Eighth turn - turn turn, there is a season turn, turn, turn [Video/Action]

[antivanleather]

[It starts with the woods. OR rather the canopy as there is some muttering in a familiar voice, if in an unfamiliar meter. ]

I know this is somewhat difficult to grasp, but I am no more comfortable than you and as soon as we have done this we might go about hiding until the change has reversed itself. Yes? Yes. I suppose having the book facing us would help in the first place-

[The view shifts, swinging to reveal Isaac sitting cross legged and not quite glaring at Zevran, wings pressed flat to his back. The inherent strangeness doesn’t kick in until Zevran speaks- with a cultured, vaguely British accent rather than the warm tones of his native Antivan.. ]

Or, we can say nothing at all. [Isaac suggests, his restless frustration with the situation tamped down in favour of feigning indifference with a one-shouldered shrug. Then he’s looking away, considering his perfectly ordinary set of nails. He can’t quite remember the last time he’s had them trimmed blunt as an adult.] I don’t imagine anyone shall curl into a ball and die if they hear not from either of us in the coming days.

I’ve no intention to hide, we are going to explain what has happened- [A beat, Isaac’s lips pressing thin as he flicks his fingers at the feed in an aborted gesture.] I have those that worry for me and I know Hector will worry for you.

[He snorts, the line of his jaw sharpening as he stares cooly ahead as if expecting Hector to step out from the brush. He might, for all Isaac knows. With a changed body comes a complete disconnection from the thread of demonic energy that had bound them across great distances. The world feels quieter, stranger, emptier.] He won't.

[It comes without missing a beat, low-voiced and level but unwaveringly certain, neither it nor the flat look in his eyes leaving any room for discussion.]

So this is what has come to pass: Isaac and myself have found ourselves in bodies that do not belong to us. Isaac in mine, I in his. [A beat.] This is Zevran.

[Isaac rests his chin in his palm, dully amused.] Really now.

This is Zevran Arainai and this wonderful elf to my right is Isaac in my skin. Please do not mistake us for one another. Once this is over I shall make another announcement.

Oh, how very thoughtful of you. [A gently mocking smile hovers on the edges of his lips, never reaching his eyes.] As for the rest of you, [His gaze drifts back to the screen] do try not to soil yourselves until then.

I do try. As we are not in our proper bodies all leather goods shall be a week late, and any goods Isaac owes will likewise be postponed as I do not know his craft, he does not know mine, and I find working with nails like this most challenging. Honestly, Isaac, how do you get anything done with them filed to such points?

Oh, you poor thing. [His lilting purr drips with honey, though the effect is not complete until he has clasped a hand to his chest and given a pitying toss of his head with it, eyes soft in sorrow. If his theatrics don’t cement his identity than he honestly doesn't know what would. Some things never change.]

Rosso- [He sighs as he flips the journal closed, ending the feed. This would be a long walk home.]

[Both men can be found wandering back to the village from whence they’d woken in search of proper clothing. “Isaac” in something that isn’t quite so low riding and made entirely of leather, “Zev” in - more of the opposite. After a brief stop in the clothing store and weapons store they will make their way to House 51 for the duration of their transformation.]

Comments

[Voice]

[antivanleather]

...It sounds as though someone has had a less than pleasant morning. Dare I ask what has you so displeased this day?

[Voice]

[complicatedliar]

Nothing more than usual, Zevran. I have little patience for self-pity as spectacle.

[You can almost hear him roll his eyes.]

Nor for opportunities missed.

[Voice]

[relictusdeus]

Oh, Loki. [He tsks softly, shaking his head, before a sigh escapes him.] These are sad times when you are unable to find anyone else to listen to you reveling in the sound of your own voice.

[Voice]

[complicatedliar]

Oh woe is me, Isaac. My life is difficult and filled with pain. No one likes me. I shall hide myself away and brood for fear that overexposure to overeager niceness shall give me a skin condition.

Better?

[Voice]

[antivanleather]

Nausea. Sentiment gives him a rash. Saccharine pleasantness gives us nausea.

[Voice]

[relictusdeus]

I believe there is a lotion for that, if you'd like. I'd hate for you to suffer.

[Voice]

[complicatedliar]

How lovely that we all have allergies in common.

What of mewling? The sound alone gives me quite fierce split ends. I've yet to find a decent conditioner to combat that. Has one of you found a cure for that?

[Voice]

[antivanleather]

Cocoa butter with extracts from black tea leaves and a tincture of cloves. And apathy. Plenty of apathy.

[Voice]

[relictusdeus]

[A chuckle escapes him.]

And perhaps you might think to stuff your ears as well, should you truly find yourself at your wits' end.

[Voice]

[complicatedliar]

That sounds as if it ought to smell lovely, if nothing else.

Not when my ears are all I've left to me. It must be why I find noise pollution so heartily annoying these days. [And he's bored. Very bored.]

[Voice]

[antivanleather]

Drown them out with far more pleasing sounds? You've some taste for music, do you not?

[Voice; locked]

[relictusdeus]

['My ears are all I've left to me'. Clues begin to fall into place.]

And if not, there remains the sweet sound of many villagers singing praises to your name after your most... [he giggles softly in his throat] ...selfless feat.

[A filter is placed to prevent any curious beaks from poking in for the sake of shameless tricks he might play on him in the future.]

Knowledge spirit, indeed. [A soft snort.] One of greater faith than I might have thought him bright enough to see his own downfall.

[Voice; locked]

[complicatedliar]

[You can't see it, but he's rolling his eyes. Though then he laughs at the mention of the idiot bird.]

A good point, that. A few rounds of his most delicious apology and I might be well entertained.

Pah, amateurs.

We've a bit over a month until he will most likely regain his memories. That ought to be interesting.

[Voice; locked]

[antivanleather]

There will be a great cry in the dead of night, a squawking unlike any we have ever heard before and, Maker willing, will ever hear again.

[Voice; locked]

[relictusdeus]

I would love nothing more than for that precise moment at the very height of his frothing rage to be immortalized in a recording. [A smirk creeps into his voice] ...Perhaps he shall be doing the honour himself.