[center][h1][sub]ROSALIND[/sub][/h1]
[b][sub]RAGING ROSA | THE DANCE-DEMON | FEVERFOOT | LEAPING LINDA[/sub][/b]

[colour=steelblue][h2]Mamang.[/h2][/colour]

[img]https://www2.gvsu.edu/vangm/backgroundsandotherpictures/pinkrosevine.gif[/img][/center]

[center][h3]XVIII[/h3][/center]

In the calm and even seas, Rosalind the Feverfoot rowed her boat. The sun shone gently and skies were blue, and a joyous breeze played with her hair of twilight as the salty fragrance - for she loved it! - tickled her small browned nose. Her oar disappeared into the waters - the liquid parting, dancing, laughing around it - and the boat moved that little bit more towards its destination, carried by the bobbing waves. All had been peace since her encounter with the Exile.

From time to time, when the trembling of her feet became nearly overwhelming, she stood up in the boat and allowed herself - with no small amount of fear - to dance gently there. She danced like shy waves and gentle skies. She danced like a beaming sun and leaping rays. She danced like little joys and innocence, like the forgetting of past wrongs and pain. She danced like sweet, little joys.

It did not satiate the fever in her feet, but it was enough to keep the terrifying conflagration of fevered dancing - that uncontrollable and destructive motion - sleeping, simmering, for a while. She danced a little, she rowed a little, she beheld the liquid carpet around her and the great blue one above. She counted stars and sighed for starlight - wondered how the great blue carpet of the heavens turned to darkness and the one that flowed about her turned to blackness in the night. 

Any other person, perhaps, would have found the whole thing frightening - all alone upon the ocean with naught but a boat and her clothes. But Rosalind rather liked it. Here, alone, away from others, she was a danger to no one - she could dance her little dances, little dances of sweet joys, and cause no pain to another or herself be brought to pain. Here there was no great risk that some sudden change would so astound her that her feet - without any warning - would leap up and start their dancing, start that motion of horror, movements rippling, darting, piercing. Cadence of her ancient terror.

No, here there was peace. And beyond here was the cold head of Galbar and her cure. All, she sighed with joy to know, was going to be well.

[sub][i]mahm[/i][/sub]

The sound had never really [i]not[/i] been there, but suddenly she heard- or rather, felt- or rather, even, [i]lived[/i] it. It rumbled through the water, the air, the world - and more than anything, it rumbled through her being.

[sub][i]mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm, mmahng[/i][/sub]

It was not an unfamiliar sound by any means, and it was not an unwelcome one either. She glanced about, trying to find the source of the sound somewhere on the waters, in the heavens.

[sub]pfsht! pfwush![/sub]

In the waters.

[i]mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm...[/i]

Her head turned from side to side and her eyes darted. And then she leaned over, her bangles jangling and her tresses falling and flying as the waves grew more tempestuous and the boat was rocked and tested.

And then there it was, a shadow below her, a shadow all around her, a cloud in the ocean whose shape could not be mistaken. So close was the whale, so vast, that she could hear the voice in its throat even through the air, almost a bark, almost a chirrup, slow and impossibly deep. The whale itself was barely an arm’s length below her.  Rosalind could see the faded markings of its skin. Its gentlest motion rocked the boat above, like a feather in light breeze.

She gave off a small squeak of sudden fear, a rational moment amidst emotions of awe and wonder - and no sooner had the sound left her mouth then her feet were trembling beneath, tapping tapping tapping tapping. She turned to them in sudden horror, glanced again at the rising shadow, rose to her feet and tried to dance, but only stumbled, tripped and fell down - jangling, rustling, crying out in shocked frustration. All about the waves were rising, rising rising with the shadow.

And then the waves ceased, for there was no more water. The boat heaved once and then rocked no more. It had settled, though there was no beach or shore, and around her was a little island, smooth and black and glistening, adorned with neither sand nor stone.

[b]PFASHT![/b]

Hot steam erupted from the whale’s blowhole. The plume, tall and straight as a pine, was swiftly dispersed on the sea breeze, washing away the potent stench of seafood. It did not dive. It basked there in the merry sun, carrying along Rosalind’s boat as though it were a pebble, its massive tail swirling the water behind at a sleepy pace.

The goddess righted herself and rose to behold the view. Not many could say - no one at all, perhaps - that they had ever been on a boat, on a whale, on the sea. She trembled and her feet - they had her now! - carried her off the little wooden structure and onto the whale’s leathery back. Her feet curled at the odd sensation of life, enormous life, beneath her.

It was only a second of stillness, however, before she leapt - gasped - and paused. Then tip-tapped forward - swiftly - skin of foot on skin of back, then paused. Then twirled to the jangle of bracelets and the breathing of her great skirt, then paused. It was as exhilarating as it was terrifying - her feet were light and loose, her torso tensed with fear. And then she darted forward and, with a sweeping pirouette, disappeared - spinning, shrinking, evaporating - down the blowhole of the whale.

All was quiet on the surface of the waters. The whale flared its blowhole briefly, spouted a confused puff of steam from its itching nostrils, then closed the hole, arched its body downwards, and dived, thoughtlessly flicking the empty boat with its tail.

And then there was no longer any sign of either of them.

[center][h3]XIX[/h3][/center]

Now, the normal order of business for any creature’s trip through the interior of a whale is rather replete with introductions to numerous coatings of saliva and various kinds of gastric juices. Even those who take the somewhat odd route starting with the blowhole can expect a rather pungent welcome followed by swift eviction (or, failing that, they will be swiftly booked in for a one-off introductory session with contracting muscles pulverising one’s form from all directions).

Rosalind, however, did not suffer any of that. While no one has (yet) come to truly understand how or why she suddenly shrank, vapourised and found herself flushed down the whale’s blowhole, it was not an experience that she would very soon (or ever) forget. And, indeed, these matters should not be overly studied; one should rather rest in the foreknowledge that such inexplicable oddities are bound to happen from time to time and are of the many peculiarities that make the world so exciting, wonderful, and (for Rosalind) terrifying.

It was made truly unforgettable - as I, being intimately familiar with Rosalind’s history, can conjecture - by the faint but conspicuous sprinklings of Yudaiel that lay scattered all across the Feverfoot’s physical and metaphysical being. As the Feverfoot moved and feverishly rippled through the whale,[sup][abbr=You should go read the note before continuing][1][/abbr][/sup] the scatterings of Yudaiel within her made it so she did not just see and feel the whale, but for a time there she [i]was[/i] the whale; that was her motion on the currents, that her skin against the waters, that her sight and those - those her memories.[sup][abbr=You should go read the note before continuing][2][/abbr][/sup]

The first thing that Rosalind saw in the whale was, in fact, the beginning of memory.[sup][abbr=You should go read the note before continuing][3][/abbr][/sup] Out of the darkness of forgetfulness the whale rose so that for a time it danced and sang alongside its mother, but then - before it was full-grown even - it boldly struck out alone. This was the flame of youth and lust for adventure, and as the whale swam - being then the singular light gliding through the darkness of forgetting - it sang out night after night, in sunlight and in moon: [i]mmam, mmang. mmam, mmang. mmam, mmam, mmam, mmam, mmam, mmam…[/i]

Its throat had voiced this sound long ago, but only at that moment - as the Feverfoot comprehended it and motioned it - [i]he[/i] comprehended it and understood it. [i]Mmammmang, Mammang, Mamang[/i]; it was his name. It had always been his name. He had always [i]known[/i] it was his name - his fin, his tail, his eye, his lips; all had known that to be their name.

The Feverfoot shifted, rippled, and continued seeing and becoming. She saw, as he saw, the curiosity that was the hole in the ocean, and the death it promised - the curiosity that was the Exile in the boat, and the death it promised. Knowledge - [i]experience[/i] - not sin, was the natural death of innocence and the birth of fear. And fear was a good, loyal, watchful friend; this wisdom Rosalind had learned; this wisdom, too, was Mamang’s.

There, in the mind and memory of the whale, were the words of gods. How they had lodged themselves in there is another of those peculiarities of the world - words from the Moon, words from the Apostate, and, clearest of all, words from Ruina, speaking of Iqelis, words of war and warning.

[indent][color=#a6cb99]Fellow divines, 
this is Ruina. 
I come bearing 
news which I find 
important. A 
god named Iqe-
lis sought to a-
ttempt to domin-
ate my plans, and 
likely intends 
to try and dom
inate more giv-
en time. I do 
not trust them, and 
I would advise 
caution in dea-
ling with them. Yu-
daiel, your moon 
is spared from its 
test for now. I 
will not be a 
pawn in the games 
of another.[/color][/indent]

Free from woe now - made less innocent, true, but joyous once again far from the island of air - Rosamamang[sup][abbr=One may wish to read the note before continuing][4][/abbr][/sup] chased the calls of friends in shallower waters, pushed past the surface and beheld the moon and far horizons. It was not curiosity this time, but lack of caution - the great explosion of the Eye (he had known it was the Eye even then, he knew it more so now, Yudaiel the Eye, Yudaiel the Eye) had punctured his ear and burned up his face. He watched the red goddess dance and sing in the aftermath, and he thought - and he had not thought it back then, but he thought it with the Feverfoot who thought it now - that it was right and good to dance for the dead. All who died deserved a final death dance.

It was lonely for a time then, lonely to return to the waters of childhood and neither hear the song of his mother nor feel youthful purity and cleanliness. He drifted, in a stupor, past the deathsong of orcas which, when last he tasted these waters, would have sent him fleeing into the protective under-fin of his mother. Of no danger were they to him now. But sick at heart, sick in form was he, burdened and unclean, liced and wormed was he. And so the memory of that strange ice spirit was sweet on Rosamamang’s mind, and he lingered on it as it cleansed and purified his form and in his heart - and he had never conceived this thing until now, never until the Feverfoot conceived it, moved it in his heart and mind - he was grateful. He had never quite realised that he felt, either, but now his eye seemed to gaze on his inner self even as the Feverfoot gazed, and he beheld emotion.

He watched then, as Rosalind saw, how he waxed mighty, how he challenged the greatest bulls, how in the battle season he could have, had he so wished, thrown himself into the company of his kind - company, mind you, for which he yearned - and still withdrew. He was older now, it was true, he had been gnawed at by the tooth of experience and had been burned by fear, but his wanderlust was greater still than the company for which he yearned. And so he threw himself eastward and greeted those friendly but distant eastern whales - for they were not of his kind. So southward he threw himself, did the whale, crossed into the strange shade of heaven before turning tail to flee from it in the company of that loyal friend, fear. Then, calmed by the call of one of its kinsmen, it crossed again with the certainty that there was nothing here to fear.

Amongst the dwarf rorquals of the south it wandered for a time, those little ones living forever, over and over, the calf’s fear of the orca and drowning - distant fears for Mamang, far off fears for that wandering whale. It travelled southward still, to waters that no whale wandered, putrid waters of green death - and he had never known green to be anything but life! Through pain and anger he beat his form, listened to the stationary song of whales in the farthest south (though how could they be whales? What whale sang such stillness?) He swam through that pain, swam through the death of his layers of skin and all that lived on it, till he came to the churning malice that painted the water with unlife. 

It was not fear that caused him to turn away then, sick and starving though he was and with much reason to fear. Perhaps it was caution, for that was something his wandering - the loss of his ear - had taught him. Perhaps, having gained that wisdom, he turned away for purer waters where his skin was healed and he could feed and wander among the living and so return to life. He travelled back to familiar shores and his song, song of the world-wanderer, beat back every brazen bachelor when summer and the call of mates was nigh.

He stayed, then, with his kind for a time - and his place was one of honour, world-wanderer that he was! - so that when the red goddess (that is, gentle reader, Homura) passed by with her giants walking unnaturally through the water, Mamang won the feast while the others chased the giant legs. These were sorcerous seas, Mamang knew and Rosalind now knew too; they were lucky indeed who had only stumbled on a murderous Exile or fallen down the blowhole of a whale. They were lucky, also, though not as lucky, who had crossed the Royal hound - and Mamang knew then, as Rosalind motioned, that the Royalty above the hound was the Monarch. And Rosalind’s motion was fear - for the Monarch was fear, just as his hound was fear. Those who had survived the hound were as lucky as those who had survived its master.

And luck was an odd thing, Rosalind - and Mamang, too - had learned. Luck was like those little furred things drifting - dying - on wood in the middle of the ocean, preyed on by the weathers and sharks. He had circled them, watched them, and returned after feeding. He had heard their song and cry, felt their distress, and perhaps the paternal instinct in him had bid him stay and protect. Odd things with great flat tails - except one, whose tail and manner differed from the others. Still, he saw them to safety, those distressed calves of the dry places.

And once he had done so, he went a-wandering - for he was the incarnation of the wanderlust - and watched odd creatures that had (very suddenly, oh so sorcerously!) emerged. He ate of the godfish, glutted his hunger and felt power and vitality rush through him as had never done so before - not even at the height of his youth. But it was only for a short while; in the wake of the godfish came others. He had seen the dancerfish before, eaten his fill of them even, but never these laektears.

While their coming spelled the end of the age of plenty and the dawn of the age of fear, this here too was a wisdom - even in the manner godfish preyed on laektear as laektear preyed on godfish. All things were restored to balance - and they, the tribe of the whales, were now also restored to balance. They would still wander, but now the fear of the calf years would be a lifelong fear. In his heart Rosamamang wept that this should be, but knew, then, that these godfish, these laektears, were to whales as bangles on the wrists of a goddess wildly dancing the end of all things. 

And it was only right that he should know - for had they not swum together, and were they not swimming even now, beneath a clouded sky and within a bloody sea in which even the imperial Sun Himself had been humbled? Of smoke-filled trenches the lady within Rosamamang knew little, and of gods the whale knew only dance. But he had tasted the burning ichor. He had smelled the iron and the hatred. That fog was dispersing now, as they travelled, their united wisdom whispering clues of a mystery best left in the depths.

So, as their single vision turned at last to the moments they were living, the movement that was Rosalind formed up and greeted the whale - a strange greeting from one to oneself, for they were one another though they had never met.

[i]Mmang,[/i] said the whale. He said it to himself, as much as he said it to all things in creation, to every fish[sup][abbr=Even the big and frightening ones.][5][/abbr][/sup], and even to the curious dance that had taken seat inside him. It was all he ever said. It was all he would ever need to say.

So he said it with love.

And love was as novel to the goddess-motion as it was to the whale, and as it dawned on both of them it coloured - in one momentous instant - the entirety of their lives. Love danced in those far-off memories of mother and son, cow and calf; it danced in the jangling of red-gold bangles; it danced in the lust for new waters, new sights, new sounds; it danced in the soft forgiveness of an Eye; it danced in the anger towards sorcerous things spewing green unlife; it danced in a dreamborn boat; it danced in a stranger spirit’s cleansing of a stranger whale’s skin; it danced in the breaking form, the furious gaze, the rocky smile, of an earthy god; it danced in the mind and body of a whale in whose motions moved a god.

The goddess moving in the fin moving in the sea moved differently after the discovery of love. The whale flowing in the waters flowing in the great valleys of the world flowed differently after the discovery of love. The change within was clear in their cadence, and it was clear on all things. The currents of after-love were not the currents of before-love and the fishes and orcas and- all things of before-love were not those of after-love. It was impossible to know whether the change was simply in their mind or in their dance or in everything - difficult to know if mere knowledge had changed their motions so, had changed the world so.

Trembling feverishly and filled with wonder, the Feverfoot within the whale drew itself in and curled up on itself again and again until - still curling, still turning, still spinning further and further into itself and the whale - it nestled deep inside the great, broad, expansive heart of Mamang. And by all things, was he a big-hearted whale! There was space enough for an entire god in there - and, though none need believe the claim, there was space enough for even the world in there.

In this way nestled - the Feverfoot nestled in the Feverfoot and Mamang nestled in Mamang and whale and god, made one, nestled one in the other - there descended on them a quite different vision. It was not one of the past, for they had encompassed their now-shared past in knowledge and experience. It was rather a vision of death - a vision, that is, of the future. 

Some may think it quite convenient to sit and write past prophecies of things which, to us now, are merely history. It is all too easy to sit and declare: ah, but so-and-so predicted that we would sit and speak of just this matter; or so-and-so predicted that past victory or that past defeat or that past birth. But if it is not sufficient enough for the critical reader that this is near enough to a primary account as we can have, then I do not know what manner of evidence will suffice.

So it was a prophecy of death. Now, the certainty of death is known to all, but it was a source of especial consternation to the Feverfoot in the whale - who, I should remind the reader, had only moments before learned and been awed by the idea of love. Whether she realised it or whether she did not, Rosalind pulsed then within the heart of the whale, bubbled and rippled - and was carried away, quite unawares, with the flowing hot blood of that giant. She became that flow, that movement, that cadence; she became the dance of blood through arteries of back, of stomach, of tail, of fin, of mouth, by blubber. The flow of bluest blood she was through veins returning, rising, gushing, flowing past capillaries, reddening, brightening, laughing. She was the movement of air from bluest blood, through thinnest walls, into the greatest of all lungs. And even as she was gathered up inside the lungs of Mamang, something of her remained - in his heart, in those arteries and veins, dancing in his fins, in that tail, flowing endlessly, moving ceaselessly, gyring tirelessly; the deathless dance that was Mamang.

[center][h3]XX[/h3][/center]

[i]PFASHT![/i]

The back of the whale broke the wind-stirred water’s surface with barely a ripple. His flukes dipped back down under the surface with only a little splash. The season had been cold, then warm, then cool again. Now they were in the northern havens once more, and Mamang could only lift his head and spy the far peak of that friendly island, from which little things with little feet would crawl into the ocean to listen to him. And now they could watch, too. The Rosamamang dance is a splendid storied dance- isn’t it?

[i]PHWUSH![/i]

Another tall plume of steam blew away on the crisp wind. The whale-and-god approached a shore, where white birds wheeled and squawked their boundary-song between the land and sea. Their story now had swirled together like the waters of two oceans, and somewhere in its verses, written into Rosamamang’s blood and lungs and all over the secret folds of their singing throat, was an ending.

The dance of the dancers grew in the whale’s muscles, one final trembling tension, and he lay there in the shallows, a great and perfect silhouette, holding the final pose, and then- he breached with all his might.

For a single timeless moment, they were a white fountain of sun and whale, visible from horizon to horizon. 

When they fell at last, the sound was heard for miles, and waves swamped the shore as though whipped by a gale. Mamang lay in the waters, sinking, exhausted, and completely relaxed, as the curtain of seafoam fell on him, his last bow taken, his marathon run. He stirred his tail, and his tired head peeked once more above the shallow waters. And when he caught his breath-

[i]PFWOOSH![/i]

And Rosalind was there under his plume, veiled by fog, obscured by a rainbow. Her hair of dusk unrolled first, like a great tapestry across the heavens. Then her spiralling skirt of velvet turned in the air blow it, followed in swift succession by the rest of the goddess. Her bangles were the very last to form about her wrists, and as they did so a single bracelet of red and gold formed about Mamang’s [abbr=The narrowest part of the whale’s body, immediately preceding the fluked tail.]caudal peduncle[/abbr]. The goddess beamed down at him for brief moments, and then she was carried off on a breeze - light as a feather, flowing like air - and had soon disappeared to that northward isle. Disappeared, that was, except for the trail of sprawling onyx strands she left behind, which stretched endlessly upward, southward, eastward, seemed almost like another layer of sky. They danced there, for a short while, with the weak northern sun rays, shivered and trembled for brief moments against the sky, and then snapped away - like a spritely young tree held down by some mischievous rascal, only to be suddenly released - to disappear after the goddess who was motion.

A wrinkled eye watched them go, and disappeared once more into the blue. He was not one for long goodbyes.

[i]Mahm, mmang. Mahm, mmang. Mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm…[/i]

[centre][img]https://www2.gvsu.edu/vangm/backgroundsandotherpictures/pinkrosevine.gif[/img][/centre]


[indent]NOTES:
[indent][1] I would here beg forgiveness for the inaccuracy of these terms, for it is evidently quite preposterous to speak of [i]pure motion[/i] as [i]moving[/i], but here we crash and break against the limits of spoken language, which, I should add, is a limitation not suffered by motion. You will likely debate this point, as is the right of any thinking person, so I should like to linger on it, if but for a moment, to demonstrate the truth of my claim. 

Motion, if we consider that motion can convey meaning and so can also be language, is by its very nature more accurate and succinct than spoken language. Consider that the speech required to convey anger can go on for minutes or even hours, while one motion - say, a good slap or a punch, or a throat-slitting gesture (in the case of anthropoids at least) - will quite often suffice. So too in the case of other meanings - a smile or laugh conveys faster than speech ever could one’s joy, a frown one’s sadness or confusion, a flinch that one is startled, and on and on. And this is not to speak of complex dancing motions of the sort that whales or laektears, or that gods like Homura for instance, often partake in. 

So when one is forced to speak of ‘movement’ having ‘movement’ and ‘motion’ having ‘motion’ - for the Feverfoot in the whale was pure [i]motion[/i], you understand? - that is not to be understood literally but as an unavoidable artifice of language. The Feverfoot did not [i]move through[/i] the whale, the Feverfoot [i]was[/i] motion, and so to say ‘Feverfoot’ is no different to saying ‘motion’. Therefore, a sentence like ‘the Feverfoot moved through the whale’ is as superfluous as saying ‘the motion motioned’ or ‘the movement moved’ or ‘the gesture gestured.’ I will be forgiven, however, if by virtue of the syntax of language (which demands that nouns not at once be verbs) I continue ascribing verbs to the noun-verb that is the Feverfoot.[/indent]

[indent][2] Now the exact nature of that experience, I cannot capture for you - and if I did attempt it, it would be a garbled mess of meaninglessness - so you must understand, before you continue, that what follows is the fruit of aeons of tireless analysis, and that analysis has given forth an [i]interpretation[/i]. It is an interpretation limited, necessarily, by the mode by which I must communicate it. It must also be understood that not only is this an interpretation, but it is an interpretation of a translation - for it is impossible to capture the pristine original (that is, pure experience) and present it to the reader. No, experience first had to be translated into words, and those words - garbled as they were - had to be analysed, and so was born this interpretation. I have endeavoured to keep it succinct and focused - and I am not unaware that much may be lost by this methodology (indeed, the Feverfoot is defined by a distinct lack of clarity or focus so that writing of her in such a way may give the illusion of purpose or intention where really there is none). As the first to bring these matters to light, I consider my primary duty the conveyance of knowledge, and I leave it to those who take up the mantle in the wake of these revelations to turn to the nobler purposes of bettering and furthering our understanding of the true essence and nature of these experiences.[/indent]

[indent][3] Note that these memories, at that exact moment, became Rosalind’s own, so that she was in fact there when they first occurred - by means of memory having [i]become[/i] the whale. In that manner, and that being established, this was not [i]truly[/i] the first time she saw those memories.[/indent]

[indent][4]Some may object to this usage, but I assure the gentle reader that this is a very accurate usage, for Rosalind-the-Motion and Mamang-the-Whale are, as I translate and interpret the experience here relayed, one. This being, both Rosalind and Mamang, I refer to as Rosamamang. Of course, this begs the question of whether a being, once merged with another and turned into something new, can ever revert to its prior form. This is a question worth studying, and I believe there is a case for an answer in the negative as far as Rosalind the Feverfoot is concerned. As for the whale Mamang, I cannot speak of him with any confidence as I have not had an opportunity to study the record - if a record of this remains at all. If he is an intelligent being, however, and there is a case, I believe, for the intelligence - if not in the conventional sense - of Mamang, then I would conjecture that a merging of this nature would have likely left a permanent mark on him.[/indent]

[indent][5] Yes, even them.[/indent][/indent]

[list][*][hider=Summary]
Row, row, row your boat! Rosa rows her rowboat rosily 'round. Everything is fine and peaceful at sea. She handles the isolation well, and she can even dance in the boat.

Then all of a sudden, what's this? The sound of a whale!

Mamang lifts up her boat... intentionally? who knows. Rosalind's fever catches her by the feet and she starts tap-tap-tapping her way across the whale's whole back, until, with a hop, a skip and a jump, she falls right down his blowhole.

Somehow, Rosa is inhaled. Yudaiel's influence on her essence contributes to her evaporating and merging with Mamang as a being of pure motion, united by dance- Rosamamang.

One by one, the Rosalind within the united being revisits the memories of the now rather storied and ancient whale. She listens to his memories of singing, and the two of them discover- though, of course, they had known it all along- that the song is Mamang's name.

We even see some hints of memories that have gone unposted: the whale is aware of the presence and absence of the Pariah, and has heard the shouting of Apostate and Yudaiel.

Finally Rosa catches up to the present moment she is experiencing as Rosamamang, and they 'greet' one another. She listens to the whale sing and learns that he is singing with a big-hearted love, which they both learn about together. The discovery of love induces a subtle change in the whale, in his future and in everything he touches.

Rosa curls up warm and cosy inside Mamang (who is in turn curled up warm and cosy inside Rosa's dance), and, while she is washed back and forth in Mamang's blood, she experiences an untold vision of the whale's death. Her dance and movement unites with the motion of Mamang's heart and blood, in a way that will remain long after that blood has ceased to flow.

Rosamamang surfaces somewhere around the Academy as Rosa builds up in Mamang's lungs. About a year has passed. Their dance comes to an end off the coast of the Thousand Lakes, and Rosa leaves Mamang in a spout, insofar as either of them can ever truly leave the other. A matching bangle forms around his tail, and then she is blown away on the wind.

4,236 whale points danced into being by the power of love.

[b]Total whale points: 15,233[/b]
[/hider]
[*][hider=Vigour]
Rosalind:
[indent]Starting: 17 Vigour
4 Vigour [Reduced to 2 by Dance]: Mamang, soulless, now possesses an essence of pure motion. It is not a soul, it is pure movement - dance. Should he ever die, this force will be released unto Galbar and will be able to completely reshape any region of his choosing into one of absurd cadence - dancing hills, sands, rocks, winds etc. While he will thus be a phenomenon - akin to an aurora for instance - in this state Mamang will still be able, on occasion perhaps, to exhibit what is arguably a consciousness.

1 Vigour [Reduced to 0 by Dance]: Bless Mamang’s form and movements so that he swims in complete harmony with the currents of the ocean, is more agile and moves with even greater beauty, speed, and finesse.

1 Vigour: Enhance Mamang’s functioning senses - his good ear, his sight, his sense of smell and taste (which tend to be rather weak in normal whales) and [s]his echolocation sense[/s] [b]silly Kho, only sperm whales have that![/b]

2 Vigour [Enhanced by Dance]: Transform one of Rosalind’s bracelets into the Band of the Love Dance, presently worn on Mamang’s [s]caudal peduncle[/s] tail. It changes size as necessary for the wearer. This enables the wearer to dance in such a manner as to inspire feelings of love - in its broadest sense - in all who look upon it. This can range from simply remembering things which should engender feelings of love - e.g. a loved family member, a beautiful scene - to bringing about feelings of love, from the brotherly, to the protective, to the romantic.

2 Vigour [Enhanced by Dance]: Retrospective payment for bracelet Rosalind gifted to Voligan. Transform one of Rosalind’s bracelets into the Band of the Guardian Dance. It changes size as necessary for the wearer. This band enables the wearer to execute a defensive martial dance, countering the strikes and agiley warding off anyone exhibiting aggression or hostility towards individuals or things the band-wearer deems worth protecting. Onlookers, even non-sapient or inanimate things, may also be drawn into the power of the dance and so form up to likewise protect whatever the wearer is protecting.

Remaining: 10 Vigour[/indent][/hider][/list]