RP:Sewing Dark Fashion

Synopsis: Pyoshia visits the cemetery behind The Cathedral of the Divine Three in Cenril to reanimate and repurpose corpses to be her entourage at Vailkrin's upcoming Gala. Josleen, Queen of Wrong Place-Wrong Time, is also there for more legal reasons. Scared by Pyoshia, Josleen sounds the gravekeeper's bell to alert him to trouble in the graveyard, but he's useless and scared and fires bolts blindly then cowers all night. Meanwhile, the earth opens to Pyoshia's vines which plant seeds in corpses buried in the graveyard. Those seeds bloom into pretty flowering pants that roots themselves in the corpses' nervous systems to reanimate them. Josleen falls into a dug up grave, is mistaken for a corpse by one of Pyoshia's vines, and is turned into one of the dryad's plant-people. Pyoshia names Josleen the leader of her troupe of flower people (not the hippie kind) and commands her to oversee preparations for the gala. Josleen goes above and beyond Pyoshia's needs because if there is anything a bard knows for certain, it's how to prepare for a fancy party!

The post which describes the hilarious fashion and swagalicious transportation is in bold below.

Cathedral of the Divine Three

Pyoshia had met with Kas the night before and had promised him quite the interesting event, that she’d be able to mess with his head in one way or another. The little dryad had quite the idea tonight, of all nights, as she walked down the streets of Cenril alone. She was a set of robes that was way to long, seemingly double her height.. Tiny feet to shuffle along the road rather than actually walk, hood to go over her head, past her chin, little eyeholes cut into it so she could see. Her presence was rather cute, a small three foot girl, covered in clothes way too big, yet, when the robes were removed.. It was terrifying.. She was searching for the cemetery and that unfortunately meant she had to go near the church, divine being, hating her wraith like presence, harming it… She tried to destroy one of these once, it didn’t turn out well for her. That bastard Redovian and his friends stopped her from bringing down the church of Larket.. But, she wasn’t after ruining a church today, she was after the corpses buried out back. When she finally reached the church she wandered about outside, casing the entire church, looking for the cemetery, looking for where the corpses might be, the fertilizer might be, the friends she wanted might be.

Josleen also dons adorable attire and resource-finding ambitions on her trip to the cemetery, though her tailored outfit is the antithesis of the wraith’s oodles of fabric, and her ambitions are strictly legal. A floral-pattern, conservatively chic dress pokes out from beneath her plum wool coat. Tight, embroidered black tights disappear in calf-length, ultra-girly boots. Her hair is worn in a bob over a face that is the also the opposite of horrifying. Behind that face is a mind that matches the exterior presentation in all its conservative, well-intentioned, feminine overdose. She watches the diminutive stranger enter the cemetery and wonders what her story is - why the odd, clandestine fashion sense? Perhaps this small person is here to grieve a lost beloved, to whom she is not allowed to publicly grieve. Oooh, maybe this stranger is the mistress of a dead man, who could not attend the funeral without pulverizing hearts into yet smaller pieces. She invents a story where there is none. That’s what bards do, though Josleen has a flare for the scandalous plot. Suddenly it occurs to her that this stranger may also be a murderer, coming to bask in the cold stillness of a victim’s grave. Josleen’s periwinkle-gloved hand instinctively guards her own throat; she keeps her distance and ducks behind the overgrown tombstone of a long-dead richman. Cemeteries are fundamentally classist.

Pyoshia was by no means a murderer or someone visiting a lost loved one, she was more of a conductor. She had all the proper training and motives to properly bring forth a great musical event! In fact, she began to do so, right in front of the eyes of the other, her hood pulled off her face revealing the tainted essence of dryad. Sleeves were pulled way up, from where they normally remained, held back by vines that nearly seemed to grow from the woman’s body. Her robes were even pulled up to her ankles, those same, creepily tainted vines, to withhold the fabric from tripping her up while she worked her magic upon the world. The presence of the other, of Josleen, wasn’t noticed.. Even if she was behind the rich man's grave. She spoke softly, under her breath, little vines to shoot out of the back of her robes, as she brought forth some of her immense amounts of magic. The vines began to break apart, separating, little seeds to drop out of them as they were planted on top of the graves around the cemeteries. These seeds took no time, burrowing into the earth, plants to sprout forth at where they were placed. “Come little ones, rise from six feet beneath and join me for tea!” She might be slightly insane.

Josleen gasps at the horrible site of the corrupted dryad and her creeping vines. Josleen lacks magical literacy, but even she can piece together that this is some sort of dark dryad - the nature of which she cannot begin to fathom. Incorrectly, Josleen also assumes this must be a necromancer. The math is pretty simple for this blunder: cemetery + magic = necromancer. Q.E.D. When the dryad calls for the dead to climb out of their holes “for tea” Josleen continues sliding down her slippery slope of dangerous assumptions and presumes the creature escaped the local asylum. She must alert the authorities post haste! She crouches cartoonishly low, her back hunched, and tiptoes quickly between graves: knees bouncing high, the balls of her feet striking out notes in an ascending scale (figuratively speaking). Her head swivels around each tombstone to take stock of Pyoshia’s location before moving on to the next grave, until at last she is at the open grave of a recently buried dead woman. The earth has not yet sealed this resting place for the same reason a string has been tied to the dead woman’s finger, a string which leads to a bell in the gravekeeper’s house. Josleen twangs the string, and inside his house the gravekeeper’s heart skips a beat at the ring of the bell. He clutches his trusty crossbow to his chest and stands paralyzed at the door, wrestling with reason and trying to convince himself that, no, the dead women has not arisen as a zombie. “It was just a squirrel. A skunk, even,” he hyperventilates to himself unconvincingly. Josleen impatiently rings the bell three more times, and the gravekeeper lets out a terrified yelp, “GOOD SVEN ABOVE, SAVE ME!” He blindly shoots crossbows out his window into the cemetery, taking aim at nothing more than his fear. The bolts fly between Pyoshia and Josleen, at no risk of hitting either of them, but impossible to ignore.

Pyoshia wasn’t exactly sure what the yelling was about, but by the gods did it startle her! Her little head spun in the man’s direction, unsure of what he was about to do, as he struggled with the realization of zombies.. Man he’d hate the outside… Soon, the little plants that grew upon the graves began to take root, digging deep into the earth, seeking the corpses beneath. Once found they’d grasp them upon the head, working their roots into the corpse’s nervous system, animating them once more. Pyoshia was practical after all! And if the nervous system didn’t work, redundancies had to be emplaced! The sunflowers after all weren’t just going to be attempting nervous control! Some might of lost that function of their body! And so the redundancy was placed in, the roots to spread from the nervous system towards, taking control of the limbs, the fingers, the feet, the toes, the legs, the knees, everything that was outwardly involved in movement to include the head and mouth. Some of the roots were able to burrow their way through the skulls, others had to circle around the buried corpses! But, in the end, the varied amount of people underneath the earth were taken by Pyoshia’s plants. And suddenly, the earth began to shift where the dead remained, not everyone, but about thirty people’s graves suddenly began to stir, the earth collapsing in on itself.. As if, someone was digging from below.

Josleen is far too close to Pyoshia to escape this reverse excavation. As soon as the ground starts to tremble, Josleen foregoes her careful grave-sneaking and runs, screaming like a horrific zombie herself. But, she fails to escape the outermost grave’s hole. She falls into a grave as one of Pyoshia’s zombies climbs out, using her face as a handhold. “HEEEL-smruffur-EEEELP!” Pyoshia’s creeping vines confuse Josleen for one of the corpses, and soon vines work their way into the bard’s nervous system too! Pyoshia has stolen 31 corpses today, 30 dead, 1 Josleen. Soon Josleen joins the procession of corpses, led by the wraithen dryad, under no volition of her own. It seems Josleen will be going to Vailkrin’s Gala after all! Admittedly without much choice in the matter. She’s a captive in her own body: classic locked in syndrome. She is aware of everything that happens to her, but has lost control of everything except her eyes which frantically scan her periphery for aid. None comes. The gravekeeper is useless.

Pyoshia had all her little friends join her in one way or another, not recognizing that she’d actually taken over a living body as well! Josleen would of course be sustained, as the plant upon her head provided nourishment, water, air, and sustenance to keep the body going but the poor woman was rather stuck for the time being! She commanded the thirty one bodies to sit, all of which did rather quickly and went about, poking the flowers growing on the sides of their head, giving them a little more magic and juice to help with the transition.. Pyoshia may not be a necromancer but she’d certainly found ways around that! When she stopped at Josleen, the woman poked the flower, it was different though… This one was breathing.. COrpses didn’t breathe? Did they? Most didn’t.. Pyoshia didn’t… She just absorbed air.. Maybe this one was recently deceased then, she definitely looked like she could possibly be recently dead! Rather than a living corpse! Now that made sense, the one must of died recently and so now she was having all her organs still functioning cause of it! What else could it be? Well...Pyoshia looked left, then she looked right.. And finally she picked up some mud and attempted to poke Josleen’s face with it.. She wanted the girl to look more like a corpse.. Wait a moment. “You! Go get dirty! You look to pretty to be dead! Kas won’t be happy if he thinks I”m using living people!” She shook her head, quite disappointed.

Josleen would really rather not get dirty and look like a corpse, but she doesn’t have much say in the matter. Her body obediently obeys another - this feels grimly familiar. This is the second time in Josleen’s existence that a crazy, tiny, magical humanoid has robbed her of her ability to control her body in order to force her to play tea party and house - really. The universe is a cruel jokester. Josleen starts caking soil all over herself, including into her mouth and other crevices. She massages mud into her hair and holds her breath. Josleen panis as her body stops breathing, but her panic is for naught. Pyoshia’s vines sustain her body without breath. Soon her heartbeat ceases as well, and the vines take up the task of delivering nutrients throughout her body.

Pyoshia watched as the other essentially suffocated itself with the dirt, covered itself in the stuff and yet, she still wasn’t happy! No, no, this wouldn’t do! It needed something better. “Make yourself more dead looking!” Pyoshia pointed at another corpse, the gaunt look in it’s eyes, the skeletal appearance, and shook her head, “You’re an awful looking corpse you know that!” She grumbled, forcing Josleen to answer through the plant, unless the woman fought back, “This one is not worthy of your graces, great Pyoshia!” Pyoshia nodded, having her own conversation as as she walked between the corpses, “Now, what is our goal!” The plant-zombies spoke in unison, “Mess with Kasyr!” Pyoshia spoke back, “And how will we do it?!” The plant zombies, “Tea Party!” Pyoshia, “What will we drink!?!” Plant zombies, “TEA!” And one straggler, “Blood of our enem------Teaaa!” Pyoshia death glared this plant, which immediately shed several petals in fear. Of course, all this happened in the middle of a cemetery, which was odd enough, “Now!” She pointed at Josleen, “You’re in charge of this group of tea drinkers! I want them all prettied up in dresses and tuxes before the big dance!” Her tiny little head began to spin, inside of course, not outwardly, “Oh oh! And corsages! And and and! All the men must have flowers in their pockets! No wait! Give the men the dresses and the girls The girls will wear the tuxes! Make the boys pretty and girls manly! Yes!” She gave Josleen the stink eye, “Understand?!”

Josleen is such a weak, sad excuse for a bard that Josleen fighting back and not fighting back are utterly indistinguishable. “MESS WITH KASYR!” Josleen cannot believe the words coming out of her soil-choked mouth. She knows only of Kasyr as a name which should be feared. Her blue rose-body trembles at the thought of provoking the revenant. How did she get tied up in this mess, and why can’t she resist Pyoshia’s orders? Her mind cleaves in two, one part devoted to self-pity and the other to black-tie formal, cross-dressing corpse fashion! Josleen is surprised to find that she can control the magical blue rose bush that encapsulates her body to some extent - the greatest power Josleen has ever enjoyed to date. This fact momentarily distracts Josleen from self-pity. She clears her throat of several chunks of soils and shouts. “Listen up, rotting people! We’re breaking up. You five,” she points to a group with her rose’s leafy branch, “Will raid the boarded up shops of West Cenril. Ever since Maylari was arrested, she has been unable to pay security so it should be easy.” Pyoshia lucked out in choosing Josleen as the leader. Josleen’s knowledge of the area remains intact, whereas many of these corpses have been dead for so long that they pre-date Maylari and most of Cenril’s current socio-political scene. “You 8, the more skeletal ones, yes, you, with the no-skin. You look awful. You will go to the butcher’s and collect cattle and pork skin and sew the pieces together into a body suit to wear under your clothes. GO!” A rose bloom extends from her neck to touch the head of one skeletons and grant it the knowledge of the current butcher shop. “You two,” she points to two child corpses, both girls, “will stay with me and make insect jewelry. Start gathering our supplies, girls. We need worms, beetles, centipedes, spiders, bats, rodent skulls, the works.” Josleen turns now to three adult corpses. “Never, ever, ever show up to a party empty-handed. Go to the bakery and take from the dumpster any thrown out cakes. The moldier the better. A wide variety please.” This time there is a corpse modern enough to remember Mrs. Mallard who leads the group to give the old baker a fright. Another group will go to the florist for dead flowers to build corsages. Another group will find carriage parts from a carriage repair shop to steal several carriages so they can roll into the gala in style. The final group will secure a fancy (and discarded, chipped, worn) tea set while collecting and drying their own petals to make floral tea leaves. By the end of the preparations, Josleen dons a tattered tuxedo too long for her small stature with a bouquet of maggots in the breast pocket and spider cufflinks at the sleeves; a living centipede wearing a bowtie circles her neck incessantly under the influence of her borrowed and weak druidic magic; bat wings sewn into a mask with eye holes across her face; a tattered tophat with a sash of wriggling worms; and a chain of spider legs that lead not to a pocket watch, but instead to a chipmunk skull. Her reanimated company is similarly fabulous. She retrieves the chipmunk skull, examines it, and then announces, “All done in 8 hours! Impressive.”

Pyoshia had definitively beaten the odds by 31 to 1 when she picked Josleen to lead the rambling pile of corpses that were decorated with flowers upon their head and body. The amount of work that had been done within such a short amount of time, from creepy decorations, to clothing, to even transportation had surprised the wraith. She especially, loved the cakes. She only wanted them dressed but this zombie had decided to go far above and beyond the call! As she looked between everything she couldn’t be happier but of course, had to add her own touch to it all. She approached each of the carriages, a single tiny finger placed upon it. The magic began to flow, the wraith’s resources beyond immense, as shrubbery began to grow up the carriage. Upon the top of each a flower began to take place, denoting exactly to whom it belonged, as a sculpture of Pyoshia began to grow above it. Small little men were around the sculpture bowing before the Pyoshia stature. She was very pleased with this, very pleased with the entire idea of being seen as a goddess or something else! Yes, she was a vain little dryad. Finally, she turned to approach Josleen, “You’re my new coordinator!” She smiled, that creepy, devilish, smile. “Now, we should probably leave Cenril and go to the Dark Forest before to many ask questions.. Oh, and before the grave keeper’s bowels explode.. I don't’ think he’s left his post in over eight hours.”

Josleen claps excitedly and bounces on her feet as Pyoshia adds the finishing touch to the carriages. “Plantastic!” Josleen’s living love of puns bleeds into her quasi-undead life as well. The gravekeeper passed out from fear, soiled himself several times, had a mild heart attack, and is only just now waking up as the glamorously dead plants file into carriages. Josleen announces just in time for him to hear “To Vailkrin!”

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