The duskwight had made more frequent visits to the Inn that first night. The kind of visits that were like pacing, the ones where you were waiting for something to happen, that you might miss it somehow if you were just a moment late. A strange sort of background-fevered anticipation for something that might not happen at all.
That first night was scattered. And frigid.
The innkeeper would have seen that peculiar duskwight slide himself along the tavern walls, coming and going with frost trailing behind, a decent amount then, but neither asked any more questions.
The second night Xavarian wasn't there much at all.
He was instead at his second 'place of residence'. There had been time spent seeing to newly placed shelves, organizing tomes, bothering a wildwood who'd come to visit a bit less than Xavarian expected to bother him, taking an impromptu custom grimoire order from a lost customer, a reminding to himself of how he needed to get better acquainted with the practices of the establishment he'd partnered with, some wandering about the Mist, and then the contemplation on when might be a good time to get closer to the sea.
Then would have been the time, perhaps, but he realized his Family robes were not the sort of clothing to be playing around the ocean in. He'd left most of his clothing back at the Inn. Lip pursing and short snorts ensued.
This is about when he remembered the Inn. On the third night he returned.
---
Opening the Inn-door, the slight waft of air from its swing had nearly scattered all the contents of the pseudo-envelope that had been left for the late arrival. Xavarian's eyes widened seeing it there, that odd folded note with a single frayed edge, and those unrelated thoughts he'd been having on the nature of conjury and its Aetherical possibilities of coming from multiple sources were completely gone.
"Oh-oh hells-" Carefully kneeling just to, without any elegance once more, plop himself on the floor, he took up the folded page, carefully looking it over while his other hand gently held the scraps of paper he noticed were cased within.
Furrowed brows abound as he read. But then those bright teal eyes shone wide, and he started slowly and carefully, piecing through the scraps. It didn't take him long to realize just what these where,
what they were from, and when he did, the temperature sky rocketed and he had to drop them all in a scrap-paper flurry and scootch himself back. The duskwight was stunned. Surprised, and stunned, and all manner of embers attested to it, before he took a small wand from one of his packs, and with it in hand, the embers died down.
Was that what he thought it was? ... But that is so...
important.
Xavarian hadn't realized he'd been covering his mouth with his free hand while staring at the scattered scraps of paper like a precious gift had just exploded... yet left something of
value behind. His lips pressed thin as he scrambled back along the floor closer to them to gather them all together like they were delicate, precious things. Meanwhile he stuck his wand into one of his sleeves and through a band over his arm; it was secured against his skin, and continued to help keep him from immolating the lot of the small pieces.
"Avis.. why in the hells..?"
His face had pulled into something both mildly mortified, but also somewhat touched. Look what she'd given him.
Look what she'd given him. He was never one to handle well the small destructions of books. Bending over page corners made him cringe. Placing tomes face down in ways that would harm their spines caused him hissing sounds when he drew his breath. But
tearing and cutting up pages. He was glad he hadn't been there to see it done, as there's no way he wouldn't have found it dreadful.
And from what he could recall of the times she flashed it at him, they seemed to be from her notebook. Her
notebook. He could only hope that she copied these before cutting them up, but the gesture, he felt, was oddly moving all the same. How precious each of these pieces was. He certainly wouldn't let anything ill befall them.
Carefully, he read them all. Then gently spread them all out, as his mind slowly shifted gears, and a slow grin crept across his face. Might these be a puzzle~?
---
So it began. First he read each little piece several times, and did the obvious, of attempting to fit them together. They didn't seem to quite connect; either pieces were missing, or these were pieces from many different things. Then, he took to a more observational approach; he looked carefully at the scribing. He knew well enough that, even within one's own hand, variations can be seen. One entry might be written one way, while the next day, the script might take a slightly smaller turn. He placed pieces with the closest script variations in groups with others that were similar, trying to discern further anything more, if he could. He also, of course, checked all the backs, how they were cut if any edges fit together, and any other particular differences among pieces he might find. He arranged, and rearranged them for a while, though figured that they may be exactly as they appear; fragments with little direct connection to each other aside from being in the same book. The theme, though.. was a different matter entirely.
When he was done with his investigation, he knew he had to do something
worthwhile in return. He had to give a part of himself as well. It wasn't long before he had an idea. So he hastily got to work.
---
Finally finished and scrollcase in hand, he made his way briskly down the halls, then turned around to walk
the right halls (he'll remember the way eventually. Maybe.), and stopped at Avis' room. His steps were light, quick things, though had a tiny bounce to them. They were exceptionally quiet, a quicker sort of sneaking, like when one is embarrassed and trying to edge around a room with some haste to not be stopped and chided. His breath could be seen, but there were Aetheric sparks all over him too, and it wasn't long before the chill around him warmed up some at his thoughts. The scrollcase was then inspected, along with the space beneath her door he'd been using as delivery.
He purposely had shoved all the pages he'd written into the slimmest scrollcase he had on him; a slight, though sturdy elaborate thing. It was almost like a wand in diameter, much smaller than the average scrollcase, and engraved with any number of bright golden symbols standing out against the black metal that made the rest of it. The caps designed like a golden maze of smoke trails; it was all very fancy. And really, if she couldn't make anything of what he'd written, at
least he could give her the scrollcase. The question was, though, could it fit beneath the door?
For all Xavarian's sneaking, if Avis had been in the room, she was sure to realize his presence outside. He attempted to slide the slim scrollcase through the space between the door and the floor, and- it
looked like he might be able to do it!- until it got stuck. "By the hells-" He muttered, now awkwardly squatting in front of this door, robes trailed out behind him, as he tried to either shove the scrollcase all the way under, or wiggle it back out. ... He managed the latter, though not without some struggle. With a huff, Xavarian knew he needed a different approach. The duskwight
really didn't want to discuss any of it, not right now, he knew his words wouldn't leave his lips the way they would be read on paper, so if Avis did come to the door at the commotion, he decided he'd not say anything. Just hand her the case with a grin, and promptly be on his way.
But in the meanwhile, if she
hadn't come to the door, he took to taking the fine chain attached to the case, and winding it around the door handle, connecting the clasp in the links, clearly visible, when it was secure. It was a risk to leave it there; it was clearly of high quality, and would likely fetch a hefty price of sold. Nevermind he didn't want
anyone else getting ahold of the contents. His hands chilled, though little frost was seen. He waited a short time, almost like an uncertain guard, before he quietly (though to him, rather loudly) knocked on the door, and then quickly made his way off down the hall. He may have, though, peered back down the hall for a little while once he'd rounded the corner, just to see if a door cracked open, before slipping off.
---
Inside the scrollcase, there are a number of pages. Two don't have symbols on them; the first is of the same sort of semi-translucent paper that the previous writings have been on. The second, is on a darker variation; instead of having a bright hue, the page is actually a deep charcoal grey, but still swirling translucent like the previous ones. It is written on in bright golden ink.
Six of the pages, on the otherhand,
do have symbols on them; they don't seem to be in any particular order, but they are all smaller pages of a high-quality dark paper. It is smooth and crisp to the touch, gold-leaf edged, and durable. Everything written on these dark pages is also done in a rather bright, gold ink.
The script of all of them is neat, though the dark swirling page seems to have more flourishes to the letters than the rest.
Show Content
Inside the scrollcase
Script on the Bright Translucent Page Wrote: When something opens,
Everything opens.
Even me.
But Everything is never so clear to gleam,
As you have shown and seen.
So for a gift of what you Are
I return a gift Chosen
To fit how I have Been.
Many words are for one. A single word is for many.
All have answers.
Find me in my riddles.
Golden Script on the Dark Translucent Page Wrote:From the young Start onward One
is how I lived, awoke, and slept.
And One is how I was
fairly Two with unseen cause, or so was thought.
Though maybe not. They hovered over, curious-wrought.
The Twoness shone in quite-seen ways,
Threes forming in the haze
about my skin those Fourful days.
But not the sort that ever thaws. From bones through flesh like claws
a single sample of ample Five it caused.
Times were truly grand when I found that I could stand,
but just for me, you see.
They do not take the hand of what they do not understand.
And though used at rare times called,
It was a puzzle never solved.
Or so they chose to say.
Instead they felt it best that I
stayed Six and One away.
Show Content
One of the small, symbol'd pages. This one has two symbols on it, one above and facing the other.
Tired, Tend, And so quickly on the Mend are
words they often choose to spend
in the presence of this state.
Stalled, Sore, Pallor and sallow and quite often more
are oftentimes ways to really be sure
Thal may be waiting at your gate.
So Stop, Stay, Rest a while 'fore heading your way
then you may manage to keep it at bay
they say, while keeping a distance at best.
Immune, Infect, now what ways have they to protect
themselves against the potential effect
they fear may next well up in their chest?
Show Content
One of the small, symbol'd pages. This one has five symbols on it, four on each corner, and one in the middle.
Shock.
A grab at the throat, the first choke.
That winding darkness that looks like smoke
seeping from the corners out
and all doors lock.
Trapped.
When you don't know
if you'll make it
through
alive.
Before your strength is sapped
That shake
feeling what's inside crushed to break
between relentless hands you thought brought comfort
now only take
it all away
describes this state.
Show Content
One of the small, symbol'd pages. This one has four symbols, in a circle all pointing towards each other.
It is felt.
A pang, a stab, a scarring thought, a loss.
Trudging through the broken glass at any cost.
The mind shares the body's misery,
enhances, expounds, reflects and rebounds
it over and over.
Unpleasant.
Though some mark it as 'a way to tell
you live'. Through this agony's swell
they claim 'it was worth it'. Or.
'It wasn't worth it at all.'
There is no decision to it. But a precision through it.
A long lasting laugh as you fall. Or a pin-prick second.
Your call
but only sometimes.
It dwells or it ends, but no matter it sends cringing throes,
no amends.
Show Content
One of the small, symbol'd pages. This one has one symbol on it.
A state you'll try
to keep nearby,
held close with no reprisal
As this state is one
that's already done,
far past the stage of arrival.
In box, in cage,
words stuck on a page
and placed away to cherish
Is where this will stay
'less freed, or they say
'This is no way for you to perish'.
Show Content
One of the small, symbol'd pages. This one has three symbols on it, in a triangular formation.
Formed when force of Life collects
to solid fragments one expects
of Aether.
Let them grow.
Goregeous how light flows
through their faceted shows
of presence.
But heed
their power. They can bring more than Seen,
forced to conceed in masses to beings unfreed
of worship.
And still.
A use undetermined by will should not fill
perception of something until
fear remains.
Instead, keep a piece.
And understand
why they grow.
Show Content
One of the small, symbol'd pages. This one has six symbols on it, two rows, with one above the other.
A singularity.
Often times a peculiar rarity.
Set apart from the start.
Or the middle.
Or the end.
But sometimes just to send
that one out.
It draws attention
often not meant for contention
But has its contrast
with all the other wolves who are
huddled close.
By choice, by force, by no reason
at all there is no season
to call
its own.
Instead, it is _____ .