1964-07-12 - The Isle of Women
Summary: Exploring the intellectual side of Themyscira, Scarlett may just have found kindred souls.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
rogue diana 


The reception of Diana and crews return was met with mixed feelings. While some of the Amazonian's didn't care too much for the fanfare and found that doing something else was more important. But there were a sea of them; various sizes and colors, each of them wearing battle armor and headdresses as they looked onto the women who arrived.. and often spared second glances towards Tigra because.. what a creature she was!

But, as greetings were exchanged, the women were escorted up the bottle necked path towards the top of the mountain where the true Paradise Island was held. Even though there were rolling hills upon the top of the plateau, high over-reaching buildings that looked as if they were made with clay and built by the hands of the very gods they worship (or not), winding stairs made of stone especially broken with the hands of the women who were strong enough to do so.

There was even a small market place of trade. Women were bakers and seamstresses here, women were smiths and farmers here. They were also lovers and fighters, herders and breeders, women who inked and women who were nurses, doctors or medicus'. Bone breakers.. need we say more?

As the women were led off into separate cooridors, they were each assigned their own women to care and cater to their needs. They were not slaves, no. But mere companions and sisters who were left to ensure that their first guests.. one in quite possibly since their inception and creation, were well cared for.

Save for Diana. For she, went off with her mother, quite possibly to regale her with tales that seemed a little bit biased and pleadful. But off into a different corridor of the castle is where Rogue was taken, her companion, Iyala, walked beside her.

She was a little thing, dirty blonde hair which nearly matured into grey, round shoulders that make the straps that hung upon them slip almost occasionally. Each step she took was like a near trotting horse; she teetered and tottered to try to keep up with the long strides of anyone near her, but it doesn't seem as if it took much effort at all. Vambraces covered her arms, as well as beads and rope which were laced into her braided hair to make it look divine.

"I do hope our accommodations will suit you. My apologies for our Queen, she was eager to speak to her daughter. It has been a while since she has last touched our shores."

This is a world unknown to the copper-haired protege of the Moirai, and the bardic soul within her absolutely sings to every new discovery gleaned by her senses. Next shall come the storytelling through conversation and other acceptable avenues, but Scarlett is happily overloaded. Every feature deserves its recognition, be it the stone used for little of their construction or the abundance of ceramics used abundantly here. Clearly they're no Bronze Age culture limited from steel, though the influences she takes for granted clearly aren't present.

Iyala receives a warm smile out of the young woman, who wields two crossed khopeshes on her back. Odd choice of weapons, but then she's also in leather armour that needs off given the scalding heat, comparatively, of the Mediterranean compared to high alpine latitudes. "Thank you, though I would never begrudge the Princess right to see her mother," she confesses, her eyes shining with a decided affection there. How not? In Latveria, she flung that shield and glared at Doctor Doom like the rest of them. "An astute choice on her part to allow us time to acclimatize, as well, and prepare so we do not leave a poor impression."

Reaching her room means slipping off those weapons and shaking out the shell of her jacket, for one, replacing it with something decidedly more comfortable from her bag. "I am called Scarlett by most. I suppose it would be Porphyra in Greek." It's also probably not the name she'd rather be known by, but. "I'm grateful to have your company and a chance to meet you."

The room itself wasn't much, but it was almost as if Scarlett herself was stepping into one hundred years past. The bed was made with the finest wood and sanded to perfection. There wasn't a lick of gloss added, which catered to its authenticity. The bed itself were made with the best, fresh plucked feathers, the best stitched linen, and the blanket as well. Tan, brown, and silver were the colors of the room, almost spartan, and yet, a few of the edges of the room have precarious carvings into the wall. Just to make it pretty..

"Giving the look of our Princess Diana, one would think that she didn't want to see her mother." There was a soft giggle, her hand lifting to cover her mouth as if she were shamed, her eyes showing that same laughter as they curl upright and wrinkle near the edges. "But since our inception, we have prided ourselves on manners in the case that we do happen to have visitors. Many a Amazon thought that they would have never seen the outside world on their shores or in their lifetimes. We thought that we would happen to go to war in the world of men before that were to happen."

Iyala never strayed her eyes away from Scarlett. So if she were to truly undress, the woman would not flinch or turn unless asked. "Scarlett, Lady Porphyra. It is a pleasure to meet you as well." Her head bows slightly, and soon that happy little smile returned to her lips. "I assure you that the other sisters are receiving the same treatment as you! Though, more catered to their tastes. I have a feeling, that the General placed you with me because you seem of the gentle sort. Supposed weak in body, but not in mind and spirit."

Though, Iyala could be wrong..

The metallic weapons are meant to be wielded by someone heavier in build than the lithe young woman, and certainly with a very strong grip if the sharpened edges mean to hack mercilessly through bone. Never mind with a casual toss she might plow the blade through concrete. Scarlett pulls free some of the paper flowers and windflowers out of her braids, setting them in a colourful, neat pile atop the bed. "I imagine they shall enjoy the experience greatly. Such careful attention to detail speaks highly of the Queen. May I repay the favour and thought in kind," she says.

The act of removing the rest of her garments is quick and efficient, undertakings kept in place while she raids her backpack for a rather light dress that drifts in bohemian waves hanked to her calves, and laces tight around the waist. Height of Sixties fashion, and definitely out of keeping here. Until someone gives her a chiton, she'll make do. "The accommodations here are lovely. I imagine it is hard to return home after any time away, as the expectations are high."

Of course, a motherless Soul-Thief wouldn't know such things. There is no parent to come home to, and there hasn't been for a terribly long time. "May I ask what sort of role or profession you have here? Is it common a person holds one, or many?"

Grey eyes happen to shift left and right, and soon with a step forward, Iyala smiles. "It may seem simple, but the Queen is a lover of all things spicy." Again, she giggles, that hand drawing up to hide her face whilst she lifts upon the tips of her toes. "Please do not tell her that I told you of the secret!" Another slew of laughter where none need be, and she was down upon the flats of her feet again to look around, relaxation a slight.

"You have a wonderous way of dress.." The woman wonders, taking those few steps close with her hands outstretched, intent to attempt to grasp her by the shoulders to give her a twirl. Even still, she answers the questions as she move, her chin tilted to the corner of the room where the etched, and unfinished art lay.

"I am an artist. Often times the architects call on me for designs. A muse, perhaps? But no, I paint. I draw. I bring life to canvas in blacks, whites, and odd colors.."

"I shall be mindful not to let on I know a preference in that direction," Scarlett answers, laughter concealed behind her hand and radiant in her luminous green eyes. Such secrets are her stock in trade, sometimes, lost in the vaults of memory where few walk. Once satisfied with her dress, she neatly folds up her clothing into a proper pile. It would not to do mess up the place before she has been here an hour, and leave an impression for degeneracy in the world of man extending to its women folk, sadly limited in some ways as they are. Or simply it bothers her to see anything askew in a harmonious balance.

That takes no time, and Iyala is free to spin the braid crowned redhead around and around. The skirt flares in a ripple of colour, saturated hues flashing like a peacock's tail between hyacinth, indigo, and shocking greens. Her rise to her toes gives her a little height, cherished among taller people — live with Asgardians for a while, this happens. Then she slips back, and curtsies as a habit. "An artist! How lovely. Your work here, or is this a canvas for another?" She waits on Iyala as one would, but her gaze strays to that artwork to discern the design.

How hard not to? It's a lovely piece of patterning in the making, and she can appreciate that as all else. "The quality of light here has a beauty to it that renders things stuff used and soft in places, and so intense in others. I can see the allure."

Yes. Iyala is going to steal this style. This style and other styles that she's read in books across the world, dropped somewhere in the middle of Turkey.. or was it the middle of the Bermuda Triangle.. or was it the middle of… Minnesota?

Either way, there was an approving glance, so much so that she motions towards the door so that Scarlett could actually -see-…

"There is freedom in art.."

She opens the room door and waits for the woman to exit, and then.. sans shoes.. she would begin the light little jog through the castle. So light, so free and quick, that one could actually imagine her twirling like a sprite down corridors so dark and light all at once because of the position of the sun.

"..anywhere there is a need of my hand in creation it's there!" Upon the walls, vines were etched with a chisel. And within those etched vines were various colored hues. There were also a few paintings, one that Iyala points out with a childish glee, and yet.. they stop at a set of doors that were tall as they were wide, metal and runic as well.

"I've painted men." She says in a half whisper, as if it were such a horrid thing. "..from the descriptions of the books that we've read. Men from all fables and walks of life, I've imagined them in my minds eye and put it to paper!"

And then, the door itself opens, a large creaking groan that shows the room itself with rows upon rows of books. Shelves made of metal, wood, steel and stone. Even such a mix made it look, seem, feel and smell elaborate. Like copper and pine, mixed with the smell of old papyrus and fresh ink. As if the past and their present were working in conjunction to create such a feel.

Let them travel how they will, and Scarlett can feasibly plunder whatever conversation she can while offering nuggets of information hopefully not deemed illicit in this place sheltered from the corruption of a world beyond their reach.

Whilst Iyala spryly bounds along, a particularly cheerful wallaby of a woman, the red kangaroo takes a little longer to sproing past. She takes her time rather than hurrying, although the grace and speed of her stride give little justification to worry about keeping up. Through shafts of sunshine and pools of dimness she goes, drowning in the beauty as thirstily as any desert trapped explorer quenched their thirst at a sweet spring. And this is akin to finding one of the seven wonders intact, forgotten.

"I like that everyone has an opportunity to contribute. In the marketplace, do they barter or have you coin or other means to purchase things?" These questions fall in a gentle rain, punctuated by greater activity when she traces vined shapes and scroll work without touching. The knows the rule of it: do not wear the metal out. Doors, windows, a certain grandeur everywhere. Though Scarlett /can/ fall into blas%<u00e9> neutrality, she rarely needs to. "I have sometimes captured likenesses," she says, "though I am better in charcoal than I am in paints or other means." When the door is opened, curiosity slips out of occlusion and might as well burn the girl's composure right down.

"Oh!" Please let them be in a language she reads, please let them… and they never are. Time to go thieve someone's soul. Maybe not.

The room was large. There is the saying by many a women who find themselves companions; It's bigger on the inside. Sections upon sections with varying needs of education were scrawled out high above the random bookcases themselves, all in greek, but that is not where Iyala's attention lay! She was already rushing into the large room like a sprite, flitting here and there, disappearing into a throng of books while another Amazonian looks on.

Tyanne was a woman of average size, regular pale skin and brown hair, remarkable and unremarkable as well. Her hair was casually long, curled near the ends as it's split down the middle. If someone took a brush to it for 100 strokes, it seems as if that person thought it wasn't enough.

"She gets excited when she shows off her work." Tyanne says, her voice forced. Forced in a sense that she had to make herself clear, for her accent was thick. "Nevermind the woman. She is like child. Tis adorable."

And from her podium, Tyanne remained, drawing her fingers along her ear to sweep behind so that she can focus. "I 'stand that she is escort. She's good. But I see the look. The look of one who want touch, no? Go. Go on. Touch book, but do not rip pages. Fingers were lost if book damaged." And laugh she does, and yet it was hard to tell if it was a joking laugh, or a sinister one.

Excitement to show off work is fully understandable, as are the library's contents causing some people to express great wonder and joy. How not in the heart of learning, where young women to ancient crones gather and partake of the knowledge invested by previous generations? The cake-high layers soar up with their secrets, and Scarlett will not squeak.

She will zip after her guide, however, waving a hand politely in Tyanne's direction. "Greetings. A pleasure to make your acquaintance!" That will be the most she can offer prior to the goodly sum of being allowed to read damn near everything. And on the topic of torn books, not going to happen. She doesn't have children right now; Scarlett has a library. Thus the books are her varied offspring, or likely to be treated as such. Off she dashes to catch up to Iyala, though she will soon enough be disappearing into the stacks with a gleefulness that holds threat only for someone trying to tackle her.

Control might take a backseat for a moment.

It was something that couldn't be helped. Tyanna's laughter ran deeper than the last, the playful tones have other women drawing the head in their direction. Iyala was a fast sprite of a woman, granted she could at least be one thousand years old, and how in the world did she retain that youth…

..Round the row of books was like another dimension, a dimension of more books and various globes that could be the america's and other worlds. Holographic images of monsters hung upon one, whilst there appeared to be a map that centered around the worlds tree, the tree itself glittering if you look at it just.. right..

But it was clear where Iyala was going, a section there was dedicated to a single person and the various stories that came along with the men and women beneath the pictures that were painted.

Joan of Arc. There was literature beneath, all printed in various languages. Dorian Grey. Many of the same.. and yet his picture was hung at an angle so that one could see the impossible way that it was drawn. But it goes on and on.. any subject matter, any fable, any religion, the face of them or what Iyala thought them to be was there. Even Jesus of Nazareth had his own section, for he was the one who held most interpretations..

"All of this I did!" She says, her arms struck out as if the light would shine down upon her fingers. "Alright.."


Yes. Some of this she did. Most. Maybe.

Only because the narrow escape of that laughter will Scarlett herself be free of its outward murmurs, though she has joy written all over her face. How not to delight in the company she finds, warmly welcoming her here as much as they might to a battlefield… right up until they have to fight, and then the gloves stay on and the look of reluctance will /please/ end in a nice parable about how strong women can engage in necessary violence while maintaining their complete and total honesty, goodness, and light. Because who the hell better than the Amazons to know the truth of that?

She gasps at the presence of the globes and the reverence shows, the skald extending a hand to the air. "Oh. To think you have this all at your fingertips, to learn and to explore. It's magnificent. Such a collection…" This is, after all, a girl who sits on the rooftop at Columbia now and then, trying to decipher ways to fix the world.

She slips in past Iyala and smiles. "How do you come upon these? I know well and truly this is…" Dorian Grey? A startled response bubbles up, shining bright, fading into sparkles that shimmer on the air for their clarity. Where does one even begin? She flexes her knees. One shall not drop, no. "You did them all? Amazing."

It is them; those figures of importance whether fable or fiction, they were there! Small portraits, medium. Large and often miniature. Some were put to the test with holographic movements while others remained as still and majestic. Even the words upon the walls, much like the main room were carved in greek. But you can bet that you'll find at least an original copy (even translated) beneath.

"Queen Hippolyta has decreed that we shall learn everything! No woman shall go uneducated. We do not know from whence the literature comes, but when it comes, we dive in.." She smiles. "..some consider it an act of divinity. Since the gods saw fit to call us nurtures and protectors, and gifted us with the Paradise isles, we.. in turn, receive literature."

She shrugs her shoulders. "But should we care where it comes from?"

One would think that they should.

Though, as Scarlett continues to roam, she would also find little, and smaller pictures. Stories that were only a few pages long but still had their merits among the fabled and quite possibly the damned. Iyala took favor in those, for once she picked up a page the hologram itself disappeared, and with a hug and a twirl of the paper, she holds it out clear.

"Penny Dreadfuls! I've not a clue why they are called such but they are wonderful!"

"I do not doubt the value of that. Education for anyone, at any age, is essential. To learn is to know the world, to reason and to think for ourselves." Scarlett brushes back her braids off her shoulder, leaving them to wave in the sway of motion between her shoulder blades. She does not touch the books as yet — but there are volumes she'll probably treat like a cake, eating piece by piece with care, if she can figure them out. Especially those forgotten souls, those ones who have been lost. "Do you have Sappho? Her works are precious rare and know only in scraps of poetry, broken shards of a great woman respected throughout the whole Greek world in her time. And so long after."

Her gaze follows the ephemeral figures, and she perches easily enough among them, admiring the artful effects and Iyala's handwork with unfeigned delight. "Penny dreadful? They are called so because the cost was the smallest denomination of coin, and thus they were inexpensive stories that anyone can read or afford. Because they were cheap, there was an impression the stories weren't as good as books, though it has more of a charm now than being disparaging."

The Lady of Many Facts, that's Scarlett.

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