[OOC: Please note that Mendean speaks in the local languages of Parvpora. He DOES NOT speak in 'common' (Adelunan) or any other of the languages of Canelux.]

Irregularly shaped rocks jutting out from a thick green carpet. Thin white tree trunks, like unearthly stems of some pale subterranean entity, pushing parts of itself up into the world in an attempt to explore the sunlit realms. A deeply set stream, leading into a white-pebbled pond. Deep red carp skimming the bottom, seemingly ignorant of the ornamental breed of duck that floated above. The canopy layer was thick, casting a green light over everything. Mendean rested upon a hummock, hearing nothing but the constant trickle of water and the occasional start from a bird.

Tilting his head towards the canopy, tiny droplets of rain spattered his face. He smiled, eyes closed for a moment, before returning his gaze to his surroundings. Small round-faced sculptures of sleeping heads poked up through the carpets of thick moss that covered almost every surface. He noted how peaceful they looked. Like children dreaming. The notion made him smile ruefully. Of course, that was the intended impression. Peace, serenity, contemplation.

And yet he knew that if he were to walk a quarter of a mile in any direction, he would find himself in the heart of the hustle and bustle of Nisshoki. To his divine senses, the hundreds of souls moving back and forth, going about their lives, near-oblivious to the serenity that lay beyond the gates of the old shrine, might as well have been right there with him. As long as he did not focus outwards, kept his senses reined tightly in, he would be fine. It had been one of the first tricks learned when he ascended.

Instead he turned his attention to the carpeted green haven. The fabled moss garden of Nisshoki. Once it had been a temple to the old gods, but they were long-gone. And yet, monks had returned to this place. Devoting their lives to pursuits more philosophical than anything else, the old shrine had been given new life. The temple itself had fallen mostly to ruin, moss had overgrown most surfaces. And so the monks cultivated the moss, encouraging it and allowing nature to cover that which had originally been wrought by the hand of man. Some parts of the old temple had been restored enough for its custodians to reside there, but most of the stone slabs now served the all-encompassing mosses as a part of their domain.

Contemplating his pack, Mendean deliberated on which items to retrieve. It would be too wet to bring out his journal, or sketch pad. And yet he felt a hankering for some form of expression. A smile crossed his face as he caught a glimpse of pale lacquered wood showing through gaps in its silken wrapping. Perfect.

Mendean pulled out the bamboo flute, sat with his back against a reddish-brown boulder, covered in patches of sporadic bright green. He raised the flute to his lips, closed his eyes and began with a long, low note that trailed off. After a moment's consideration, he played another note. It bent upwards as he played. More notes followed. Slow, bending sounds that trailed off into a wavering.

He frowned, then held the flute out before him, balancing it on the palm of one hand, checking for…he did not know what. He was troubled. “Why does music sound so sad? I do not understand,” muttered the god in Wyllmochvaran.

She had always found peace in the rain, and Hotaru smiled as she remember the sound of the head monk's voice.  He had told her that she had been left on the doorstep on the monastery in the rain, and she had been smiling and laughing.  He had died a few years ago, but he had always been kind to the orphan.  It was time to feed the fish in the pond, and Hotaru always volunteered when it was raining.  Bare feet padded carefully across the courtyard, she preferred to not tread on the moss and damage it.  The covered baskets were leaning against the wall as was usual, and she picked one up.

The dried flakes of fish food always brought the colorful fish to the pond's surface quickly, and Hotaru was careful to space her throws so they hit different areas.  As she fed the fish, there were the low forlorn notes of a flute playing between the raindrops.  While she didn't want to disturb whomever was playing, the young woman found herself curious.  Most of the monks stayed inside when it rained.  Perhaps this wasn't a monk?  A visitor had the potential of being very exciting.

Making her way towards the notes, her head tilted to one side when she saw the young man.  He did not look like he was from Ataiyo, and a bright grin crossed her face.  he spoke words that she couldn't understand, but Hotaru thought they sounded like he was trying to think something aloud.  Perhaps he would be willing to share interesting tales with her.  "Oh, hello!  I'm glad someone else enjoys the rain as much as I do.  What brings you to the moss garden?" she asked, hoping that he wouldn't mind a bit of company.  Dressed in her plain robes and moving with a sure footing, it was clear that Hotaru had lived in the monastery for quite some time.

Paradox stopped for a second among the trees. She perked both her ears forward. Could it be? The sound of a flute? Music? She waited patiently, rain sliding along her flanks and dripping from her belly to the wet earth below. She flicked her wet tail, swishing water droplets off the end. She sighed. Maybe she was just imagining things. That happened sometimes. She stepped forward into a shallow creek, the water rising halfway up her hoof. Then she heard it again. The sweet music filled the air once more. No, she wasn't imagining it. She walked downstream through the creek, following it like a path. She walked in the water, as it was quieter than the ground. She went towards the sound of the music until it stopped again. She continued walking, her feet making soft sounds as they kicked up water. 

She went with the stream until it came to a large pond. She surveyed the edges and saw a young girl throwing something into the water. She leaned against a tree and watched her. Suddenly bright spots of color appeared at the surface of the water. Fish. She smiled, watching as they appeared, noses occasionally breaking the surface to eat the grain and food the girl was throwing in the water. She stayed still, the rain running off of her and into the pond, which she was standing in up to her fetlocks. When she was done feeding the fish the girl stood up and she heard the music from the flute again. 

The girl appeared to go towards the sound. She was sure of herself and didn't appear to slip and fault on the slippery rocks. Paradox walked through the water by the pond's bank. She followed the girl and the sound of the music. She stopped just behind the girl, her equestrian body hidden by the pond bank. She spotted a young man a short distance away. He was the one who was making the beautiful music. She tipped an ear as she heard the girl start to speak.

Still holding the flute across the palm of his hand, the deity lifted his eyes briefly as the monk-girl addressed him. She was a local, no doubt one of the many orphans who ended up under the care of the monks, rather than a true monk herself. Too young and full of life, different from the contemplative types who spoke little as they went a bout their duties, reserving their words for the lively debates that usually happened in the evenings.

Mendean regarded her for a moment, taking in her appearance, demeanour. Recalling which – if any – of her dreams he might have had a hand in. He nodded by way of a greeting, then tapped one end of the flute with a finger. The bamboo tube spun in a neat circle, before in a single deft motion, he snapped it up in one hand, bring it to his lips, as though he were about to play, then pausing this action and looking up once more.

Only this time, he realised the girl was not alone. A young woman stood in the water behind her. For a moment, Mendean narrowed his eyes, for the newcomer appeared to be abnormally tall, by the way she was standing. He thought that perhaps she stood on a rock, just beneath the bank, then his senses took over and he understood. Offering a brief smile, Mendean once again nodded in greeting.

“I came to contemplate the garden. The new, cultivates the old, without returning to it,” answered the god in Ataiyan. His Wyllmochvaran accent giving the syllables an exotic quality (by the standards of a resident of this land.) “I have come to see what it will teach me.”

Bringing the flute to his lips, he blew a single low note that rose ever-so-slightly at the end. Another frown as he removed the flute from his mouth and stared down along its length with lips pursed. He let out a frustrated breath through his nostrils. “I do not know. Perhaps I am not a flute player?”

Paradox froze as the young man turned and looked at her, his eyes were narrow and intimidating. She bowed her head slightly. She felt that this man was quite powerful, though his magical abilities were dimmed in this place. Either way, she had no desire to see the extents of his power. Then he nodded to her, his smile brief, and went on to playing. She lifted her head up again and gave a small smile back. She listened to him speak, her ears forward. 

His voice was deep and sounded old, betraying his age, even though he physically didn't look much older than her. There was a strange accent to his words that she had never heard before. He was seeking knowledge here, whereas she was seeking refuge among the monks. They were kind to everything, even if she never let them see her. It was a safe haven and she was pleased to be here, even if it was for only a short while. The man started playing again, his flute light and gentle in the quiet rain. As abruptly as he had started, he stopped and she heard him give a frustrated sigh.

She looked at him, turning her head to the side as she heard his voice, slightly disgusted with himself. She nodded her head at him, urging him to keep playing. She couldn't remember the last time she had heard music, even if he wasn't perfect, his flute was the most beautiful thing she had heard in a long while. Quietly, she walked around the bank, trying to stay hidden from the monk girl, she didn't want to show herself to her yet. She didn't know how she would react or if she would tell the other monks about her presence.

She stopped right behind the girl, much closer to the man than before. He was interesting to say the least, and she felt his power more strongly now. Almost like a very powerful aura, that surrounded him and gave the very slightest pressure to anything nearby. It was then she noticed that he lacked a scent of any sort. She had never encountered a being without even a trace of a pheromone. She knew he wasn't an imaginary creation, because the girl saw him as well and heard him. So what is he? She looked at him, and mouthed two words silently. Keep playing.

[Can we keep with a posting order?  It makes things a bit easier.  I'd suggest Century, myself, then Lou.]

It was quite clear to her that the young man was well acquainted with his flute, judging by how well he handled it.  The smile lit her gray-blue eyes when he described the garden well, he had found the exact reason why the monks had cultivated the moss.  "The monks made the perfect place for such a thing.  It is a wonderful place to just sit and think, isn't it?" Hotaru asked, slowly shifting her weight from one foot to another.  She had yet to learn the lesson of patience when she had nothing to occupy her hands with, though it was something the young woman was trying to work on.  But it was a task far easier said than done. 

She shook her head when when he asked if he was not a flute player, it was something she disagreed with.  "The old head of the monks here once told me that once you put your mind to it, all things are possible.  So perhaps you are more able than you think?  Sometimes, it just takes practicing," Hotaru suggested.  It reminded her of when she had been trying to learn how to draw.  At first, her pictures were like that of a child, but slowly they had become more clear.  It had just taken practice.  And in that practice, she had slowly been learning patience.

Cocking his head to one side, the god seemed to be listening to something. He avoided meeting the gaze of the two women, instead concentrating on a tune. One that was unfolding within the confines of his head. It was there, clear as a bell. And yet, he did not feel he had the ability to transpose it through his breath and his finger movements, along the bamboo tube that was his flute and out into the world. It needed to manifest, but somehow it eluded him.

That he had the ability to play was not questioned. He had been taught music in formal style throughout school and it had been a part of his training when he had lived in a monastery for over two years. And yet, the music was not wholly a part of him, he realised. It had always been a formulaic process. A set of instructions, rather than a flowing current within him. Improvisation had been a dirty word in both the monastery and at the college. In the monastery it was an aide to meditation and in the college it had been a part of the social training for up-and-coming young mages.

But then he thought about how chanting had been a part of his training, as well as the use of bells, drums and chimes in the casting of spells, particularly summoning rituals. When learning the martial arts it was not unknown for the moves to be performed to music. The more he thought a bout it, the more he realised it had been there all along. Improvised sounds to enhance the power of movement, dance, magic…and summoning.

Mendean wiped the flute clean with his shirt, then without getting up, he placed the flute on the moss before him. Small droplets of water clung to its lacquered surface as it rolled for a full revolution on the uneven ground before falling still.

“I think I need inspiration. Why don't one of you give it a go? Don't be afraid, it won't hurt you.”

[Apologies, work has been draining my mood to write.]

It wasn't until the young man made mention of the other being behind her that Hotaru realized there was another person in the garden.  She startled a little, and turned to see just who was there.  Her gray eyes widened, she had heard of these half horse, half human creatures, but had never thought that she would come across one.  Offering the centaur a bow, Hotaru's ever present smile hadn't faltered.  "A pleasure to meet you, and welcome to the moss gardens.  I'm Hotaru," she said, a bright innocence in her voice.  She had been sheltered from the world, and had little idea that people could possibly be dangerous.

Regarding the flute for a few moments, she gingerly picked up the instrument.  The monks encouraged the learning of instruments as they aided in meditation, and Hotaru was passingly familiar with the flute.  A number of tunes flew through her mind, and there was one that had always been her favorite.  Perhaps the young man would find his inspiration in its bright notes.  "The monks teach everyone this, perhaps it will help," she said.  Blowing into the flute a few times to find its pitch and determine where its note were, Hotaru played a soft, lilting tune.  But the notes quickly soared, and became almost like the chirping of small birds.

It wasn't a long tune, only a minute or so, but Hotaru played it well.  "It's about the sparrows that are all over Nisshoki.  How they fly and how they sound.  Do you know any music, miss?" she asked the centaur as she carefully cleaned the flute herself.  If asked, she was fully prepared to share the instrument and hear something new.

Paradox stood still and silent as the man stopped playing and laid his flute on the ground. He talked to the two of them and she slowly flipped her ears forward like a deer. She saw the girl in front of her jump slightly, as if startled and she turned to look at her. She moved her eyes to look at her and saw the girl bow to her. She had never been bowed to, and did not know why or how she should respond. Instead she looked at her and nodded her head. "Hello Hotaru," she said quietly.

She watched the girl pick up the flute and examine it for a second. Then she began to play. Her music was light and gentle and she sighed. It was peaceful and she thought the girl played wonderfully. She was rather disappointed when she stopped playing and looked towards her when she started talking. She spoke of the birds and offered her the flute. Paradox gave her a small smile and shook her head. She stepped towards the bank and reared up.

"Watch yourself, lass." She brought her hooves up and leaped on to the bank, showing off her large body. She looked down at the girl and glanced at the man sitting near them. "My kind do not play music," she said, her voice still low. Her tail flicked back and forth, still wet at the end from the pond. "But I know of the music that you speak of. The music of the birds, the swamp sparrow." She turned towards the trees and emitted several crisp whistles into the sky. She repeated these several times before stopping. She listened and then held out a hand.

She heard the soft rustle of feathers and a small bird appeared out of the light fog. It landed lightly on the end of her hand and peered at her with large brown eyes. Paradox whistled to it and it returned. They carried on this duet for several seconds, creating their own song through the different kinds of trills. After a short while, they both stopped at once and she tentatively stroked the small creature along its fragile spine. It was no larger than a mouse and it perched gracefully on her fingers. 

She looked at the girl and held it out to her, settling it gently in her palm. It stayed calm like she had told it too and didn't fly away. "These little creatures taught me the lyrics," she said, the smile still on her face. She waved her hand and the ground by her front hooves shifted slightly as a small red flower emerged from the ground. She reached down and plucked it. "But these plants taught me the tune." She walked over and lowered herself at the young man's feet. She stared into his eyes and offered him the flower. A Carnation, the Flower of the Gods.

The god shifted, allowing his legs to stretch and spread while he listened to the music. The little monk girl played like someone who had spent many hours practicing. The centaur claimed her kind did not play music, which made him scoff a little. “I remember an old centaur who was a virtuoso with the lyre, and the bow, incidentally. He was from the South though. Perhaps your herd has differing customs?” She might have been telling the truth, but Mendean was suspicious of anyone who claimed not to have an interest in music. For him, a love of music was a sure-fire way of demonstrating whether someone had a soul or not.

Casting his gaze around the mossy beds surrounding them, he spotted movement. A nuance of something overlaying the real world in which he sat. Mendean grinned. The barriers between worlds were thinning. Frayed fragments of the weave, coaxed out by music that he could take a hold of and rework. Something winged flitted past, but the multiple coloured and translucent wings, accompanied by a chittering sound that reminded him of human speech, speeded up many times, indicated that whatever it had been, was not of this world. He waved an arm, watching as tiny sparks crackled against his sleeve, drifting into a sunbeam like dust motes. It was working. The dream world was spilling into this one.

Smiling, the god rose to his feet, testing his weight against the damp mossy stones. Some rocked when he stepped on them, but for the most part, they remained steady. He looked down at his feet, staring through the moss, through the stones, down into that which lay beneath. He could feel it, deep within the earth. It had been there for thousands of years. A temple built around it, and then another on top of it. The temple had fallen into ruin, only to be restored to life as a monastery.

But in order to access what was in the ground, he required music. More music. “That was beautiful, Hotaru. Truly you have a gift. Music that is the stuff of dreams. Please, play me something else. I really think your song was helping.”

He turned to regard Paradox. “And your mastery of the birdcalls is impressive, to summon the wild is no small feat. But I wonder…perhaps the two of you would like to combine your music? I have something in my bag that I think will help.”

Moments later, Mendean had produced a violin. He stuck the instrument beneath his chin, inclining his head toward its neck, then with a flourish, he produced a bow, striking the first note, seemingly at random. “Ah, a G. Of course.”