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.
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.
