i. beginnings (Octeuril 30th - closed to people whose voices Myr recognizes) "Have you got a moment?"
It's the advent of the full moons and Myr is already looking shaggy and excited when he pops up at your elbow. Maybe it's in DiplomaTea, or maybe he overheard you out in the street somewhere, but there's look of wild determination on his face.
"I need a pair of eyes for something." And Crookytail--the mostly grown wormipede that's always at his side--just can't help with this one. ...Why is she wearing panniers stuffed full of food, anyway?
ii. forest ghost (Octeuril 31st) Myr has made a terrible mistake.
Not the party; the party's wonderful, and it's a delight to him to hear people finding their way into the bower he'd created for them. He's never thrown a party before and the whole thing had been a mad lark from beginning to end, but it seems to be working and that's all he can ask for. He is not, he knows, being a very good host for it, because--
Because he hadn't imagined he'd end up six feet high at the shoulder in deer-shape when he tried it on in the waking world. Or that it would feel so natural he wouldn't want to shift back. Which is awfully inconvenient because now everything he'd built or borrowed or grown seems horribly fragile and he doesn't want to get too close to it and accidentally wreck what he can't see.
What a conundrum. It's enough that for the first hour of the party you might find him demurely folded up in a clearing on its outskirts, stark as a giant pile of snow among all the vines, his antlered head lifted as he listens to the goings on. Once he's more confident he's not going to blindly squash anything (or anyone) he creeps in on tip-hoof to participate. He's an eager audience to anyone playing music, lurking nearby and scarcely breathing with his ears trained on the musician 'til the song's done. "That's lovely. Is it one from your home?"
Later in the evening, as instinct takes over, things begin to get more interesting. Monsters who smell like predators--or worse, romantic rivals--might find themselves with nearly a ton of white deer in their way, scuffing at the ground with a hoof and shaking vine-festooned antlers. It might be a little alarming if it weren't for the almost puppyish eagerness in his voice: "Want to spar?"
Romantic prospects, on the other hand... Take a more delicate approach, though anything a deer that big tries to do can hardly be termed "delicate". Bless his heart, though, he does try once or twice to sidle up to someone interesting-sounding, making an appealing rumble low in his throat. "Enjoying yourself so far?"
...Though after those attempts it, well, seems a lot more practical to take his much-smaller two-legged form instead. Then he can stake out an alcove of his own, well-supplied with mead and snacks (who is the genius that distributed them everywhere?). "Come help me with this mead!" he calls to any passing footsteps, lifting a cup in good cheer. "I've gone and found too much to finish by myself." Shameless Faun.
iii. year's end (Noveuer 1st and 2nd) One advantage of having spent the majority of his own party in deer-shape was Myr escaped the night without a hangover. Which meant, come the dawn--well, afternoon--of the next day, he woke with all his faculties and a keen appreciation for the enormous mess he'd made. Groaning to himself, he'd made a trip to his own cottage for a basket--make that several baskets--and a set of garden shears before beginning the laborious task of cleaning up.
Given it's largely his fault, it's not something he's precisely comfortable asking anyone else to help with--though he won't turn down any assistance that offers itself. There's trash to pick up, encroaching vines to trim back, furniture to return, gourds to harvest, and plenty of leftover food and mead to finish off to put the whole place back to rights. Given Myr's erratic sleep schedule, he'll be at it long into the night.
iv. wildcard!
((OOC: Choose your own adventure! Lmk what shape of a Myr you'd like.))
Myr Shivana | Faun Menace At Large | OTA!
"Have you got a moment?"
It's the advent of the full moons and Myr is already looking shaggy and excited when he pops up at your elbow. Maybe it's in DiplomaTea, or maybe he overheard you out in the street somewhere, but there's look of wild determination on his face.
"I need a pair of eyes for something." And Crookytail--the mostly grown wormipede that's always at his side--just can't help with this one. ...Why is she wearing panniers stuffed full of food, anyway?
ii. forest ghost (Octeuril 31st)
Myr has made a terrible mistake.
Not the party; the party's wonderful, and it's a delight to him to hear people finding their way into the bower he'd created for them. He's never thrown a party before and the whole thing had been a mad lark from beginning to end, but it seems to be working and that's all he can ask for. He is not, he knows, being a very good host for it, because--
Because he hadn't imagined he'd end up six feet high at the shoulder in deer-shape when he tried it on in the waking world. Or that it would feel so natural he wouldn't want to shift back. Which is awfully inconvenient because now everything he'd built or borrowed or grown seems horribly fragile and he doesn't want to get too close to it and accidentally wreck what he can't see.
What a conundrum. It's enough that for the first hour of the party you might find him demurely folded up in a clearing on its outskirts, stark as a giant pile of snow among all the vines, his antlered head lifted as he listens to the goings on. Once he's more confident he's not going to blindly squash anything (or anyone) he creeps in on tip-hoof to participate. He's an eager audience to anyone playing music, lurking nearby and scarcely breathing with his ears trained on the musician 'til the song's done. "That's lovely. Is it one from your home?"
Later in the evening, as instinct takes over, things begin to get more interesting. Monsters who smell like predators--or worse, romantic rivals--might find themselves with nearly a ton of white deer in their way, scuffing at the ground with a hoof and shaking vine-festooned antlers. It might be a little alarming if it weren't for the almost puppyish eagerness in his voice: "Want to spar?"
Romantic prospects, on the other hand... Take a more delicate approach, though anything a deer that big tries to do can hardly be termed "delicate". Bless his heart, though, he does try once or twice to sidle up to someone interesting-sounding, making an appealing rumble low in his throat. "Enjoying yourself so far?"
...Though after those attempts it, well, seems a lot more practical to take his much-smaller two-legged form instead. Then he can stake out an alcove of his own, well-supplied with mead and snacks (who is the genius that distributed them everywhere?). "Come help me with this mead!" he calls to any passing footsteps, lifting a cup in good cheer. "I've gone and found too much to finish by myself." Shameless Faun.
iii. year's end (Noveuer 1st and 2nd)
One advantage of having spent the majority of his own party in deer-shape was Myr escaped the night without a hangover. Which meant, come the dawn--well, afternoon--of the next day, he woke with all his faculties and a keen appreciation for the enormous mess he'd made. Groaning to himself, he'd made a trip to his own cottage for a basket--make that several baskets--and a set of garden shears before beginning the laborious task of cleaning up.
Given it's largely his fault, it's not something he's precisely comfortable asking anyone else to help with--though he won't turn down any assistance that offers itself. There's trash to pick up, encroaching vines to trim back, furniture to return, gourds to harvest, and plenty of leftover food and mead to finish off to put the whole place back to rights. Given Myr's erratic sleep schedule, he'll be at it long into the night.
iv. wildcard!
((OOC: Choose your own adventure! Lmk what shape of a Myr you'd like.))