[Whether a new visitor or a warmly welcomed returner, Bleobheris does not greet them as warmly as it once did. The Great Oak's roots still dig as deep and wide, taking over the glade around it, but all of the artists that one flocked around its base have vanished. Half-formed paintings lay in their easels, balls of yarn unwound and fraying amoung brown, dry grass. What looks to be the shredded shards of a broken lute scatter around a boulder, smashed to pieces.
Worse still, the air smells as smoke.
The brightly colored insects that once flit through Bleobheris's leaves are gone, replaced by the rare glimpse of grey moths, which feast upon the oak's decaying trunk. The leaves that still cling to its branches range from reds to browns, in various states of death.
In the distance, the scream of the horses. The sun has vanished from Jaskier's usually sunny domain, and only heavy, dark clouds hover nearby.
The denizens of his domain are far from calm. The horses can be heard stomping, snorting, and the goldfinch is nowhere to be found, her nest empty. Perhaps you'll venture too close to the entrance of Bleobheris's trunk and be met with the launched body of a white peacock, screaming and pecking, scratching with his claws.
But only if the oak's main protector is occupied. To any visitor sensed approaching, a moogle clad in dark armor upon a flying steed will block their way, a greatsword strapped to his back, his expression grim.] Who are you, kupo? Why are you here? Master Jaskier is gone, and he cannot greet you.
[For a moment, Moglad will stop there, but he will look back at Bleobheris and the pom atop his head will wilt.] But is it right to make them leave, kupo...? What should I do...?
OTA. the horizon, sans one bard.
Worse still, the air smells as smoke.
The brightly colored insects that once flit through Bleobheris's leaves are gone, replaced by the rare glimpse of grey moths, which feast upon the oak's decaying trunk. The leaves that still cling to its branches range from reds to browns, in various states of death.
In the distance, the scream of the horses. The sun has vanished from Jaskier's usually sunny domain, and only heavy, dark clouds hover nearby.
The denizens of his domain are far from calm. The horses can be heard stomping, snorting, and the goldfinch is nowhere to be found, her nest empty. Perhaps you'll venture too close to the entrance of Bleobheris's trunk and be met with the launched body of a white peacock, screaming and pecking, scratching with his claws.
But only if the oak's main protector is occupied. To any visitor sensed approaching, a moogle clad in dark armor upon a flying steed will block their way, a greatsword strapped to his back, his expression grim.] Who are you, kupo? Why are you here? Master Jaskier is gone, and he cannot greet you.
[For a moment, Moglad will stop there, but he will look back at Bleobheris and the pom atop his head will wilt.] But is it right to make them leave, kupo...? What should I do...?