She looked to the flowers again, brushing a hand over them, looking for one that would prompt something. It didn't take long.
One scene was short, simply a pair of elves in a garden, drinking a bit themselves, having lunch while they kept the fairies' bowl of wine full for them -- and even sharing their own food with the little insects, clearly not at all minding losing those tiny bits of it to them, giggling and asking them if they liked what they'd found. The little black-with-purple one seemed intent on trying to lift a large morsel of bread, soaked in a sauce of some kind, only to be told that she'd likely have better luck if she took less at once, or had another of the fairies help her. ....Whatever was going on here, it was clear that the elves absolutely did not regard these insects as pests of any sort.
Another brief scene, another elf was making food, kneading some bits, dried fruits or nuts or something, into a brown dough while apparent younger siblings played in the house behind her, and a few of the fairies peeked in through the window above her work area. They deposited something on the cloth tied over the mouth of a jar there, and she paused, leaning in to see what it was, only to give a smile that was... part wince? An attempt not to laugh? It was hard to tell. "Oh... I appreciate the gifts, but my kind doesn't eat those bugs. You do." One of the little fairies hopped back to the cloth to push them toward her again, insisting on offering them, and she shook her head. "No, no... give those to your own children." They pointed to a bowl sitting a few inches away, and faintly, something seemed to appear in it, a dark mass in the bottom that glittered, only an illusion that lasted just long enough to give the elf a hint before disappearing, the other fairies seeming more excited for it. "Oh...! Oh, poppets, you don't need to trade for that!" She quickly cleaned her hands off and grabbed a bottle from the shelf, one with more of that black wine in it, and tossing some twigs of something into the bowl, began pouring it for them....
In another scene, past-Mallia was indoors at a workbench. Evident from what else was in the room was that whoever worked here was a carver, a crafter. Mallia was leaning on the workbench herself, inspecting the wooden thing closely as she rubbed what looked like it might've been a sort of file on it, smoothing part of it down. The elf pictured this time, a lady that might've been a bit on the older side, with white hair and fine lines from a long history of smiling, was working on its other end. It was an arm, a doll arm the size of a child's, thin and delicate-looking, perfectly carved to hide the joints better than most modern dolls' were.
"...but I don't feel any life in it."
"So you doubt it'll work as our poppet's arm?"
Past-Mallia paused, frowning as she considered. "Should we pour wine on it?"
Present-Mallia was taking a second to look around the workshop, her eye caught by movement on top of a shelf, and she smiled, seeing what looked like a small bird sitting up high there, watching them contentedly.
The older lady laughed at that. "We make sure that the wine has that life-magic in it for you and the others, dear. But wine isn't the only way to move that energy quickly. I'm sure you can tell that it's everywhere, can't you?"
"It's not, though. Not much. It's in people and animals. And in the wine." A little pause. "Is the wine alive?"
She laughed again, hardly mocking, simply amused by the innocent confusion. "No, poppet. Wine isn't alive. But it has that magic because the ents put it into the berries that we make it from. Because they want you and everyone to have it."
Mallia, there in the present, stepped around to get a better look at the older lady.
Her past self frowned a little, thinking. "But we won't put wine on the new arm?"
"There's no need," The lady said, finishing what she was doing. She set the shoulder end back down. "His own spirit's plenty enough. It's a strong one." She turned, peeking around. "Chell?"
Something moved from a chair not far away, a child-sized figure waking up at their name being called, and Chell rubbed his eyes, sitting up. Once he focused on the two at the desk, he seemed to figure out what was going on, and he slid down off the chair to step over to them.
He wasn't another elf, he was a wooden doll. His arm was broken at the bicep, the bare wood splintered still; the new arm was its replacement. Past-Mallia crouched and put her arms out, and the little figure stepped up to be lifted to the table, where the lady set to work again. "Thank you," he said quietly, smiling. It was anyone's guess how a wooden-looking doll face was pliable enough to be so easily expressive, but his definitely was.
"Of course, of course." The lady leaned over to give him a quick little kiss on his head while she worked at detaching the old arm. It didn't take her long, and attaching the new one took her even less time. Even before she'd finished, Chell was bringing his new hand up to try opening and closing it, turning it over in front of him, smiling at how it matched its pair, moving it as naturally as any born person might've. "There."
Past-Mallia, curious, picked up the broken bit of arm, turning it over. "There's no life in it at all now...."
"Of course there isn't. Chell's spirit is staying in his body. And that's not part of it any longer." She picked up the little figure when he reached for her, and helped the wooden child down, taking a quick kiss on her cheek before she could stand back up, and grinned. "I'm sure you'll try to be careful with that one, poppet?"
"Uh huh. Mom said she'd fix the door for me so it wouldn't happen again."
"Oh, good, good!" She said something else, the warm look on her face making it plain that she'd regarded the made child as fondly as any other, and perhaps he was her own, though he'd referred to someone else as his parent... but the scene faded again, leaving the present Mallia standing there.
She glanced to Mal, hesitant. She had a faint smile, but something else was there as well, debating on saying something. Maybe the younger lady had questions, after that bit? She wasn't sure. But if Mal didn't object or interrupt, she'd step to another bed of the flowers.
And if Mal had been paying close enough attention to the scene, she might have picked up on a few details of its translation: that the elves' word for life, and spirit, and magic... were, in this context, either the same word, or related.
no subject
She looked to the flowers again, brushing a hand over them, looking for one that would prompt something. It didn't take long.
One scene was short, simply a pair of elves in a garden, drinking a bit themselves, having lunch while they kept the fairies' bowl of wine full for them -- and even sharing their own food with the little insects, clearly not at all minding losing those tiny bits of it to them, giggling and asking them if they liked what they'd found. The little black-with-purple one seemed intent on trying to lift a large morsel of bread, soaked in a sauce of some kind, only to be told that she'd likely have better luck if she took less at once, or had another of the fairies help her. ....Whatever was going on here, it was clear that the elves absolutely did not regard these insects as pests of any sort.
Another brief scene, another elf was making food, kneading some bits, dried fruits or nuts or something, into a brown dough while apparent younger siblings played in the house behind her, and a few of the fairies peeked in through the window above her work area. They deposited something on the cloth tied over the mouth of a jar there, and she paused, leaning in to see what it was, only to give a smile that was... part wince? An attempt not to laugh? It was hard to tell. "Oh... I appreciate the gifts, but my kind doesn't eat those bugs. You do." One of the little fairies hopped back to the cloth to push them toward her again, insisting on offering them, and she shook her head. "No, no... give those to your own children." They pointed to a bowl sitting a few inches away, and faintly, something seemed to appear in it, a dark mass in the bottom that glittered, only an illusion that lasted just long enough to give the elf a hint before disappearing, the other fairies seeming more excited for it. "Oh...! Oh, poppets, you don't need to trade for that!" She quickly cleaned her hands off and grabbed a bottle from the shelf, one with more of that black wine in it, and tossing some twigs of something into the bowl, began pouring it for them....
In another scene, past-Mallia was indoors at a workbench. Evident from what else was in the room was that whoever worked here was a carver, a crafter. Mallia was leaning on the workbench herself, inspecting the wooden thing closely as she rubbed what looked like it might've been a sort of file on it, smoothing part of it down. The elf pictured this time, a lady that might've been a bit on the older side, with white hair and fine lines from a long history of smiling, was working on its other end. It was an arm, a doll arm the size of a child's, thin and delicate-looking, perfectly carved to hide the joints better than most modern dolls' were.
"...but I don't feel any life in it."
"So you doubt it'll work as our poppet's arm?"
Past-Mallia paused, frowning as she considered. "Should we pour wine on it?"
Present-Mallia was taking a second to look around the workshop, her eye caught by movement on top of a shelf, and she smiled, seeing what looked like a small bird sitting up high there, watching them contentedly.
The older lady laughed at that. "We make sure that the wine has that life-magic in it for you and the others, dear. But wine isn't the only way to move that energy quickly. I'm sure you can tell that it's everywhere, can't you?"
"It's not, though. Not much. It's in people and animals. And in the wine." A little pause. "Is the wine alive?"
She laughed again, hardly mocking, simply amused by the innocent confusion. "No, poppet. Wine isn't alive. But it has that magic because the ents put it into the berries that we make it from. Because they want you and everyone to have it."
Mallia, there in the present, stepped around to get a better look at the older lady.
Her past self frowned a little, thinking. "But we won't put wine on the new arm?"
"There's no need," The lady said, finishing what she was doing. She set the shoulder end back down. "His own spirit's plenty enough. It's a strong one." She turned, peeking around. "Chell?"
Something moved from a chair not far away, a child-sized figure waking up at their name being called, and Chell rubbed his eyes, sitting up. Once he focused on the two at the desk, he seemed to figure out what was going on, and he slid down off the chair to step over to them.
He wasn't another elf, he was a wooden doll. His arm was broken at the bicep, the bare wood splintered still; the new arm was its replacement. Past-Mallia crouched and put her arms out, and the little figure stepped up to be lifted to the table, where the lady set to work again. "Thank you," he said quietly, smiling. It was anyone's guess how a wooden-looking doll face was pliable enough to be so easily expressive, but his definitely was.
"Of course, of course." The lady leaned over to give him a quick little kiss on his head while she worked at detaching the old arm. It didn't take her long, and attaching the new one took her even less time. Even before she'd finished, Chell was bringing his new hand up to try opening and closing it, turning it over in front of him, smiling at how it matched its pair, moving it as naturally as any born person might've. "There."
Past-Mallia, curious, picked up the broken bit of arm, turning it over. "There's no life in it at all now...."
"Of course there isn't. Chell's spirit is staying in his body. And that's not part of it any longer." She picked up the little figure when he reached for her, and helped the wooden child down, taking a quick kiss on her cheek before she could stand back up, and grinned. "I'm sure you'll try to be careful with that one, poppet?"
"Uh huh. Mom said she'd fix the door for me so it wouldn't happen again."
"Oh, good, good!" She said something else, the warm look on her face making it plain that she'd regarded the made child as fondly as any other, and perhaps he was her own, though he'd referred to someone else as his parent... but the scene faded again, leaving the present Mallia standing there.
She glanced to Mal, hesitant. She had a faint smile, but something else was there as well, debating on saying something. Maybe the younger lady had questions, after that bit? She wasn't sure. But if Mal didn't object or interrupt, she'd step to another bed of the flowers.
And if Mal had been paying close enough attention to the scene, she might have picked up on a few details of its translation: that the elves' word for life, and spirit, and magic... were, in this context, either the same word, or related.