[written in an unsteady hand]
The Drowning Wench, Limsa Lominsa
I sit here with a racing pulse and Baderon's strongest brew, utterly convinced of beauty - beauty of the aetheric sort.
Yet I am no stranger to magic. I was young then when I stumbled upon the thaumaturges, only a child playing with fire - a child who had no comprehension of power or desire for self - naturally she got burnt.
This, though. The old books that smell of rhymes buried in the back of a shelf. The symbols, speaking, precise, in the right place at the right time. Not a hair out of place. This aether-weaving, this language, concise yet elegant -
The art of the arcanist is order. Is poetry.
[sub]Avis Inkwood | Qara Qalli
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