Mutagenics 101 With Vlem

OOC: Anavander was encouraged to reach out to Ein, and he eventually elected to ask Him about the field of study that he's most passionate about; Mutagenics. Shortly thereafter, he received the following letter.


You read what is written on a gilded, incense-fragranced letter:
Anavander,

[The message has been written twice - once in Mugwumpi, and once in the
Common language]

The Restless has relayed your request for an audience to me. I am the
Collection's foremost expert on Transmology and mutation.

Given your questions are scientific in nature, I ask whether they are
easier in person or as written. If the latter, please send any questions
to myself via mail. If your post offices are unable to find an address
for me, you may address it to the Restless and it will be delivered to
me as His representative. If you would instead prefer to discuss matters
in person, please return a letter with a suggestion for venue.

Vlemshulgaugh




You read what is written on a crisp sheet of stationery bordered in ebon:
[The precise lettering of this missive has been inked with evident care,
each symbol of the Mugwumpi script delineated with a meticulous
precision that borders on the inhuman.]

Vlemshulgaugh,

I thank you for both your response and the timely nature with which it
has been delivered. I would be most pleased to discuss the
aforementioned matters with you in person.

In regards to venue, I am admittedly largely indifferent, so long as we
are afforded sufficient quiet and privacy to conduct our conversation
with relative ease. If you have a location that is to your preference, I
am amenable to meeting you there, if I am able. If not, the World
Library should prove sufficiently neutral territory.

Regards,
Marquis Anavander



Vlem tells you, "I have perhaps a day free. Not normally enough time for such a discussion, but I
assume it is enough to ensure I am able to assist or otherwise refer you to one more apt. Would you
meet me within Ylineyr at the field of knowledge?"


A field of knowledge.
A field of golden arms rises up like an endless field of wheat, their forms wavering in a vanilla
-scented breeze. A platform of crimson glass rises up in the centre, several chairs and shelves
stacked upon it haphazardly. Throughout the fields, groups of hands peel the outer layer of golden
flesh from each other and bind the sheafs into aureate tomes, scribing words onto them and passing
them off to other hands in a chain to the shelves for cataloguing. Its form twisting in upon itself,
a bookshelf of obsidian and gold towers here. Seemingly in a daze, Vlem stands here slowly blinking.
You may use the BOOKSHELF commands here.
You see a single exit leading southwest.


VLEM APPEARANCE:
Pale orange skin drawn taut against her frame forms the front of this specimen of a mugwump,
covering her from her toes to her vented nose before shifting into a band of dark brown. Two eyes
break the brown banding, the large black orbs parted to the sides of her face. The back of her head
graduates further into a smooth russet, almost giving the appearance of extremely long hair at a
distance if one squints hard enough. She is robed in long-sleeved indigo robes that appear to be
little more than a massive cloth tied securely at the shoulders and draped about her. Her exposed
extremities appear to be covered in a thick, viscous secretion that shimmers with the touch of any
light, creating a display of iridescence across her limbs. Her fingers and toes are long and, unlike
many of her kin, not webbed. Her face seems to be locked in an eternal daze, as if her mind is lost
in another reality, though she seems acutely aware of the thick wyvern-leather tome that she carries
at her side. Several implements, from knives to an intricately-gilded basalt fountain pen have been
forced into the binding of the tome which has long since lost its shape.
Vlem has an air of extreme strength.


ANAVANDER APPEARANCE:
He is a fiendish viscanti demigod. An even seven feet in height, his broad shoulders and narrow
waist form a frame that denotes a graceful balance of power and speed. His flesh is all alabaster
splendour, as marble bathed in distant, sidereal luminescence, instilling him with the remote and
unfeeling perfection of a statue ardently sculpted by obsessive hands. His face is as an exquisite
mausoleum, its finely wrought features so naturally given to cool repose that it seems they would
only know warmth were its corpse to be lovingly interred within them. The feline ovals of his eyes
are outlined in artfully applied, black kohl, as has the upper of his full, lavishly shaped lips,
with a vertical bar descending down over his mouth to curve under his chin. His sclera are
atramentous pools of depthless black, glistening with the liquescent sheen of freshly spilled ink.
Raging forth from these pitiless wells of cool midnight, his vivid orange-gold irises are as twinned
corpse-suns smoldering with the last, spiteful vestiges of immolating refulgence, violently aglow
with a feverish, insane intensity. Within these madly burning cinders lie stab wound slits of
perfect black, forming thin, vertical pupils. A brutal mass of horn thrusts from the right of his
brow. The hue and subtle luster of polished slate, the growths are an exquisite splash of monstrous
majesty, a splayed fan of curving, jagged lethality wrought into half a vicious crown. Emerging in a
backward flourish from his scarlet brow, the layered, overlapping spears of keratin adorn the right
side of his head in a profusion of sweeping, savage protrusions, before abruptly reversing direction
and cresting into an upright spire of cruel regality. His right arm is a match, plated in vitreous
black scales and tipped with cruelly arcing talons. The vivid scarlet tresses of his hair are
glossy, the perfectly straight locks precisely styled into a loose, high bun, from which it spills
in a sanguine flow below his hips.

He is wearing:
a pair of black shoes
Prayer Beads of the Gods
formal, black dress trousers
a long dark coat worn loose atop the shoulders



Vlem focuses her eyes upon you, the bulbous sable orbs unblinking on the viscanti as she inquires
frankly, "You wished to speak of mutation. What specifically is your realm of study?" Her arms hang
awkwardly at her side as she rights herself from the previous bow, hanging like laundry from a line
more than limbs. The arms in the background waver against unmanifested winds, small clusters peeling
golden, rustling pages from their own flesh to reveal only more of the straw-coloured skin beneath,
replete with indecipherable writing.

Rising with a fluid, measured grace, Anavander folds his mismatched hands atop one
another, settling them before him in a layering of lustrous midnight scale and pristine, utterly
white flesh. He responds to the frank question in kind, and promptly, the quiet, cool cadence of his
voice unhurried, yet without hesitation. "The manipulation of living organic matter, for a variety
of purposes. Augmenting existing lifeforms for specific tasks and environs, bioengineering entirely
new organisms for bespoke purposes, and so on. Induced adaptation and deliberately guided evolution
of form."

Vlem ponders the words with a quiet droning from her throat, the sound blurring the light between a
growl and a hum as it lingers in the air for a brief eternity before she offers a nod. "Forced
evolution is nothing new," she explains, raising three gangly fingers into the air, "and there are
three readily available sources of it: the Taint and the taint, Kethuru's essence and the resulting
dilute phenomenon used by your city; the Wyrd as taint transformed by the Seal of Nature due to
Viravain, Isune, and Raezon; and Transmology." She lowers a finger as each item is listed off,
finishing, "And of course the work of the Restless and the Hamadhi may be determined a fourth, but I
would be hard-pressed to call these an available source. Is there a specific interest in one of
these, or are you considering all options?"

The corpse-sun incandescence of Anavander's eyes remains unwaveringly upon Vlem,
despite the alluring tug and pull of the surroundings upon sight and thought. The sanguine fall of
the viscanti's hair sways languidly as he gives a series of sharp, acknowledging nods, though he
does not make an effort to interrupt, or to speak at all until he is addressed. "All options, with
appropriate precautions. I suspect there are other reagents and catalysing agents that are either
undiscovered, or not widely know, in addition." The glimmering plating of his right hand shimmers
with a subtle luster as he passes it through the air in an expansive gesture. "My main concern is
utilising the aforementioned induced evolutionary agents without the issue of unconstrained
mutation, or the insanity or overly aggressive behaviour that often results with their use."

Vlem gives a quick nod, an orchestra of loud, moist pops echoing as her head shifts. "Unfortunately
the insanity and aggression is the more difficult of the two to manage if you are looking for
permanent mutations. This is something that Transmologists discovered centuries ago," she explains,
"and have yet to fully resolve. The same is true with the wyrd and taint. Progress has been made,
but the reality is unfortunately whether the mutation lies in the divine template flesh that we use,
or the Excoroperditio and toxin of the taint and wyrd, all of these methods rely on adding
Immanidivinus and Excoroperditio to mortals in the extreme amounts necessary to mutate. Not to
mention that the modern form of the taint and wyrd, in large enough amounts, would be likely to kill
you as much as cause any permanent change." A droning croak of a sigh escapes her throat before she
continues, "The best solution outside of these that has been found is the harnessing of Domothean
energy to augment our etherea, and this is incidentally where I find my own expertise falls short. I
am afraid I would have to refer you to the Restless or the Chiurgeon for a better understanding."
Her gaze finally breaks from you as her eyes rise to the dim, monochrome sky, her lips parting to
offer a portal to long rows of off-yellow teeth.

So still is Anavander as he listens to Vlem's expounding upon the topic at hand,
that were it not for the viciously vibrant hues of his eyes and hair, he could well pass for a
sculpture carved from purest marble. When the contact with the mugwump's eyes is sundered, animation
returns to him in an instant, the delicate talons of his right hand tapping out a rapid, rhythmic
pattern upon his thigh, though their touch is so light as to cause no sound to emanate from the
contact. A line of shadow paints itself into being between his brows as they contract in a
distracted frown, the full, painted arch of his upper lip thinning in thought. "It is worth
pursuing, regardless. The solution may simply not have been discovered yet. There must be some
manner of inhibiting the resultant insanity, or balancing the hyperaggression." Half spoke to
himself, and half to Vlem, he lapses into a brief bout of silence, which roils with unspoken
frustration. "I am uncertain as to how requesting knowledge of that nature from Them would be
received. Nonetheless."

Mastering himself, Anavander smooths out the marring of his brow, refocusing upon
Vlem and assembling his prior mien of carefully controlled serenity. Pressing his right, clawed hand
upon his heart, he executes a flawless, textbook perfect bow, uttering, "I thank you for your time
and the sharing of your knowledge. It is greatly appreciated."

Vlem turns her smile to you, nodding. "I am afraid my available time has come to an end, but I will
inform the Restless it is best He who speaks with you. As for Malmydia," She pauses, considering it
before resuming, "Her command of the Indebted is if there is a question, to ask it plainly. Do so."
With yet another awkward bow before she turns away, "I will inform the Restless you wish to speak
with Him once more. He will find you, or He will forget."

With an all-present lack of urgency to her pace, Vlem wanders off to the southwest.

Once deprived of the presence of another, Anavander's composure does not quite
break, so much as it distorts, as cold metal subjected to immense heat and pressure. Gradually, the
unblemished expanse of his brow contorts, drawing down and bunching together into a fierce frown,
joining the bunching of the muscles at his jaw in darkening his countenance. The long, saber-like
digits of his right hand flex and curl, slow and fast, fast and slow, flickers of psychometabolic
electricity fulminating briefly across the polished scales that armour his right side.