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Dasair · **04-20-2015, 12:53 PM**

Interlude

It had been quite a while since the duskwight had returned to the Mizzenmast. Gods know how many things had happened prior, and his path had taken him all manner of ways that werenâ€™t back to his room. He still couldnâ€™t believe it. Had that all really occurred? Xavarian's mind still raced and danced with all the recollection, the musing, what had gone on during that meeting with Avis in the Shroud, and it whirled right past him going down the hall to his room, him opening the door, him stepping in to prepare for the next nightâ€¦

He almost didnâ€™t see the letters. Almost. But when he did, the Aether around him flared up with his smiles, near literally â€“ though only in small warmths and less in embers.. this time. He delayed removing the scepter strapped to his arm, even longer still, (the removal was nothing he was looking forward to at this point, it would certainly be a pain he couldnâ€™t ignore then ) and knelt to pick up the pages. A thought crossed him then of how long they may have been sitting here, but his worry was stemmed off by the contents.

What lovely contents! The duskwight, upon looking them over just a bit, took the letters to curl up with on the bed, (attempts were made to handlessly kick off his boots, but it seems he needed to unstrap them first ; alas), and he beamed at the words like he were a child receiving exactly what heâ€™d always wanted. Riddles. Or at least a puzzle! And to such an important place, what a lovely way to put it all, a small history, the hook had him in an instant. He was entirely endeared to them, to her, though he couldnâ€™t help but consider the amusing irony; how she had beaten him to his own idea. â€œBy the hells..~â€ He mutters, running a sparking hand through an equally sparking mess of hair. Solving the puzzle wouldn't be hard. But the navigation. This would likely take him days, days to find, if he was lucky. Heâ€™d need a lot of time to set out for this endeavor.

A pang of regret seared through him then, that he was only here to prepare for something else entirely, that he couldnâ€™t set out now. But soon enough, he would. Afterwards, he would. Reading the letters a final time to renew his grin, he carefully placed them away in his tome, before he hauled himself up from the comfort of blankets. The duskwight then tiptoed around the dirt heâ€™d tracked in before heâ€™d shorn to stocking feet, and thus begins to pack for the next nightâ€™s endeavor.

Mor Dhona, for the Scholar's Celebration.

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Dasair · **04-21-2015, 12:21 PM**

As fate would have it, things didnâ€™t go as planned. He really shouldâ€™ve expected this by now.

Xavarian never made it to the Scholarâ€™s Celebration, but did make it to Mor Dhonaâ€¦ which had effectively changed everything. He really was lucky that Asheloux had been with him, as much as he didnâ€™t want to admit it. When was the last time it had been so bad, when was the last time it had done that? And how in the hells could he fix it? The questions still haunted him, despite it being some days past his having collapsed there now, despite him having mostly recovered. The questions continued to rear their relentless inquiry in his mind, even then. And gods, after such a completely different, unbelievable endeavor. The â€˜Aether Science Squadâ€™s (as they deemed call themselves) unprecedented endeavor to study those Nymian ruins, how completely amazing it all was, how- how-

He still couldnâ€™t put it into words. Though, truth be told, he wasnâ€™t thinking to put it into words right now. Xavarian frowned to himself, as he made his way with a quick step through the Mizzenmast Inn. He kept his eyes low, and his thoughts were what guided him; most else he paid hardly any attention to.

He thought about Avis instead. Heâ€™d just seen her, just helped her situate the books away that sheâ€™d taken from the Professorâ€™s study that she couldnâ€™t carry on her own, following that great Nymian adventure, and yet.. He was worried for her. Certainly, something wasnâ€™t right; is it really the same with her too? All too used is he to being treated as.. as a center of discontentment, a problem by his very existence. Something to constantly look over, to need to make accommodations for, to slowly loath. That was not what he wanted at all, but was it inevitable no matter where he went? And the very episode in Mor Dhonaâ€¦ how was he to know that would have happened? Was it solely that she felt so dreadful about not being there, or was it something more? She must know that it could happen anywhere, at anytime, he had tried to warn her. But.. for all his mental questions, he wasnâ€™t really that blind to the answers. He knew it wasnâ€™t going to be easy for her, knew things are always different when they happen than merely in far-off-theory. He knew he mattered to her quite a bit, and from what she had told him before about what had happened to one she loved. . . He was worried.

So worried, he hadnâ€™t noticed he was already at his room, and had just leaned his frigid forehead on the door, until some of the ice spreading over it from his chilled Aether crackled. The duskwight blinked, sighed, then pushed the door open, leaving an icy patch on its outside.

In the room, he paced. Heâ€™d set everything down and paced. Xavarianâ€™s unruly hair was mussied any number of ways while he paced, his hands were wrung, and abruptly, he turned towards the table, getting out some paper and pen. They sat there stared at. Then the duskwight got up and paced some more.

Gods know how long it was before he could actually write. It was done through a mix of determination, concern, with a lot of lip pursing. And he was at it quite a long time, thinking it over, writing it, fixing it. His head was rested on the table now and then, possibly drifting off, but never quite asleep, he was too- too much of a mess to sleep. Time escaped the duskwight in his focus. A number of pages were set aside; they werenâ€™t good enough. They werenâ€™t right. He didnâ€™t even know if what he ended up with was right. But it was something. Only at times during his writing had his expression calmed, his mind seemed to have found some other place to sit itself in when he wrote.

Having not rested from the excursion, (though honestly, it may have even been the next day by now, how long had it been? ) he quickly rolled the scroll of a page, before heading out to deliver it to her room. When he got there, he had a brief moment of pause. Wondering if she might be up still. He almost didnâ€™t want to disturb her, and simultaneously did, maybe shake her from whatever it was that gripped her - though if he was the cause. . . how troubling. His lip was bitten while he just.. stood before the door, staring down at the floor. And then quickly, before his mind could catch up with the action, he slid the letter under. He clenched his hands, a cold air falling from them then, before he abruptly turned to go back to his room.

Despite his exhaustion, it took him quite a while to sleep.

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Spoiler
First I speak of what youâ€™d given.

I fear Iâ€™d seen them late. And thusly write in kind even later. But.

What lovely letters you had priorly given me~

Timely events turning betwixt trouble and intrigue tangled me taught in their tethers. Iâ€™d not yet time to match your words with my whims on where this library might be. Yet I yearn for it. The excitement I felt when you would have given me a puzzle, a riddle, a challenge to search for, with such a place of no small greatness by end. I found myself filled with sparks, those quite apt in your presence, wished to head out soon when I could. Yet, it is something I must put aside days for, as gods know where-when I will end up even remotely near. Not that I mind. It will be such a gift to find. But I had seen them late, [a few blots]

I instead write now just to write to you.

It is a strange thing yet, that which letters do.

Something soothing in their making, burrowed Words shake themselves in waking
and with small shudders rise from beneath
sand, sea, and leaves where theyâ€™d once sleepâ€¦

But now from here they peek instead to greet you on this page.

[blot]

I am no good at being soothing. Not like writing letters, or letting free the Dancing Words.
I cannot presume to be, nor do I. For messes are never simple. And I know little.
So instead, I can merely offer something I hope you might enjoy.

Even in its novice stages of telling, as itâ€™s never been told. Something small to take your hand for a little while.

A small story for you.

A tiny grandling.

[blot]

It was the Moving Day. Doors opened, eager hums and whispers echoed through the caverns, the rhythms of running, walking, and shuffling abound. A particular door was let open too, as all was being collected within to ready for the journey; tomes of young and eld in comfortable rare-wood boxes, small wands and their crystal companions, unbelievably teensy adamantoise shells collected from travelers whoâ€™d tended nests, spheres of glass that shown in the candlelight, tiny chimes, pens, inks, and pages. And from sound, it came to view. Everything out there, everything yet to leave, the bustle of Moving from one place to the next.

A Young One hurries out excited, walking stick in hand and feet lightly chattering against the stone floor. Heâ€™s packed as much as he can be, full of little pouches and strapped bags that make little thumps when he runs, and looks about wild-eyed at the chance to see where theyâ€™ll all go. The familiar steps of his family are heard, many heading the same direction, so he falls into step with them. Many of those who saw the family in, welcome, now bid their travels be well, hoping to see them once more. The Young One recognizes only a few faces, the ones who came to see him, and gives them little hums in passing.

With the farewell hums complete, the Young One starts to hear the Guiding Songs, lightly ringing out from the front of the Moving line, a soft tune to guide the shuffling bodies through the tunnels of stone. It is then that they are off.

Much is passed. Small underground rivers that trickle and glisten with the bioluminance of the moonweeds are passed, wide caverns of crystals, many path ways, and minerals are passed, ruins of prior caverns, having tumbled from duress and disrepair are passed, until they reach a wide, spacious place; trickles of moonlight spot through the ceiling, and the enormous hole of the place runs deep. The Guiding Songs guide the movers to stop moving, to be careful along the formed paths, to not fall down below. And they slowly begin to head onward, carefully, quietly, over these cliffs, before the Guiding Songs bid stop once more.

Something was down there. Furthermore, something was around them.

Surrounding these makeshift stone bridges and the abysses below are golems. Huge, lumbering stone golems, that previously had been silent, then began to stir. It seems they were like to be judged. The Young One was not part of the discussion on how to proceed, but surely they had noticed the piles of odd stones along the bridges and crossways. Noticed similar ones scattered about the way. They decided to make an offering.

Each one Moving picked up an odd stone, and placed it carefully on a pile of them. There was a small formation of them as the line pressed on, each and every urged to do it, each one must help. An odd gesture at first. But when it came time for the Young One to do the same, he noticed something gleaming about the stones. Some sort of Aetherical coat, almost like it was being pulled towards the pile, and then it became clear. The odd stones were parts of a broken golem. It was a peace offering, showing they were not here for destruction. And as it was, they judged the Movers well, and let them pass. It was left to mystery what would have happened to those judged less well, though the answers may have been in the pit beneath.

The Guiding Songs led the movers the rest of the way on, and the Young One couldnâ€™t help but ponder the matter of the crossing. How at times you can collect all you have yourself to be on your way, but others, perhaps, you need someone else to pick up those pieces for you, and bring them to you instead. And maybe, sometimes, itâ€™s both at once.

Elysia · **04-24-2015, 10:50 PM**

They'd both been pensive and quiet while returning to the Mizzenmast, though both their minds swirled with thoughts, and after the books had been carefully placed in their new lodgings, they'd taken their leave of each other at her door in much the same uncomfortable, tensed manner. Avis stood by the shut door for a few moments, frowning as Xavarian moved down the hallway. Under other circumstances, she would certainly have asked him to stay - at least for a while. This little realization only compounded her melancholy, a unique brand of vexed sadness? anxiety? that, most days, she managed to ignore.

She hated it when It ambushed her, like this, of all times; for the moment it laid her bare and she couldn't pretend it was alien to her.

Avis sighed. Poor Xavarian - she'd worried the duskwight, she knew. She hadÂ to shake herself out of this.

She turned to them then, the two columns of books awaiting ravishment on her desk. These new spoils from the Professor's library seemed to afford the perfect solution. Despite her weariness and mood (and perhaps because of these), she allowed herself, indeed, willedÂ herself the indulgence of the tomes' visual and textual distractions. It worked. Somewhat. Her uneasiness had largely faded by the time information on certain beasts' mating habits brought an incredulous not-quite smile to her face, and before the bell was done, Eorzea trivia had fogged her mind over and sent her into a sprawling slumber across her desk.

***

Avis didn't remember ridding herself of her goobbue-spattered garb and stumbling into bed, but there she was some number of hours later, with a Lominsan morning pouring itself insistently into her face through the window. She felt greatlyÂ improved - new 'todays' always did wonders for her - and the letter she located soon after only cemented her optimism.

Damn it all, Xavarian, you've done it again.

In fact, said letter whisked her out of the room in a feverish flurry. The one clear thought running through her mind - currently a terrible whirlpool of wonder and gratitude and scattered vestiges of the ItÂ - was how she would very muchÂ like to smother Xavarian in Messes of a particular nature that very moment. Yes, bed hair, morning breath and all.

But it was day, of course, as she belatedly realized. When she reached his door, her attempts to alert him to her presence ranged from whistling and soft raps on his door to stomps along the corridor. Had he been awake, he'd certainly have heard her, but she knew these sounds weren't enough to rouse him. Briefly, Avis considered some more drasticÂ measures - hollering in iambic pentameter was one of them - but eventually she resigned herself to his absence... for now. He was likely very weary, especially if he'd been up Â writing that story for her right after the Nymian expedition.

There was still so much to sayÂ about the Wanderers' Palace.

Avis retreated reluctantly to her room then and re-read the letter. She perceived that a response was necessary, but littered the floor with at least a handful of crushed drafts before she settled on something somewhat acceptable.Â

***

Mytesyn fiddled with scraps of a fishy brunch and, from the snugness of his counter, watched. The dark-haired Hyur with the "curious disposition" had been passing fretfully in and out of the Inn's entrance, dressed for travel again, a conspicuous folded piece of paper between her fingers. After the sixth or so display of indecision he called out to her with a mouth still half-full. "Do it an' put y'both out of yer mis'ries," he quipped, smirking at her as she irritably approached him. "His mood's darker than 'is skin as it is."

Avis bit her lip. "Oh, stop looking at me like that. If you knowÂ so much, you can decide for me. Please. And you rhymed, did you know that? Is rhyming in vogue, now?"

She practically tossed the paper at the good Innkeeper's large and chewing face, and it missed the bones of his meal by an ilm. But she did return his expression of amusement with one for herself, a short, ironic laugh. Then she hurried herself off before she could devote too much thought to her choice of action, and it took another undramatic journey to the Twelveswood, and some quiet, pleasant wandering among the trees, before she eased.Â

Meanwhile, the Innkeeper played courier.Â

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The Mizzenmast Letters (Closed)

RPC has moved! These pages have been kept for historical purposes