Rope the South wind; Canvas the Stars

[coldsong]

There is an ocean in the Nexus--at least one, maybe many--that comes and goes. It has been seen frozen over in the winter, laced with sand and amusements in the summer. Sometimes it's within sight of the Plaza, but more often one has to seek it out in the Wilds, tracking it by the cry of the gulls.

Today, it's close enough to smell the salt-spray.

No one is called, no one is compelled to wander closer, but should the adventurous depart the main Plaza and follow a pebbled path through long grass and winding trees, they will come to a place where the ground rises into a gentle dune, then drops into an expanse of sand and rock sketching out a sort of cove. Indigo water laps the shore there, low waves splashing froth onto the shore. And in the water there is something that could be called a ship, if a ship could be made of ice and bone; if a ship could be strange and hard to look at, if it could stretch up so tall toward the sky it seemed eldritch and unbalanced.

The prow is sharp as a blade, and when the wind sings in the ropes, the noise is high and sweet, like siren song.

Loki is on the shore, and his children are with him. Agnarr and Una are playing in the sand together, the elder stacking rocks and building castles for the younger to knock down. Sigrid and Eindrid, though, are on the Ship itself. A casual observer can see the form of Loki up there with them, guiding them gently as they explore, but he is also below, seated on a heap of driftwood to observe his other two children. Bilocating.

He glances up and nods at whoever wanders close, polite, if protective of the kids.

"Do you believe in birthright?" he asks. "Something beyond the gift of existence itself, to which a person is entitled just by entering the world?"


((ooc: Just to warn, my tags will be VERY slow!))

Comments

[coldsong]

Amelia is a welcome sight, though her answer to him is grim. Her outlook is, he knows, that of someone who has fought for every scrap of good she's ever had in her hands. It's humbling to speak with people who have had a harder scramble uphill even than Loki himself. He gets wrapped up in his own hurts, which are severe and numerous to be sure, but he sometimes forgets he was raised a prince, with his every material need met without question.

He looks at her quietly for a moment, and then gives her an oddly gentle smile. "I think," he says, "that one may be denied the things to which they have a right. And that doesn't mean the right to them ceases to exist. It just means that no right can be taken for granted."

"I think we are all entitled to self-determination, if nothing else. But perhaps that stretches the definition of 'birthright'."

Her approach was subtle enough that the children haven't noticed her yet, and she will get to watch as Sigrid, standing in the bow of the ship with her brother, makes gull-noises into the ocean wind. The cries are carried down to the beach where they stand, and they're surprisingly accurate, near-perfect mimicry.

whoops, my turn to be slow >>;

[rogueinladysclothing]

"Perhaps," she agrees. "Family names and fortunes are passed down, and are assumed to be a birthright. Much in the same way heirlooms, be they trinkets or fine weapons, are handed from one generation to the next as a birthright." She pauses, looking up at Sigrid as she makes her bird calls, and huffs a small laugh, if only to keep herself from letting out a defeated sigh.

"I would argue that 'birth' has nothing to do with such acts or rights, though. Many times one generation is passed over for the next when someone moves to pass down that which they've had their whole lives, or someone will bring new blood into the family through adoption or marriage - officiality being of little importance in this case." She gestures to the ship where the children are playing. They are not Loki's blood, but they are his and it's his right to give to them all that was once his when his death comes.

Shrugging a little, Amelia crosses her arms in front of her chest. "Nothing is guaranteed, of course, and there are many ways to take what 'rightfully' belongs to another. I still assert that makes nothing a 'right', at the very least. Everyone is entitled to something in their life, but it's the rare few who won't have to fight for at least some part of it."

[coldsong]

"For once, it seems that I speak of the ideal, while you refer to the practical," he says softly. "I think that a person, once living, is entitled at the very least to not be deprived of their life. But death comes to us all in time, and it comes to some sooner and more violently than others."

"Even in death, though, Will seems to persist." His gaze turns back to the ship. "What are we, if not a force of resolution, going forward through the objects the universe lies in our way?"