(tw: very disturbing imagery)
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Despite all things it is a beautiful summer day when Ipomoea decides to pay a visit to his Emissary. Everything is in bloom - outside it is quite cheerful. There is nothing his anger can do to stop the air from being fragrant and delicious - the tree next to the cottage is in full bloom now - it is now working towards growing pears. All of the flowers, however, seem to respond to him. The birds take to higher perches and insects prepare their graves in silence. From the front, it is hard to see inside the small cottage - and that is intentional.
The door opening when Ipomoea knocks - is not intentional. The door is slow to open but it does. Wider and wider until the darkness within melts away from the daylight pouring in. She is not there to gossamer and glamour it into something he might prefer to see. He has entered a raw space. Something natural, when her mind is not reaching - is not searching - looking for ways to pull shadows over all of her secrets and to render it into something he would want to see (rather than what he needs to see).
The King loves plants, does he not? The King prefers no conflict, does he not? Ipomoea may not know what to expect when he enters, because she does not anticipate his arrival. In the beginning she chose to cultivate the philodendron; easy to live with, easy to cultivate, love, affection, health, abundance, life. All things relatable. All things fruitful. Plants with a promise. Easy distractions.
Beneath it all, terrible lies. Perhaps - perhaps Ipomoea had seen it in the beginning. Maybe he was more than she figured him to be. They had such an invigorating conversation that night they met in the temple - it is too bad that in the end, Emersyn was convinced she was lying to herself almost as much as she was at lying to others.
In all of her botany and brilliance, the darkness shines through most, when in the end Emersyn achieved a strange hybrid - one that she had set free in her home to roam unrestrained within her household. One that sought flesh, one that sought the life blood which kept the flesh warm, one that possessed paralyzing thorns that could render a warrior into a plank of wood in one sting. This was the same poison found in most of the remains that had been recovered from Viride.
The firepit was always thought of as a warm and friendly place, a place where Emersyn had served her wing-footed friend a strange and wonderful tea. One that softened the senses and comforted the mind. Lavender, chamomile, and poppy root to keep wandering eyes from looking too far. Never once did she intend to show Ipomoea the horrors that lined her shelves (it certainly wasn't books). It must have felt like a mistake to visit the Emissary in a strange, dark, and eerily quiet place. A place so silent that it seemed haunted. Even after winter had already gone.
Now, entering the space without the Emissary to shift and shape it for Ipomoea to feel comfortable, he could now see that the plants were dead now, wilted and rotting in their pots. The magnificent vine she once praised was broken, and all the pieces of it were brown - already dead. The fire had been cold for so long that the King might recognize similar scenes of his previous visit if his memory was sharp enough. Emersyn only lit a fire because she knew he would come. After that, she never lit it again.
The two cups they sipped last visit from sat half full. The batches of herbs now rotted, a green mold growing in a velvety sweep over the stoneware. Somehow all of the verdant growth did not represent life at all. All of the dead soil seemed more valid than the concoction Emersyn had fed him so long ago. Never the less, there was still the ever present question: Where is she?; and that is where one proceeds into the house of horrors with utmost caution.
Jars and jars and jars filled with fluid glow eerie and horrible in the sun light peeking through boarded side windows. Eyes float, suspended in lissamine green solution. Rows and rows of them. Jaws full of teeth too. Feet and tongues and organs remain suspended in rose-Bengal fluorescence dye. A grimy gray light illuminates the vague shapes of all these terrible things, they glow ominously like phantoms in the night. Lost souls. Lost memories. Pieces of Viride forever gone, and no one knows why.
The smell of death (that rotten fog) is thicker here, it creeps in through every interstice within the rotting foundations of her home. It slithers in beneath every door sweep and window jamb. It seeps around Ipomoea’s heels and clings to his skin. The air is damp, the presence of salt water can be scented in the air. The ocean is no where near here.
Drip, drip, drip...
Rotting hides remain draped all over her work table. It was once filled with notations about her magical flying machine but has since then been replaced with diagrams about how to dissect a young scribe known by the name of Mateo. It seems she has taken an interest in his voice. Water drips from strange places (it hasn't been raining?), the smell of the sea lingers amongst all of the rot. Lighting from one dying candle near the hearth reveals skulls and skeletons instead. Discarded pieces that aren’t needed for the magic, the ritual, the money, lay forgotten - left carelessly without being remembered.
Drip, drip, drip...
Death surrounds this home, it is sour and suffocating - sulfuric. Nothing grows here anymore. How can things change so fast? How do we ever know that something might not seem right? How do we know when we are being lied to? It would not be betrayal if we were aware of it creeping in. This makes no sense. There are live animals tied to a post out back, they bleat and bray outside. They are restless and noisy and never stop when they hear activity in the house. Emersyn has been missing for days. This is unlike her. Especially because she is not one to leave this kind of a mess behind.
Drip, drip, dri--
Something is very wrong.
He is met halfway by a creature that responds to the name of Emersyn, but certainly does not look like Emersyn. Blood drips down her neck from an awful gash across her throat - but she is not in pain. Her skin is slippery and wet with seawater, but her hair is dry - just wild and lively even without the wind. Something feral has seeded itself within her - and a metamorphosis has begun . She is at a sickening stage of change where her teeth have begun to rot out of her mouth (to make way for something far more terrible and punishing). When she smiles at him, it is wrong.
"Ipomoea. What an unpleasant surprise."
@Ipomoea We are mid-transitioning into a Kelpie (we took the grotesque slow-melting road/time to gather money for passive magic) Feel free to play on that as much as you like. Also, please feel free to powerplay/hurt/maim/control her however you need to! She is in yours and @
