Serranai

[psalmofseasons]

Spring | Earth | Creation

Serranai, the artist of the earth. The ground is her canvas and flowers her paints. Her masterpieces are visible in their peak form every spring and last well into summer, continuing to evolve in complexity even when her own season is fully past. Those fortunate enough to find themselves in her presence will know her by her wild red curls, crown of flowers and twigs, deer-like antlers, and satyr's legs. She is a painter, a gardener, a comedienne, a trickster, an archer, a warrior.

Her preferred offerings are sprigs of young plants and candles with herbs or flowers encased in the wax, as well as animal bones, fruits and vegetables, lovely stones, and art of all kinds. Devotional paintings, poems, songs, or artisan crafts are all acceptable. She has a particular fondness for fruit jam and wine. Her symbols include woodland creatures (particularly deer and rabbits), trees, animal bones and antlers, flowers, arrows, stone and gems, seeds, eggs, wine and mead, honey, bees, and spring plants of all kinds. She is most often represented by the color green, though floral pastels and red-orange are also common motifs.

Those who are likely to be favored by the goddess Serranai do not have to be born in spring, though it can often help. Regardless of time of birth, Serranai favors artists, gardeners, keepers of animals, and those who spend much of their time in the woods. She is known to grant her true sight and aim to archers who she favors.

✦ RETURN ✦

Comments

[lovinglefthand]

First Aid's general appeal.
And his talk with Eddie about investing in the farm (successful).

[psalmofseasons]

It takes some time, but over the next few weeks First Aid will notice that patches of moss have begun to adorn his metal exterior like pauldrons, which will occasionally also sprout small plants or fungi. Through the winter these will be somewhat sparse but will increase as spring approaches. If he tries to remove the plant matter, he will hear the soft laughter of a woman's voice, and the patches will slowly return. If he studies the plants that grow on him, he will find that all of them have medicinal properties, many of which contain important ingredients for vital medicines and other treatments which might otherwise be inaccessible on Marrow Isle. Even the all-important penicillin fungus can be found clinging to some of the moss.

First Aid now has immediate and permanent access to an impossible and renewable source of life-saving medicinal components. It also looks extremely cute on him. This boon is called the Garden of Life.

[blindwatchersees]

"To esteemed Serranai, the delight of the season

Allow me to introduce myself

You may call me Sheogorath or whatever you well please

It would delight me to no end if you would meet me at the Oak and Iron for a spot of tea and mayhaps a stawberry tart

I feel we have much to discuss

-S"


(Stationary image is from a preview on "InAGirlsWorld" on Etsy)

[psalmofseasons]

Assuming Sheogorath put this on Serranai's altar (the best place to reach her), then by the time he is home he will have already received a response.

The writing is very nearly chicken scratch.

"Tavern's a no-go. Picnic in the woods?
- The other S"

[blindwatchersees]

“Even better”

He leaves those two words on a card on her altar in his finest handwriting.

[psalmofseasons]

When is the picnic? It doesn't matter. It's whenever. Why plan when she can manifest at will? Whenever Sheogorath finds himself in Lockwood Forest next, he can follow the sound of laughter and song.

[blindwatchersees]

He greets the sound with his own music, a jaunty, warbling whistle, reminiscent of a mockingbird.

[psalmofseasons]

Serranai seems to be singing a Glassig folk song, while playing some kind of lute or mandolin in her lap as she sits on her picnic blanket.

I just down from the Isle Offrey
I'm no' very big but I'm awful shy
All the lassies shout as I walk by,
"Donald, Where's Your Trousers?"

Let the wind blow high and the wind blow low
Through the streets in me kilt I go
All the lassies cry, "Hello!
Donald, where's your trousers?"

I went down to Mournstead town
To have a little fun in the underground
All the ladies turned their heads around, saying,
"Donald, where's your trousers?"

Let the wind blow high and the wind blow low
Through the streets in me kilt I go
All the lassies cry, "Hello!
Donald, where's your trousers?"

The lassies love me every one
But they must catch me if they can
You canna put the brakes on a Glassig man, saying,
"Donald, where's your trousers?"

They say that the Earth laughs in flowers, and surely in Serranai's presence that must be true. Patches of bright yellow buttercups and plumes of sweet angelica pop up as she sings her silly song, alongside golden chantarelles and spongey morels. The mushrooms indeed increase in their appearance as Sheogorath draws near, perhaps signaling his approach to Serranai. As promised by the Temple's stained glass depiction, she is a satyr with shaggy auburn legs and cloven hooves, a leather vest in lieu of a shirt and roiling red curls. "Good afternoon!" She hops up from her seat and curtsies, holding out a pretend skirt. "Not often I get to meet a prince who's not a demon!"

[blindwatchersees]

“And not often I get to meet a goddess who’s got quite so much spring in her step!” he laughs warmly, bowing deeply and with a flourish, and adds, once he’s straightened up again, “though I do feel you’d get a few Imperial priests turning their heads with statements like that. They aren’t too keen on Daedra, you know. They prefer their gods well-behaved!”

He gives his walking stick a tap, then adds, “Y’know I can’t help but feel it a stroke of luck I arrived here with my hair slick and gray. Else there’s a risk we’d be wearing the same thing, and that’d be awfully embarrassing.” For everyone’s benefit, some of Sheo’s manifestations are redheads.

[psalmofseasons]

"Oh, I wouldn't mind matchin' with you. I'm not one of those prissy lasses who won't go to a party with another girl wearing the same dress," Serranai teases. "Care to eat on the ground with me like a properly misbehaved god?"

[blindwatchersees]

"Oh, I'd love to!" He drops into a sitting position with the practiced grace of a man who spends much of his time eating shredded cheese in the middle of the kitchen floor at 3 AM without a drop of shame to his name.

"D'you ever get to appreciate the butterfly peas? I'm not sure if they're a bit of a sticking point for you, I know they tend towards the end of your season and the beginning of the next. Actually, do you know if they even grow around here? They're one of my favorites."

[psalmofseasons]

"Eh, the season's only part of it. I'm also the goddess of land, y'know. I really only take a break in the winter! But yes, I love the little things. I make 'em all the time!" It's close enough to summer that she can will a few to bloom, using a flowing gesture with her hand like a paintbrush. "They make a fine tea, ey?"

[blindwatchersees]

"Oh, very much! And such a fun tea, too, now that there are lemons and oranges on the isle. You can have a pretty indigo brew or a lovely blushing pink one!"

[psalmofseasons]

"Try it mixed with lemongrass sometime, and extra sweet. It tastes like a pastry," Serranai suggests. "I recommend drinking it during a blue moon!"

She begins setting out her prepared foods on her picnic blanket, producing way more items than her little basket should seemingly hold. Finger sandwiches, roast chicken, devilled eggs, caprese salad, strawberry scones and jam.

"So! How are you enjoyin' this little slice of my world? Separated as it is."

[blindwatchersees]

"It's a good place to grow. The earth is rich and cool and full of crawling things. The water is sweet, though sometimes it can be bitter, too. I'm glad the caverns run as deep as they do, it gives a spirit the privacy to rant and scream when privacy is what he wants." And indeed, as much as Sheogorath is a proponent of living one's mad life proudly, he both recognizes and values the need for privacy, especially in his very vulnerable moments.

"I'm of a mind to write the lake a strongly worded letter, however, with lots of emotional strokes and flourishes of the pen. It did quite an unkind thing the other day, impersonating my husband."

[psalmofseasons]

"Did it now?" She sounds concerned but not remotely surprised. "What happened?"

[blindwatchersees]

"It tried to coax me into the lake with assurances that it loved me! Ha! I haven't always trusted those words out of my real husband, never mind a pale imitation!" But it made him question. It appealed to what he wanted, what he mourned for. It knew things it shouldn't. And it made him relieve one of the experiences he regrets the most in the history of all untime.

[psalmofseasons]

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Serranai grumbles. "For the record, I didn't tell them to do that. They're not mine."

[blindwatchersees]

"Didn't think so. Not that spring can't have its dreary moments, but it's not your style."

He reaches for some of the jam, and adds, "Really, it's more like me than you."

[psalmofseasons]

"Yeah, there's the rub of being a god of madness, manipulation falls under your domain," she says, nodding sagely. "Can't all be fun and games."

[blindwatchersees]

"Oh, it's terrible sometimes, and other times it's terribly fun. Being Sheogorath is meant to be miserable, you know. It's what the other gods intended when they made me. Of course, I'm not too keen to let them have what they want."

He pauses, then gives her a smile.

"Not that I can't be friends with gods. You're lovely. It's just my lot that's got their creatia up their collective asses. Especially Mora."

[takes place a few days after the flood’s end]

[theydrewfirstblood]

John walks as deep into the woods as he dares, his pack slung over one shoulder. In a rare but what feels to be necessary instance, he leaves Co in her coop. He stays far away from the cabin, his traps—goes as far as he dares, as remote as possible during daylight hours to make sure this is for the goddess alone.

He’s not big on the religion of this place, but it’s clear there are divine powers here—and the goddesses remind him a little of the stories from the res back in Arizona.

He’s got no right to do this—to ask, to assume they’ll listen, to reach for more than he knows he’s allowed…and yet…

He makes his offering at the base of a tree. He sits down, unpacks the things he’s brought—and for a couple of hours, he works with his supplies until he’s finished his offering: two handmade bone arrows, bound together in a compass formation.

He leaves them there along with some raw bones and bone beads he’s made from his catches while hunting, as well as a small jar of fresh jam.

“Hey, Serrani. I, uh…I know I got no place to be asking—anything. Just…”

Just thinking of it hurts. Not just that softer ache of loneliness where Sam’s steady presence isn’t, not just the constant clawing burning throb in his bones, or already missing Lou’s smiles and laughter, but—

Just for a second, it all races up to the surface at once. Hope, the war, going back, Co dying in his arms. Losing Sam what feels like twice, and knowing this might never stop—that it probably won’t ever stop. That this is the only thing he can do to actually give the man he loves any kind of peace.

That he will always be alone. That the pain will never go away. That this is all he will ever be.

For a second it all surges up at once, and he has to fight to be able to breathe. He has to let the silent tears stream down his cheeks, hurt, and just wait for it to pass. To survive it.

Like he always does.

“…Sam ‘n Louise Porter Bridges. They live in these woods. If it’s okay, me askin’…look after ‘em for me?”

Scrubbing his hands over his face, John sniffs, gathers up his things, and gets to his feet a little slower than he sat down before heading back to the ranch.

[psalmofseasons]

Don't get her wrong. Serranai loves her altar in the temple, but this--- this is her true altar. Her true temple. And she is at peak season right now. Plus with a certain someone representing the spring court here now, the satyr goddess miiiight just be able to squeeze past this pesky barrier to help a friend in need.

Before John can get too far, an arrow whizzes out of nowhere and thunks into a tree. There's a note tied to it with utterly hideous handwriting. The words "Let's get lost! -S" with a sloppy heart emblazon the page.

An impish laugh echoes through the trees.

CW: non graphic references to child abuse

[theydrewfirstblood]

John’s senses are on full alert at the whistle of sound before the arrow strikes wood. His knife is out, he’s ready to strike…

…but the blow is nowhere near him. A few paces away, an arrow with a note attached.

As he pulls the arrow free and reads it, just for a second something warm and bright bursts through his chest, almost warm enough to cut into that eternal, aching cold in his bones. It’s the warmth of the bonfire in the chill of the desert night, the soothing cadence of the Navajo tongue and the voices of the younger men translating what he doesn’t yet understand. It’s the warmth of his shoulders easing as soon as he sits down with the old men of the tribe because Dad won’t come for him here—knowing he’s safe until he has to go home.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, and when more tears spill they’re hot and soothing on his face. A second of catharsis, a relief so intense his eyes burn that intensely.

John sheaths his knife, tucks the note into his pocket—and whistles sharply as he starts hiking in the direction the arrow came from.

He figures he’s gonna need a little help if he’s tracking a goddess who wants to play Coyote to a messed up white boy for an afternoon.

[psalmofseasons]

Whatever tune John is whistling, Serranai harmonizes with hums, leading him to her. The smell of food is on the wind. Fresh venison and quail, seasoned with herbs picked while hunting. Homemade strawberry jam on toast. Floral tea. The sweet smell of violets and hyacinth and petrichor and sunshine. Cut grass without the stink of gasoline from a mower. Lemon pound cake and maple syrup.

Humming turns into vocalizations, vocalizations to words, words are paired with strings. And in a clearing, there is an antlered satyr sitting on a picnic blanket, playing a miniature harp and singing.

There is singing of birds in the deep wet woods,
In the heart of the listening solitudes,
Pewees, and thrushes, and sparrows, not few,
And all the notes of their throats are true.

The thrush from the innermost ash takes on
A tender dream of the treasured and gone;
But the sparrow singeth with pride and cheer
Of the might and light of the present and here.

There is shining of flowers in the deep wet woods,
In the heart of the sensitive solitudes,
The roseate bell and the lily are there,
And every leaf of their sheaf is fair.

A breeze blows through her wild orange curls, sending them cascading on the wind as a beam of sunlight serves as her spotlight. And with every note more flowers spring up from the ground.

[theydrewfirstblood]

John follows the sound, and stops whistling as a real melody seems to form. He tracks the sound, and soon the smell of fresh game and herbs, of fruit and fowl and…life. Food and growing things, flowers and honey, warmth and nourishment and comfort so heavy he almost wants to run from it because he has no place in its presence.

Then he unexpectedly walks into the clearing and she’s there.

It’s…the picnic feels strange and yet it’s fitting as she plays with the scent of flowers on the breeze, her shining hair tossed by the wind, and more colorful blossoms springing to life with every note she sings. It’s a song that’s a fairy tale, woodlands and birds and the kind of magic he lost in Vietnam.

Which tour, he’s not sure.

Slowly, he moves towards where she’s sitting and moves to kneel at the edge of the blanket so he can shed his pack.

“Gotta admit: you’re a lot prettier than Coyote.” He teases softly with a shaky smile as he offers her the arrow still in his hand. “I’m guessing this is yours, ma’am?”

[psalmofseasons]

Song finished, Serranai pops up and bows. Beneath her cloven hooves, more flowers spring to life with her every step. "Aye, it is," she says, her accent thickly Irish (Glassig, in this world). She takes it. "I thank you for bringin' it. Not that I run out much. C'mere! I brought food."

[theydrewfirstblood]

That…is kind of an understatement, and John wonders who this all is for as he shifts to sit on the edge of the blanket. He doesn’t shy away, but doesn’t sprawl out, sitting cross legged as best he can when she instructs him to.

“This a party or something?” He asks, glancing around. Despite her note…she’s just here. This is for her followers or something and she just snagged him for the gathering…

[psalmofseasons]

"A party of two, love!" She produces a picnic basket and begins pulling out what can only be described as an obscene amount of food. How did all of this food fit in that little basket? Jars of warm venison stew, quail legs, toast and jam, wild vegetables in a sauté, candied violets, and tea. "Don't worry. I can face away if you don't want me lookin'."

[theydrewfirstblood]

John can feel the ball of his ice starting to form in his stomach at the implication—but her offer strikes him as both so genuine and so…silly that it catches him off guard with a smile.

Then it hits him, and he’s startled.

“How did you—“ He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

Goddess. Right.

“I…I’ll try.” He offers. “I—you don’t have to do that. Turn around, I mean.”

True to his word, he reaches for the candied violets, given pause again by the fact that he’s here. That she is here…that she heard him.

“Ma’am…this—I mean, this is real nice, and you didn’t have to do this all on my account, but…does this mean you’ll keep an eye on Sam and Lou for me? They can’t die, I’m not worried about that, just—I want Sam to be okay. Happy, not hard up, y’know? And I want Lou to be a happy kid—I don’t want her to hurt, want her to know how special she is, how much she’s loved.”

He pauses, swallowing around that ache in his bones. Almost without thinking, he nibbles on a violet to distract himself with the sweetness of the sugar crystals.

“Sam, too—God help me. Er…goddess help me. I guess.”

[monthly occurrence, starting the Sunday after their little picnic]

[theydrewfirstblood]

The tree where John made his first offering to the goddess has now become something of an unofficial shrine. Here, once a month, he makes a ritual of giving back some of what he has taken from Serranai's natural temple.

A nod to how she called him to her, he shoots an arrow into the trunk of that tree, and hangs from it a necklace or bracelet of bone beads and animal hide, fashioned with things on hand, plus beads or hide from each of his kills that month. He spends an hour or two beneath that tree, taking a small homemade meal he enjoys alone, leaving behind either a jar of some new jam or preserve found in the shops or a small portion of his meal for her to share.

Perhaps his tokens are taken each month, perhaps not, but he continues his ritual as long as he has her favor--and should she ever need to contact him, he'll always keep an eye out for her endearingly awful handwriting.

[thaumatophage]

Kitty nods at the other goddesses when she enters the temple - she'll pay proper respects later, but she wants to talk to Serranai first.

She lets out a breath and places a rock on the altar - it's about half the size of her palm, and she's meticulously painted a sigil of protection onto it, charging it with her own magic no matter how much it had made her scarred wrist hurt.

"Uh, hi, Ms. Serranai," she begins, almost shyly. "I just wanted to thank you. For Mr. Rambo. And to ask you to take care of him. I think I saw him before we even met, at the whole...cult...thing..." she waves her hand, "and he's brave, and he'll get hurt to keep other people safe. He's only just met me and he wants to keep me safe. He doesn't think he's a good person, but I think he is, because he wouldn't try and protect people if he isn't."

She's been babbling. She knows that, and takes a moment to breathe. "I know he likes and respects you a lot. So please take care of him. 'Cause if he's taking care of everyone else, he's not going to take care of himself. And...help him realize he's good, if you can. He reminds me a lot of my dad--" Kitty stops mid-sentence, choking up, and has to blink away tears before she continues. "And he's got the same problem of thinking he's bad when he's not. But at least Mr. Rambo isn't dying 'cause of me."

She shifts from foot to foot. "So, could you please protect him? From everything, but from me, too. 'Cause I know people who care about me only get hurt." She swallows hard. "Uh. Th-thanks. Bye."

And she scurries out of the temple, guilt hanging over her like a cloud.

[psalmofseasons]

With her season past, it takes Serranai a good while to get back to Kitty. But eventually, she does, a rock with a paper tied to it flying into whatever room Kitty is in via an open window and tumbling loudly across the floor.

Untying the note reveals a piece of parchment covered in what appears to be garden dirt with a message scrawled onto it in the most hideous chicken scratch known to man or beast. The atrocious letters are accented with little drawings of flowers and leaves. It reads simply:

"This would be better with John, if you want him protected. Added some of my own flair to go with yours. Give him my love XOXOXOXO"

The rock this note is tied to is Kitty's stone, but with additional carvings--- elaborate floral designs, like a mandala, encompass the protective rune, glowing a pale green. The magic in this is wickedly strong, and feels like sunshine after rain, and seems to maintain a perpetual charge. Kitty has received Serranai's Boon of the Tranquil Garden, which will protect any home it is placed on the ground outside of from structural damage or harm to its residents. It will allow John Rambo to create a safe haven for his people within his home that has an imperfect but impressive resistance to supernatural impact.