Somehow, an hour or so later (one could never be sure with these things), Avis awoke.
She had been a child again; for some reason they were all standing on their heads in a line at Pearl Lane, reciting what they knew of the alphabet - which wasn't much, they kept forgetting the last four letters. Her sisters sometimes dove in and out of her vision, providing strange directions to a mysterious "fountain", and grew tails and hair on their legs. Then there was a new boy come to join their fold, and they spat on him, but when he drew himself to full height he was Jasper and Avis suddenly full-grown again had been laughing when he pulled her through Ul'dah and threw them both over the parapet towards said fountain  and - and. Here she was. In her bed. Back in the world of the living.Â
Avis sat up and cursed her dreams soundly with all the force street expletives could muster, because did it make sense that a city she had felt no regret in detesting and departing was currently the same place she ached for terribly?Â
She stared into darkness for a while, dazed, amused, saddened, before reaching over and clumsily attempting lighting the lamp, which finally came alive on her third try. As her fingers fumbled for quill and notebook, she glimpsed, out of the corner of her eye, a strange piece of paper tucked neatly under her door. She pondered its presence for a good long minute, before her memory finally kicked into gear. And then Avis was almost on all fours in her bid to get to the letter.
The paper was smooth, strong, and somehow... foreign; she marveled at its quality, then found herself envious and wondering what she would have to trade for Xavarian to give her a few pieces of this in exchange. Avis read it over and over again as her mind slowly roused itself, taking pleasure in its craft, teasing apart the verse's rhymes, patterns, structure. (There was also that tiny prick of amused disappointment she felt at the duskwight's failure to respond to her jibe about his hair.)
This was no gift, of course, but few had placed such words of such fashion in her keeping before. It was precious.Â
She took the note to the table and, with a final tiny scrap of parchment, wrote. Furiously this time, spurred by delight for what she'd read, and half her consciousness still awash in memories of 'home' and other places, and Jasper.Â
This time, when she took her letter along for a second midnight walk, Avis made no effort to conceal her footsteps. She bent and slid the note under Xavarian's door knowing he was most likely still awake within (if he was within), then found herself momentarily uncertain. What had she written? Had she revealed more than she even cared to know about herself? But quickly enough she shook the thought off, moved on. Words were only words, after all; the duskwight, intelligent and enigmatic as he was, perhaps truly possessed little real depth of emotion or understanding beyond his absorption in texts and "knowledge" . If he liked words, he could have them; they were puzzles that could be wonderfully appreciated on their own without necessarily having to know the person that lay behind them.Â
That was what she loved words for: that they could be anything one wished - weapons, shields, balms, ornaments.Â
She was wide awake now and felt no inclination for sleep. Where to? The tavern, perhaps, or the sea?Â
She had been a child again; for some reason they were all standing on their heads in a line at Pearl Lane, reciting what they knew of the alphabet - which wasn't much, they kept forgetting the last four letters. Her sisters sometimes dove in and out of her vision, providing strange directions to a mysterious "fountain", and grew tails and hair on their legs. Then there was a new boy come to join their fold, and they spat on him, but when he drew himself to full height he was Jasper and Avis suddenly full-grown again had been laughing when he pulled her through Ul'dah and threw them both over the parapet towards said fountain  and - and. Here she was. In her bed. Back in the world of the living.Â
Avis sat up and cursed her dreams soundly with all the force street expletives could muster, because did it make sense that a city she had felt no regret in detesting and departing was currently the same place she ached for terribly?Â
She stared into darkness for a while, dazed, amused, saddened, before reaching over and clumsily attempting lighting the lamp, which finally came alive on her third try. As her fingers fumbled for quill and notebook, she glimpsed, out of the corner of her eye, a strange piece of paper tucked neatly under her door. She pondered its presence for a good long minute, before her memory finally kicked into gear. And then Avis was almost on all fours in her bid to get to the letter.
The paper was smooth, strong, and somehow... foreign; she marveled at its quality, then found herself envious and wondering what she would have to trade for Xavarian to give her a few pieces of this in exchange. Avis read it over and over again as her mind slowly roused itself, taking pleasure in its craft, teasing apart the verse's rhymes, patterns, structure. (There was also that tiny prick of amused disappointment she felt at the duskwight's failure to respond to her jibe about his hair.)
This was no gift, of course, but few had placed such words of such fashion in her keeping before. It was precious.Â
She took the note to the table and, with a final tiny scrap of parchment, wrote. Furiously this time, spurred by delight for what she'd read, and half her consciousness still awash in memories of 'home' and other places, and Jasper.Â
This time, when she took her letter along for a second midnight walk, Avis made no effort to conceal her footsteps. She bent and slid the note under Xavarian's door knowing he was most likely still awake within (if he was within), then found herself momentarily uncertain. What had she written? Had she revealed more than she even cared to know about herself? But quickly enough she shook the thought off, moved on. Words were only words, after all; the duskwight, intelligent and enigmatic as he was, perhaps truly possessed little real depth of emotion or understanding beyond his absorption in texts and "knowledge" . If he liked words, he could have them; they were puzzles that could be wonderfully appreciated on their own without necessarily having to know the person that lay behind them.Â
That was what she loved words for: that they could be anything one wished - weapons, shields, balms, ornaments.Â
She was wide awake now and felt no inclination for sleep. Where to? The tavern, perhaps, or the sea?Â
[sub]Avis Inkwood | Qara Qalli
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journal/tumblr[/sub]
