The sky over Limsa Lominsa seemed reluctant to release its purple-pink hues that hour, and it was only when the typical morning pallor seeped through that Avis allowed herself to begin the winding walk back up from Fisherman's Bottom. At the Mizzenmast Inn, the Inn-keeper, though bleary-eyed from a long night's watch, kept up a straighter posture and raised an eyebrow ironically as Avis, yawning, trudged past him. Fatigued though he was, he had a keen memory, and he was no doubt remembering the odd duskwight who had asked for this very Hyur hours ago, before her exit from the Inn, and then the duskwight's departure some time later. There was a story to be had.Â
He watched secrets. Kept them. Housed them.Â
Sitting on her bed, reading Xavarian's reply  over and over again, Avis found herself running an entire gamut of emotions. First, amusement as she imagined the duskwight's nervous, low voice tumbling and stuttering over such elegant aphorisms as he had scribed. Next, a strange, warm, sadness - bittersweet. And finally a slow, creeping annoyance began its way up her neck and into her face. She was frowning by the time she finished the letter for the tenth or so time and tossed it, with some vehemence, onto the table beside the bed.Â
Those sagely airs. She didn't need them. She knew herself perfectly well, thank you very much. What had she written to him again?Â
Her head hurt.
Too proud to admit that he had gotten under her skin at last, struck closer than she'd ever been used to from people, Avis gave a groan, lay down, and curled herself into the wall as sunlight began to flood the room. (Was she turning into a duskwight too?)
Avis rose after midday and left the inn. Three uneventful ferry rides, two afternoons and one bout of bantering with Thubyrgeim about the relative merits of fiction later, she returned.Â
The letter was still where she'd left it, slightly creased and with one edge hanging off the table. Avis returned to it again, and this time she was gratified, somewhat moved. He had been trying to speak to her through his writing, after all, even woven some of her words with his (as she had), and that was... something, goodwill, concern, interest, what-have-you... was it not?Â
She took up her quill, reached for parchment, realized there was none left, kicked herself mentally for forgetting to purchase any - then grew an idea.Â
Scissors in one hand, notebook in the other, Avis began performing a delicate minor operation. Twilight had begun in earnest when she was finally done, and it took some squinting and peering, her nose almost to the surface of the table, before she realized she'd been too absorbed to light her lamp.Â
And, for the final touches, she tore off an empty page on her notebook and folded it in half, scribbling on it the following words:Â
Avis had to stop twice on her way to Xavarian's door to gather up the pieces that had slipped from her deliberately flimsy excuse of an envelope. She was grinning lightly when she dropped the note off at Xavarian's door. This was a gamble she wasn't used to, but two could play at that puzzle. She whistled a handful of notes meaningfully at his door before she returned to her room.Â
It was a challenge.Â
He watched secrets. Kept them. Housed them.Â
***
Sitting on her bed, reading Xavarian's reply  over and over again, Avis found herself running an entire gamut of emotions. First, amusement as she imagined the duskwight's nervous, low voice tumbling and stuttering over such elegant aphorisms as he had scribed. Next, a strange, warm, sadness - bittersweet. And finally a slow, creeping annoyance began its way up her neck and into her face. She was frowning by the time she finished the letter for the tenth or so time and tossed it, with some vehemence, onto the table beside the bed.Â
Those sagely airs. She didn't need them. She knew herself perfectly well, thank you very much. What had she written to him again?Â
Her head hurt.
Too proud to admit that he had gotten under her skin at last, struck closer than she'd ever been used to from people, Avis gave a groan, lay down, and curled herself into the wall as sunlight began to flood the room. (Was she turning into a duskwight too?)
***Â
Avis rose after midday and left the inn. Three uneventful ferry rides, two afternoons and one bout of bantering with Thubyrgeim about the relative merits of fiction later, she returned.Â
The letter was still where she'd left it, slightly creased and with one edge hanging off the table. Avis returned to it again, and this time she was gratified, somewhat moved. He had been trying to speak to her through his writing, after all, even woven some of her words with his (as she had), and that was... something, goodwill, concern, interest, what-have-you... was it not?Â
She took up her quill, reached for parchment, realized there was none left, kicked herself mentally for forgetting to purchase any - then grew an idea.Â
Scissors in one hand, notebook in the other, Avis began performing a delicate minor operation. Twilight had begun in earnest when she was finally done, and it took some squinting and peering, her nose almost to the surface of the table, before she realized she'd been too absorbed to light her lamp.Â
And, for the final touches, she tore off an empty page on her notebook and folded it in half, scribbling on it the following words:Â
Quote:You wrote, "are those who claim to wish it willing to give it back as well"?Â
I will show you I have learnt.Â
Have it.Â
This, at least, I chose freely. This giving. Open this, and everything else opens, yes? Even you?
***
Avis had to stop twice on her way to Xavarian's door to gather up the pieces that had slipped from her deliberately flimsy excuse of an envelope. She was grinning lightly when she dropped the note off at Xavarian's door. This was a gamble she wasn't used to, but two could play at that puzzle. She whistled a handful of notes meaningfully at his door before she returned to her room.Â
It was a challenge.Â
[sub]Avis Inkwood | Qara Qalli
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