Sage Taru

The sage is not always in movement, but when they move, you aren’t sure that their feet ever touch the ground.

“It’s not about tension, or friction, or conflict—it’s about synthesis,” the Sage tells you before they tell you anything else, which maybe tells you the most important thing about this particular Sage.

“The Luna,” the Sage summons an image out of nothing, “is the principle of abrogation of tradition and consensus reality, dreamlike confections, chrome and neon, Vegas; it exists in synthesis with the Dryad,” another image, “which is the principle of deep history, tradition, civilisation in the sense of places that feel like places with stories everyone knows, and people agreeing about what reality means.”

You consider the images—they seem a little silly to you; Dryad almost looks like a particularly weird shrimp made out of a palm tree—but they are information. You don’t ask about the order, either. You always thought Salamander was supposed to come first, but you look at the Sage’s own eyes, the churning sunset clouds in them, and you suppose Luna does make a lot of sense coming from them.

“The Gnome,” the Sage continues, drawing up the next image, and you very valiantly do not laugh, “is the principle of community, of drunken revelry, of people who have known each other long enough to finish each others’ sentences and have impromptu cuddlepile orgies, and of holding grudges; it exists in synthesis with the Jinn,” “which is the principle of cold and remote things, of law and justice and Correctness standing apart from squishy human feelings, of windy mountaintops, and of grace and mercy.”

This one makes more sense to you as a synthesis—community without cold and remote justice is simply a cult. You nod in understanding, even though the Sage is not necessarily waiting for your nod.

“The Salamander,” “is the principle of action, of not putting up with the world the way it is, of punching fascists in the face, of breaking things and building new things out of the parts; it exists in synthesis with the Undine,” , “which is the principle of passivity and gentleness and being the water that erodes the rock and carves, over time, a new channel, of putting up with things until you outlast them, of being able to be chill.”

“Hmmm,” you reply, but do not argue. You are here to understand—you can argue later.

“the Wisp,” “is the principle of clarity and directness, of things being exactly what they are and say they are, of certainty and simplicity; it exists in synthesis with the Shade,” “which is the principle of ambiguity and literary criticism, of things being infinitely more complex than they seem, of complex interacting systems that can’t be predicted deterministically with complete accuracy.”

“Thank you,” you tell the Sage. “I appreciate you time.” You have many things to think about.

“Time?” the Sage says, and there’s something bubbling in their voice, but you couldn’t say what. “Oh! Of course. It was my pleasure,” and as they go to move off onto their next task, you realize that not only do their feet not touch the ground, they aren’t even pretending not to walk on the air.