in character, that seem racially charged or prejudiced, regardless of reference to fantasy race or skin tone. usually i will try to diffuse the topic icly, but i have every right to shut it down completely if i feels like it draws my personal line.please do not 'out' peony or ICly reference her spoiler information without prior OOC discussion.
about me *
tracey | 25+ | they/them | est
i am a very experienced roleplayer, though admittedly incredibly shy when approaching new people, please be patient with me!i roleplay via discord and in-game both, with a large preference towards in-game roleplay, as i enjoy the back-and-forth and the immersion. for this reason, i am also selective with who i give my discord handle. ▊▊ twitter
▊▊ muselist
O4
A wandering healer, indeed
› requirements: none.
She's well versed in both homeopathic and aetheric forms of healing. Show up bloodied and bruised in front of her, and she just might help. Not quite an alchemist, but she will also assist in any sort of herbalism and natural forms of potion-making. For coin or favor, she is not picky. Alternatively, Peony offers spiritual aid as well: fortunes, exorcisms, a nice prayer just to make you feel more comfortable, maybe?
Songbird, once a moon
› requirements: find her at moonlight.
Peony performs, but she wouldn't call herself a performer. She doesn't make a habit of expressing herself through song after living a humble life of it. She's very selective about her stage, so consider yourself lucky if you're able to find where she perches. Though rare, that doesn't mean it's impossible to hear her song on the wind, under the light of the full moon.
drawn to blood
› requirements: none.
fight clubs are her frequent establishments of choice outside of typical bars and lounges. oh, you would never find her in the pit, absolutely not, but she enjoys spectating the battle and bloodshed. there's something about the ambiance, the thrill of the fight that somehow feeds her in more ways than one.can be easily used in conjuction with her healer and spoiler hooks
Something more shadowy
› requirements: acknowledgement of character spoilers. ooc discussion required.
click spoiler text to view
sacha kagon
for so little words, his heart speaks so much. he once thought the moon of her. despite the history between them, peony holds sacha dear even still, because there is an irrevocably knotted thread between a man and the conductor of his funeral.
relationship type (ex?)lover, fond friend.
vachir chagan
perhaps it's an unspoken agreement between them that neither will talk of the lives they both once held before they left the steppe. vachir is a valued companion, and the last remnant of a former home.
relationship type friend, former guard.
tigerlily itto
much like a stray dog who feels a sense of duty to the hand that feeds them, tigerlily feels some sort of misplaced allegiance to peony. for that, she indulges him.
relationship type self-proclaimed bodyguard.
verrot mielnoireu
though she is the only prized ward of house mielnoireu, peony would be better compared to the ballerina dancing in verrot's music box. they are best summarized, perhaps through song, as death and the maiden.
relationship type overseer.
elish demaiste
a waltz matched step-for-step, more likened to a complex game of cat and mouse— though it's difficult to tell which of the two plays what role. it's almost vulgar, how desperate the draw is from the polarities between them.
relationship type it's complicated.
performance.
archival logs for past performances, prose presented on stage in immersive rp venues.
sturgeon moon
Peony steps towards the stage, heels clicking against the hardwood. Despite the fact that she is not a performer, she does her best to hold herself with the grace of one. There are no opening words, simply deep breath and a soft hum. Peony's voice starts low, more audible than a whisper but just as startlingly haunting.For some, it may take a few notes or more to realize she is not singing in Eorzean at all. A well-tuned ear will recognize the tongue, for Peony is singing in Doman tonight. Her breathy voice clings to every syllable, floating throughout the room.The silks of her dress start to sway with the gentle movement of her hips, leaning her body into the sound. Peony's eyes travels the room through dark lashes, locking a piercing gaze with any who look at her, no matter how fleeting. Even if for just a second, her attention is yours.Her voice rises and falls, a bittersweet melody. For those familiar with her words, she sings of the changing of seasons, the turning of leaves. Peony's song forms around the thoughts of sweet summer memories and the cold loneliness of winter's chill.And as certain as the winter turns into spring, her song shall inevitably come to an end. Peony starts to trail off into soothing vocals, descending into the familiar low hum she started with. Her lips curl around the last note, a small, satisfied smile. She bows, ever so slightly, and takes her leave to enjoy the rest of the evening.
Fête de Faute.
written alongside verrot mielnoireu.
▊▊ = peony's part
Fête de Faute is a lesser known Ishgardian Holiday, a feast for the longest night under the rumor of heretical bloodshed.
The evening drags onward into the unnatural evening. The feast is a carriage hitched to a ceaseless mare, the din of her cart echoing through the halls of the sprawling estate. Here, the voices crawl along portraits of bygone faces, moth-eaten and faded. The host who shares their blood lingers near the organ keys, prepared to add the bellowing gasp of his instrument to the cacophony. When he lowers himself to the bench, it is with all the grace of a man turning to the sheets. He seeks the same thing as he might in the bedstead. To see a thirst slaked. A hunger sated. Respite. His gloved fingers press down and the instrument groans with enough air to send a tremor through the walls. The first course.▊▊ To celebrate this endless night under the light of a waning moon is sublime. A flittering songbird slide’s her hand over the sturdy shoulders of our dear Count before she steps forward into the room and raises her glass. What a haunting note the organ brings, but it does not dare outshine the chanteuse. Her voice is pitched high, the tongue of Old Ishgardian spilling from her lips to greet the evening’s feast. Hollow and haunting ringing from her chest, inviting deep rich red to fill every glass.Once, so long ago, Ishgard had been laid beneath a shroud of shadow. Beneath the dark of night her gales seemed a death rattle. In truth, war brought upon the mountains an aetheric anomaly — a cover of grief so thick neither moon nor sun could penetrate it. The musician fluttered his fingers against the organ’s keys, not so different than how the fabled Viscount Faute had fluttered his against sternum and rib. Only blood could wash away the night, said the Viscount, and in the song did the cries of heretics rise. Uniform and shrill, the estate echoes a tale as old as its stone.▊▊ The rise and fall of her breath snakes through each ear and horn a hushed whisper. It’s utterly decadent, how the song drips from her lips and ghosts the sound of the Count’s melody. She sings almost like a warning bell, is it for the heretical cries? Or is it simply how the clock strikes the hour? It’s difficult to tell on this auspicious evening, when the Viscount’s plea so sweetly begs to be met. So drink, and gorge oneself to bask in blood.‘Twas just the beginning, this song. The count moves over ivory teeth of his organ, caressing them as he might the length between inner arm and hand. A caress, a libation. When the longest night comes across Ishgard now, once every seven turns, it is a feast in the torturer’s name that sends it running. So rich and sweet sounds does the musician spill, his trencher of music offered out to his guests. His decrescendo is the wine that passes over the tongue of his chanteuse, filling the dark manor with an intoxicated demand. Run headfirst into the night — chase at its heels with desire. Let intemperance be the lantern.▊▊ Please, she requests in tune, in a language long left to rest, let the red stain your lips as wonderfully as it does hers. This song is only the start after all, and the night will only continue to grow long. Our indulgent musicians will not ask twice, so do not disappoint. The songbird’s voice weaves under and over the ribcage of the organ’s sound; there is no competition to be heard during this celebration, only a complementary waltz. Let them dance round and round, buried within the chest, flowing through every vein.It is but a taste. Only enough to fill an ear, a horn, a mouth for a moment. And then it is gone — swallowed. It sits in the soul like a stomach, ready to be carried through the body. The musician stills his hands over last note and allows his organ its final breath. When at last the lingering sigh of sound fades, he stands and he smiles. It is a mask of satisfaction reserved only for himself. When outward does his gaze pan, it is leaden with his own drought in need of wetting. Perhaps, like the fable supposed lifetimes before him, he would be liable to turn to a neck rather than chalice that evening.▊▊ She sighs breathily, a wistful look on her face and as the eerie organ fades, so does their harmony. Of course, she does not dare take part in such heresy the stories speak of, but what a romantic thought, to take the entire evening to relish in red. Peony swirls the remains of her glass lightly, the curl of her vermillion lips seen over the rim of the crystal as she takes a sip. Bonne Fête de Faute, dear listener.
hunter's moon.
written alongside verrot mielnoireu.
▊▊ = peony's part
The elezen moves like a confident apparition to the piano bench. Once seated, he takes a slow breath as if to quiet time itself. He passes a sly glance towards the stage. While awaiting the confirmation, lithe fingers spread across the piano, his touch not so different than a hand brushing against a lover’s spine in chilly anticipation. Without looking away from the chanteuse, the first chord blooms.▊▊ Peony cranes her pale neck, eyes surveying the crowd as she takes the stage for yet another evening more. She tilts her horn towards her companion seated at the piano, glancing over through lowered lashes. He starts the dance, and she takes a deep breath before her voice rings a haunting falsetto. It is an auspicious night in the Shroud, and the moon shines upon those that lurk in the dark.Gloved fingers flourish across the keys. The instrument before him quiets and cries through the rise and fall of his hands. Each note is a finger that caresses each face in the lounge. It beckons each patron to the depth of sound itself, the thing that trembles in their chest, and then deeper still. These depths are embraced by the music, each darkened spark nursed to flame.▊▊ Her song moves in a waltz around her partner’s melody. The melodious sound echoes as if it’s traveling through hallowed halls of a cathedral, a hymn to the dusk. Dark, steel claws unfurl to grasp the air as Peony sings, the tune of her voice rising to beg for the audience to listen.**Voice and key swirl together as if locked in a dance. In a fleeting instant, the audience no longer sits amongst the warm quarters of a lounge and are instead sat amongst the silver tears of weeping willow branches and forgotten headstones. This seems a dirge for all that listen. For whom, or what, do they mourn — what last desire stirs in each breast?▊▊ Tonight is a serenade for friend and fiend both, under the light of the Hunter’s Moon. Her song– their song, is a fanciful opera for the ages. Her hips sway from one side to the other and the silks of her dress kiss the stage. It’s tantalizing, it’s horrifying, it is eternal twilight. Take hand in prayer, for she sings the grace before this evening’s feast.The musician haunts the instrument before him, his body moving after each note as if a wraith down a corridor. The chase crescendos and then relaxes, a coordinated hunt between composer, singer, instrument, and at last, patron. Each refrain is a looped arm around a waist, each rest a breath at the back of the listener’s neck — it is a chilling but comfortable embrace, begging to be leaned into.▊▊ Even amongst the delight and devilry, the spirits must be laid to rest. Breath beneath her chest, the rise of Peony’s voice begins to descend. Those under her spell are freed if they so wish, lest they desire to be captivated by a siren’s charm. A graceful hand reaches towards her partner, asking him to lead her and song both from the confines of the piano bench.While the singer rescinds her looming spell, the pianist allows his to linger in one final, minor note that clings against the heart of every listener. He gives one small bow of head to the piano itself before seeking his place at the songbird’s side — Death and the Maiden, if only for the evening. Taking her hand, he kisses it softly, sure to look over her knuckles towards the patrons before them. To him, the lounge still seems a mausoleum long after the final note fades.▊▊ The hand not kissed pinches silk between two claws, lifting Peony’s dress as she bows with the gentleness of a ghost. The evening still lingers, and the look on her face graces the audience with one final wish: Be well. Good night.
wolf moon.
written alongside verrot mielnoireu.
▊▊ = peony's part
The musician settles down against the piano’s wooden bench, and without preamble sets his fingers down against the keys. Beneath his gloved palms, a northern gale moves his fingers in a flourish along the keys of pitch and light. In a minor key, the notes emulate snowfall not yet a blizzard in a forest unknown to the listener. Pines bow beneath the weight of ice towards the audience as the song moves them through the barren underbrush, tension in the melody relaying a fate uncertain. They are hunters to prey unknown.▊▊ Does the moon sit higher this evening? Nights are undoubtedly longer this time of year. Freed from the bars of her cage, the stage is this songbird’s once more, and she yields to the light of the moon with grace. Peony inhales slowly, eyes closed as if she plans to catch the key of snowflakes on her long, dark lashes. Her voice starts off as a quiet breath, hushed as to not be found. Arms hold tight to her chest, restraining the delicate sound that leaves her throat.▊▊ A hunter cannot give themselves away so easily, even when howling winds threaten to drown out her song.Sudden silence. Verrot halts his fingers for a second and allows for a note to shudder outwards towards the composition’s clearing in the forest. He breathes, and with the exhale that shapes his shoulders downward over the keyboard, the melody continues. At the heart of the strain, the increasing pace resembles the quickening of the hunter’s breath. The snowfall thickens to blizzard, and as the musician presses down on the left pedal, he forces a more quiet pursuit. Whatever it is the hunter seeks, it must be taken silently.▊▊ As tensions rise, so does her voice. Her lips are a shock of blood red amongst the white snowfall. Piercing eyes search the crowd, slowly and challenging, for whom is this song for? There’s no time for contemplation, the sport requires a careful focus, lest the hunter wants to lose their quarry. She does not falter, she never does, and her melody carries on. Even the refrain of the breeze falls quiet, making way for her haunting whisper.The instrument yields to the fingers upon it, forcing the song to open up the forest towards a horizon of eerie silence. In the rest, a picture is painted of a Coerthan waste, with little between the hunter’s killshot and their prey — save for a long sheet of ice. The melody resumes, its key and time signature different, as if the song itself is a breath upon the listener’s neck that urges them forward. It asks the measure of their desire and the depth of their need, taunting them with the sheen of the prey’s coat and the scent of cookfire on the song’s wind.▊▊ Aching fervor drips from this slow aria. Bloodlust, a taste of violence upon one’s lips, the intense, growing desire to take, and take, and take. Is yearning for what is presented in front of oneself not an intimately familiar feeling? Her mouth opens wide to caress the note that leaves her lungs, sharp fang visible beneath her lips. The prize awaits the hunter, frozen as time stills before them. They only have to take the shot. Don’t breathe.The melody is bent into a beautiful breaking. In its cadence, the hunter relents to their desire. From their bow flies the killing shot, and into breaking ice does their prey fall. In this moment, hands full of their kill’s fur, they know desire and loss in equal measure. The melody confronts the hunter and taunts them, begging them to dive deeper into the frigid, dark waters. Verrot smiles to himself, the glint of teeth behind his own hungry lips. The tempo shifts, resembling the feeling of a hand gone numb. Will they follow what is rightfully theirs, even should it cost them to no end?▊▊ O, she sings. Her voice chases the piano’s sound, it is the piercing arrow that rides the wind. A high pitch slowly drops off, silence as life is stolen then stolen from twice fold. Peony hums, carrying the song closer to its end as a tortured soul comes face to face with the consequences of want. Desire is hollow without risk. The rage of the blizzard quiets into gentle snowfall.▊▊ Coveted prey threatens to sink into fathoms below and the hunter’s harrowed reflection in the water stares back at them. Blood is in both their veins.As the last note is touched, it quietly moans its dying gasp, leaving the audience to their fate beneath the ice. In the chilling release of tension, he, himself, lets out a slow and confident breath. If one did not know better, having seen him sat at the piano for the song’s entirety, they might think he claimed prey for his own that night. Though as he stands up from the bench and heads back towards the stage, he seems more the wolf that lead the hunter to their fate than he does the desire-stricken archer.▊▊ Peony beckons the musician to her side, spreading her arms like gentle wings. She takes Verrot’s hand in hers as she offers the audience a delicate bow. When she rises, her gaze stays fixed on the gallery before her. If he is this wolf, then this is not her quarry. Her own temptations lead her elsewhere, for you, the listener, are hers tonight.
harvest moon.
The first moon was a favor, but tonight marks the beginning of a pattern it seems. Peony's heels click as she steps towards Moonlight's modest stage once more. Sacha did well enough to introduce her, so Peony has no words of her own, only the sound of song.A quiet, smooth sound leaves her throat. She looks over her shoulder to the right of the room, dragging her stare slowly to the left. She shifts her weight from one leg to another, and the silk of her dress follows suit. Peony's eyes seek no one in particular yet somehow her gaze still seems so... intimate.Her lowers into a soft, melodic note. Tonight's song sounds like a sweet lullaby, an ode to the moon herself as the air falls chilly with the season. Peony sings for the night, she sings for you.There is no flourish, only piece and poetry. Peony is not one for dramatics and therefore she lets her voice carry the show, a low, breathy tone. Her glove hands smooth down the front of her dress as voice trails even lower still, softer more.Eventually, Peony's voice becomes nothing more than a hushed whisper. Her song comes to a graceful end, put to bed with the comfort of dusk.She bows her head, her eyes peering at the audience through her dark lashes, and takes her leave without another word.
snow moon.
written alongside verrot mielnoireu.
▊▊ = peony's part
▊▊ How practiced this dance has become, a pious ritual underneath each full moon. Peony gives Sacha a sidelong glance as he passes by, and she follows in Verrot’s wake as he guides her to the stage, lifting her dress so as to not drag against the hardwood. Her hand leaves his and she takes to the stage once more.Once at the bench, the musician gives one final cursory look across the small jewelry box of patrons. Among them he sees false gemstones set into gold rings, knotted chains long mishandled by their wearers, and some few silver pieces in desperate need of shining. As he sits, his fingers splay across the keys that will rub free such tarnish. His eye meets the jewel he had left at the stage, sat in satin and basked in dim light. This time, he awaits her voice before long fingers can drop and feed the air its chord.▊▊ The fabric of her dress flows across her legs as she delicately steps one foot in front of the other, skin shimmering pearlescent under the moon, a flash of blood red ruby in the dark. Her shoulders drop ever so slightly in a sigh before a breathy voice rings out. Pitched, a slow, decadent sound that glides through the audience’s fingers, too rich to touch as they turn ear and horn to song.Where the chanteuse unravels the long thread of her voice, the musician follows with skilled delay. Just out of time with one another, the melody is a disquieted dance in which the two partners have not yet aligned. This movement of piano and voice serve as a silk thread that might slip through each pearl in the audience. Together they begin to collect each listener onto the point of the jeweler’s needle, drawing them up into a necklace that might sit at the throat of the song.▊▊ Her voice is practiced footsteps just barely out of reach, the piano’s sound hesitant to catch up to the fragility of a precious gem. A determined dance partner miscalculates and catches their lover’s ribbon in lieu of a lock of hair, pulling the silk free. This waltz is more of a chase, with delicate hand offered and words of romance strung carefully from one’s lips, held gently to the light to inspect how each syllable shines.The pianist takes a breath while the songbird expends her own. It is a tremulous note that draws out, rolling over the bed of the song until at last the musician sets his fingers forward. What was once a bar dims to a bedchamber, each chord a breath sipped as two attempt to make one. The struggle no longer belongs to the performers — the hunger and need for union now sits in the audience’s lap. Alive, and beating, this is their desire made manifest. A tension rises in the time signature, begging two heartbeats align.▊▊ Each note hits the chest in palpitation, a thrum that travels through every sternum and soul in the intimacy of the room. The rise and fall of her voice is accented by the flutter of her eyelashes, curtaining sharp golden eyes as she glances over the audience. Her gaze lingers like a lover who cannot bare to leave and sensuality leaves her lips. Is her song caught in a lover’s embrace, or does her voice finally relent to one’s own desire? Where does one’s passion begin and the other’s end?Notes snag at the vocals like fingers catching at a wrist, a thigh, a hip. At last, the discordant melody unifies. The movement opens up with the pianist playing over keys like ribs. It is a gentle breaking of ivory, no more than what is needed to invite the audience deeper into each subsequent heartbeat. Each euphonic gasp and whine. This is what they wanted, after all — as all lovers do. To be so wanted not a single trace of self is left behind in hunger’s wake, if only for a moment. As voice melts into instrument, and instrument devours voice, the listener gives and takes until the line of self and desire blurs. They are naught more than what they want.▊▊ For this is the season of love, is it not? Musician and vocalist intertwined, enticing the listener to find their own indulgence, the kiss of this song becoming a sultry whisper that caresses the ear. Dulcet tones and sounds of ecstasy. The soprano of the songstress’ voice drips down slowly like a bleeding heart. She who started this refrain will not be the one to see it to its finale. Drink deep, dear listener, the sound of reverence. What is adoration if not a fierce craving wrapped in that same, pretty silk ribbon?Take, the piano says, have of your fill. The man above the instrument works it open with the same attentiveness one might devote to a lover kind. Desire abundant, red as wine and hot as hungry blood, flows freely this Snow Moon. In its tides, the din of the bar is lost and washed away. Hearts and heads lost to the current, they are waltzed over the silk sheets and rough ribs of his song until at last the final note is rung. It hangs in the air, cutting the necklace once collected and spilling its string of pearls back across the hardwood floor from which they came. In the palm of the composer’s hand, they are left starving, unsated, and streaked with red.▊▊ She bows her head to the piano’s rest, eyes closed and crimson lips curled. With an outstretched arm, Peony invites her accompaniment to the stage for applause before giving one final, longing glance to the audience.Verrot stands up from the bench and away from the keys so well adored. Looking out across the jewelry box, he still sees fool’s gold and forged diamonds, but knows that even his hands might make costume jewelry shine. He chuckles to himself as he moves to the stage and offers out a gloved hand to the brilliant ruby he had left on its plinth.
worm moon.
written alongside verrot mielnoireu.
▊▊ = peony's part
▊▊ she is far too well-versed in this path by now. Accompanied by her dutiful escort, ascending the few steps it takes to center this humble lounge. The light of the moon feels warmer tonight, and the stage is all hers.Having approached the piano with a practiced air of solemnity, the musician takes his seat. His gloved hands move to lay across the white keys as if an eclipse portending sound. In this long caress, the composer weaves silence no different than he might music. It is a reverent display, as if he sits before the ledge of a stone vault of some dearly departed. The pianist ushers each patron into the silent crypt before dropping his hands to keys and foot to pedal in tandem. A long whine of a chord fills the air. It is as if something has awoken.▊▊ Each footfall she takes spreads root far past the wood below, digging into the soil and bedrock as winter’s wake makes way for springtime’s birth. The songbird starts humming softly, lifting her dress so that it sways around her, the silks and folds brushing past each whimsical step. Her voice rises a proper falsetto, a butterfly caught in the breeze. Though hardly a proper dance, she’s more lively than she’s previously offered this modest stage.From the depths of winter, spring awakes with a vengeance. What began as a slow tempo resolves into a frantic flourish of notes, as if the melody itself seeks to outpace the northern gale. The pianist’s fingers dance along the higher keys as spring sheds free her sleeping gown and bounds lively and unafraid into the cold. Though winter clings to spring and beckons its warmth back to bed, life escapes the hold of death in a frenetic change of key. The notes grab hold of each listener, moving forward hand-in-hand.▊▊ Her dark lashes kiss her cheek as she exhales with melodious breath. Body stills as song escapes her, she leans into the sound like a lover caressed in a last goodbye. Parting from dear wintertide, she sings of new life that blooms with the exchange of seasons. It’s an idyllic escape, through fields and flowers, with wind under wing, Life leaps barefoot in the grass. The nectar one seeks cannot be harvested in the dark.The pianist paints a vivid picture. Pine boughs shed free their snowy blankets and crocus flowers shoot up beneath the feet of the melody. Fruit hangs low in the full-bodied chord progression, so sweet the sound that each patron may nearly taste it. The bitterness of an apple’s skin gives way to the saccharine juice, each note a sunbeam to bask in. Nostalgia strings the melody together, and beneath each note exists a flower, a fruit, a warm-blooded lover from the past of its listener. Each hammer of the strings in the piano’s belly is a touch, a kiss, to the places most neglected. Nothing may be hidden this night.▊▊ It’s so very rare for such a maiden to leave Death’s touch, her lips stained far too-red by from the seeds of the dead and dying to ever fully escape the lingering dark that she calls home. Even so, the velvet soft petals of new fruits’ blossoms call to her care. She sings to them, to the grass that follows her voice, to the insects that start to take flight, to the birdcall that echoes over the rustling trees. While pollen stains her hands, she beckons towards the dear listeners, all cordially invited to take part in the dance of Life.Hands part and the musician’s left slides down the scale. He plucks each falling note as if it is a dribble of sap moving down from the listeners mouth. From lips, to chin, to neck, it falls lower and lower until the notes stand in opposition. While Life abundant spins herself through the orchards of high notes, Death stirs in his pleasurable abyss — from his bed he moves, his low notes slowly trailing through the fields of flowers and pomegranate seeds that spring had left in her wake. The snowmelt reveals the bones of last fall. Where Life dances, Death moves after — and how he longs to fill his arms with the warmth of it. Death, too, has thirsts to slake.▊▊ Would it be heartless to say she does not think of him during her indulgence on the surface? There is no disdain, only reprieve. The Vernal Equinox is not welcome where Death resides, too bathed in the lowlight of the moon, and she relishes in the warmth that he does not offer. He still stays in her heart with fond regard, thought of only when the flowers start to wilt. It is a promise made in complete trust; it is only temporary. The aria she sings flows smoothly through the room, water that rushes to give breath to life offered– drink deep before Death follows suit, for Life and her abundant love must always return. Always.All that lives will die, says the song. As the pianist moves his hands at either side of the long board, he seems a man crucified on the refrain. A lock of hair falls into a smiling face. Death gains ground on Life and his gait is unhurried. For every apple was made by the worm’s till of the soil, and every lover born from eons of death and circumstance ; this too, will be his. Every kiss is sweetened by sorrow, and even the sun’s warmth would be nothing without the night and shade to brace it. Spring does not flee Winter, nor Life flee Death — instead she sets the table for him. This is his feast. The patrons’ lives are his to sup on, regardless of their taste.▊▊ Life welcomes Death’s return with a tender lullaby, she always does. While the songstress’ voice so sweetly leaves her lips, she gazes out to the audience, regretful to part. The breath of Life offered generously with an inhale perfumed by the scent of bloom and breeze, but every exhale brings one only closer to Death. The song offers the listeners a warm embrace, springtime’s final, gentle caress. Her voice softens in consolation, there is nothing to be afraid of, dear listener, for the Death she knows is merciful.The composition sees the musician’s hands moving closer together. Life and Death embrace in a cataclysm of melody. All that spring has nourished is offered up to him. Her seeds produce fruit to be crushed to fermented wine in his hands, her spirited song lends to a heaving catch of breath. The fawns of springtime grow to stags hunted and mounted on his walls. Young mothers grow to old crones and are laid low by their own children, sank deep in his darkness. Sweetness and sorrow swirl about the listener’s ear until they are one in the same. Joy folds into fear and fear folds into wonder. The audience, too, belongs to Death — and how delightful of Life to make them so ripe for the taking. They are plucked from branch and vine into Death’s knowing hands.▊▊ The chanteuse’s red lips spread wide across as her refrain winds down, lower, softer, cradled in gentle arms. Life gives her loves a kiss goodbye, for another promise is made that she will still return to the sun, to the blinding warmth and budding trees. The roots she sowed rescind and begin to lie dormant, waiting patiently for this promise to be next fulfilled. Life comes back to Death, for she is always meant to be by his side. They are intertwined in an endless dance, and his footsteps ardently follow hers.Rejoice! For it is a wonderful thing to be claimed by Death, says the song’s final sigh. It spins Spring from her high perch and takes her down the scales — captured. At each rung of the keyboard’s ladder, Verrot’s fingers press hard into a chord of memory. The husk of a bird’s nest made empty by a hungry hawk. A lover closing a door never to be seen again. A village taken by plague and reduced to smoldering rubble. It is not Death that is unfair. His darkness is a reprieve that begs the crowd know no restraint in life before it comes. Know all, taste all, take all. Verrot presses out the last note, his two hands rejoined at the low end of the piano’s body. Life and Death and entangle once more. He sits again at a tomb, but this time it is not so quiet or empty.▊▊ She takes the delicate bloom that decorates her hair, gently cupped in both hands. What was once fresh and pristine seems to dry before the audience in the blink of an eye, wilted and only steps from decay. Even so, the white petals float elegantly, scattered amongst the crowd as Peony takes her final bow. Spring is welcomed under this Worm Moon.he slides the keyboard cover shut and brushes his gloved hands together, as if truly knocking gravedirt from his fingers. He stands up from the instrument made mausoleum and approaches the stage. There, he gestures across the chanteuse and allows her the praise so deserved before aiding her down from the stage. He needs no accolades this night.
pink moon.
written alongside verrot mielnoireu.
▊▊ = peony's part
The scene is a familiar one. The musician leaves the woman like a bouquet in the vase of the stage before treading towards the habitual shadows. As he moves, it becomes clear that the usual fastenings of his silver spurs have been exchanged for bells. Conical pieces of metal folded from tobacco tin lids accent his every step, the tambourine song only quieting when he finds a chair rather than a bench for the evening. The composer sits and snaps his fingers, rending a long, black bow strung through with silver gutstring from thin air. A parlor trick. He smiles knowingly towards the chanteuse, giving her permission to bloom.▊▊ Her signature heels click in tandem against the floorboards of the rustic lounge, a melody of its own playfully paired with his metallic steps. This time, as she takes her place underneath the Pink Moon, she offers the audience a delicate curtsy, the ruffled petals of her dress bouncing with the breath of her movement. When so lovingly asked to blossom, she will dutifully flourish. The velvet of her voice is gentle, as if to not startle the audience when her musician’s symphony follows suit.If the musician’s instruments are lovers to be courted, he wastes no time with this introduction. His fingers slip along the cello’s fingerboard until they settle in second position, as if brushing hair back from a neck. Following the caress is an embrace, and with a tilt of his body towards the upper bout, does he let the first chord hum. It is a resonant exhale of a noise, as if the instrument might laugh towards the chanteuse who sings ahead of it. Tonight there is no chase, as voice and string move hand in hand towards the throng of the song’s crowd. It is a celebration and their song a libation — the audience is bid to open their ears like mouths to a river of wine.▊▊ Each passing moon is the promise of time spent, an ephemeral sign of the seasons. She takes the audience by hand, pulling them forward into fields and flowers. Dance with her, the song asks, risk the thorns to pluck her carefully from the stem and watch in admiration as she’s twirled around in tender grasp. Drink in the warmth and the revelry, for the songbird sings of spring and the celebration of. Her gaze travels across each patron of this fine establishment, flitting from one to another in personal invitation with a saccharine smile across her decadent red lips.The cello turns its slow circles around the melodious chant. Its chords snake and snag at the vocal’s edges, as if lifting the hem of its skirt in a playful taunt. From their dance falls myriad petals, the sound of springtime sat in the listener’s lap — rebirth and reignition turn petals into embers, spurring their audience to act. Verrot wraps himself around the body of his instrument and with this growing flame, his foot begins to the set a quicker pace. The heel of his boot rises and falls with a titter of bells each time it clacks against the floorboard, filling the room’s chalice with the spirit of sound.▊▊ Drown in the taste of sweet song, indulge in fresh berries offered in tune, gleefully meant to stain one’s mouth. Perched upon the stage, the chanteuse’s voice is but a coquettish giggle that caresses the ear, beckoning the audience to come forward — coaxed to be willfully and breathlessly enchanted. Keep following the footsteps of her sound and allow you, the listener, to become lost in the merriment, even if this is all a fleeting dream by morning’s light. Peony sighs fondly, and finespun becomes the aria in the rise and fall of her chest.There is no pleasure too small, says the slow draw of the cellist's bow. It savors the hedonistic sigh of each chord as a gloved hand works along the strings. Verrot’s grasp undulates with the melody, tightening and loosening on the neck as if guiding the composition’s very breath. Him, the songbird, and the instrument breathe together, sipping the air as their hearts unfurl in each refrain. It is delight for delight’s sake, offered out to the ones who sit, drink, and murmur amongst themselves. The strain demands revelry — and so the notes falls down the scale as if stripping off the layers of obligation and grief. Stark naked and reborn is the song, free and ready to take all within reach.▊▊ It is said that some Gods bask in luscious nectar, so let this song be the rich ambrosia the audience partakes in. Her voice waltzes around the harmonic strings like warm laughter on the wind, drifting and dancing until the carousing must inevitably come to an end. An afternoon of revelry turns into a night under the stars, and gentle moonbeams eventually become outshone by the daybreak at dawn. Of course, such festivities aren’t so effortlessly silenced, but instead one by one, the notes are tucked into bed as if fully imbibed in their own sound. The timbre of Peony’s voice softly dwindles, leaving her mark as delicate morning dewdrops sliding off a budding flower. Would the petals of a peony be too indulgent to imagine, instead of a rose?As if the blanket pulled across the tired sigh of Peony’s voice, the cellist holds his note overlong. Only when it has been tucked beneath the proverbial chin of their melody do his shoulders slope forward. As if released from satin bindings, the edges of the musician soften as the vestiges of his melody hang thick in Moonlight’s tepid air. The final note sinks into each punctuated sentence and splash of alcohol, serving as an obol that one might proffer to fate’s ferryman. Be their destination rest or frantic pleasure, companionship or cruelty, it matters not to him. With a flourish of his hand, he spins the conjured bow as if it were a baton and slips it away to nothingness up the sleeve of his shirt. He stands, light on his bell-clad feet, and makes his way towards the stage to collect the night blooming flower from her vase.▊▊ With grace towards the evening’s starry embrace, she takes one final bow. Peony takes the musician’s dutiful hand, and gives the audience a sidelong glance. The curl of her lips thanks each listener for entrusting them both with this moon’s lullaby.
summer rain.
written alongside verrot mielnoireu.
▊▊ = peony's part
▊▊ The chanteuse trails over the stage, humbled by the performers that came before her. Her heels click softly against the floorboards, rhythmic and gentle, like the tell-tale sounds of droplets hitting against the window pane. Gold eyes travel the lounge in a sidelong glance, glints of sunlight peeking through grey clouds, and she takes the first breath of summer. There is velvet in her voice and tonight, this songbird graces the audience with a Doman tongue.With the songbird left at the illustrious nest of center stage, the musician drifts towards his own perch for the evening. The velvet call of the chanteuse is a lightning flash to the stormclouds of his hands where they hover above the instrument. When at last they break and clawed fingertips fall across the strings, the room is swallowed by the sound of rainfall. Not yet a monsoon, the guzheng whines out its first droplets — warm and sweet. The musician sighs, as if he too has longed for wet weather.▊▊ Soft on the ear, sweet on the lips, delicate as the warm rain starts to wash away springtime’s plum blossom bloom. As flitting and fleeting as it sounds, her sultry voice longs for a place to settle. The song soars through each listener to find its place, finding purchase deep within the heart. It’s wistful and dreamlike, a haze of something tender and soft to be found through the oncoming downpour.Arms spread as crows wings over the instrument, its song moving after the sweet trill of their singer’s voice. It delights across the petals of the Doman word, misting the syllables with the relief of summer rain. Yearning abounds in each warble of the strings, seeking after something, someone, in the slow tempest of the song. Its warmth beckons the audience a bygone desire of youth — to open one’s mouth to catch the summer storm on the tongue, to let it nourish the flowers within and wash away all else.▊▊ The plucking of heartstrings, the weaving of song, the desire for love and how one waits for its return. Honeyed romance, as ephemeral as the seasons themselves, but love is patient; or so how it fondly claims to be. Rain falls over lips, a promise within a kiss. Her hips gently sway, leaning into the sound. Something so bittersweet lingers in her voice, rich and heavy enough to leave a heady taste in one’s mouth.The composition blossoms in its volume, perfuming the lounge with the sound of stormbreak. What the audience longs after exists only just beyond their reach, separated only by the evening clouds of the musician’s hands. Long fingers work over the soundboard and the delicately carved bridges to paint a picture of a moon and stars through dwindling rain. As they slow, the clarion of the songbird paints the storm’s aftermath in silver light. This cloudburst has made the fruit sweeter, the ground softer underfoot. Rain has made the lover’s longing bountiful — the songs begs ‘drink deep of it.’▊▊ Her hands trail along the microphone stand as the timbre of her voice softens through the summer storm, dark eyelashes rising to greet the audience with a longing gaze. Even as the guzheng is laid to rest, she continues the song in a low hum, basking in the sky and starlight. Red lips curl from behind the amplifier, slow and satisfied, and with that the songbird bids the dear listener goodbye– goodnight.The musician slips away from his final note with languid elegance, certain that the instrument is undisturbed. His own farewell to the audience is naught more than a tip of his head before he appears at the songbird’s side, offering out his hand with a characteristic wiggle of his fingers. A small sigh escapes him, as if he too had longed for wetter weather. With that, sidelong glance and sardonic smile is etched into the afterimage of their performance as they leave the desirous rainfall behind.