It hadn't been so long as Avis may have thought it'd be for Xavarian's return to the Inn, but when he did, he was rather exhausted.
Those days prior, when Avis had left the bookstore unannounced, Xavarian hadn't really thought much of it; in fact, he really didn't expect he'd hear from her again at all, unless he was the one who hunted her down, or she wandered in because she had questions about something or other. She was somewhat of a wild thing in his eyes, and she would do exactly as she pleased when she pleased it with no time for the trifling formalities of greetings and goodbyes. If her whims caught whiff of something to follow, she'd be off in the next few moments. Or so he thought. Not that he found any fault with it in the least, likely just the opposite. Though he would have, in fact, been surprised if she had made pause and given him any sort of farewell. Of course, it may have been just as well she hadn't too, because in those prior days and nights, Xavarian had any number of visitors in his study bringing him all sorts of things, between tasks, information, books, and.. gods know what those damned artifacts were.
All of it had been an endeavor in itself, and by the end of it, the duskwight found he was both exhausted from the encounters and his work, in addition to not wanting to be in that room any further. So back to the Inn it was.
It was the pages at his feet when he opened the door that lit the duskwight's features up from dreary. "Oh-oh.." Lips were sucked in at the anticipation between gathering the pages, noticing the paper, then heating up to a point where, yet again, he had to drop them and step back. He fumbled to find his scepter and stuck it back into its spot against his arm in his sleeve, before he went to, carefully, collect the pages like small gifts again. Instead of the table, Xavarian found himself wandering over to the bed to sit himself down on it, while gingerly turning the pages around to see if they were all in order. He set them down again, when he found he couldn't just kick his boots off and actually needed to unbuckle them for them to be loosed (what a pain). But once one, two boots were kicked across the room as they were freed, he grabbed at the pages once more, then scoot himself back against the wall behind the bed. Stocking feet and knees were pulled up as he held the pages close to read.
As he began, a fond sort of smile crossed his features. A story. What she lived for. That she would give him a story for his riddles didn't slip by him, and he let himself be taken into the world she was presenting for him; though he always considered the writer. A few things caught his interest, but it wasn't until 'sickness' that he really gave pause. At that, his lips pressed together, and any number of other thoughts raced, though he continued to read it through to the end. He caught several other words of his interest as well after that, but gave another pause at the last two lines.
Xavarian felt himself warming up, despite the scepter to his arm. In the context of the story, it was a bitter-sweet sort of lost solace. In the context of something for him, though. . .
The duskwight took to reading the story over and over. Before long, he'd flopped over on his bed and was laying down on his back reading it. He enjoyed it for what it was. Enjoyed it for what it meant, or what he thought it did. And then he'd looked for different things, certain words, connections, correlations to what he already knew, anything and everything he looked at. And he kept at it for a while. Or what felt like it must've been a while.
Xavarian awoke abruptly the next evening. Blinks prompted him to somewhat pat himself in fear of rolling over and crunching something, but he found the letters still safely laid on his chest from whenever he must've fallen to sleep. By the gods, he was glad his scepter kept him from any strange temperature anomolies, and even more glad that he slept like a deadman; despite his excellent hearing, he barely moved at all when he slept, and was often akin to a rock. He wouldn't have easily forgiven himself if he'd rolled all over and damaged these pages. They too looked like they were from Avis' notebook.. That she would pull out so many for him.
With a mostly silent yawn, numerous face rubs, and some wincing stretches, the duskwight pushed himself out of the bed from his unintended (though definitely needed) sleep, to place the papers on the table, and himself in the chair in front of them. Then he got to work.
First, he scribed an exact copy of her words, even copying the font, (because he could) and began to underline a few particular things. These caused him to grin. She'd found some of them. Other words, he emphasized, writing over them carefully several times, words that were close, perhaps, but not quite. He also used this to try and determine what he thought may have been her guesses, though these were not the right words. Perhaps they were for the story, but not for what he was considering now.
Then Xavarian pursed his lips, the temperature rather warm, following other various thoughts while rereading the last lines several times. Slowly, he pulled some paper from the stack that remained here, and began to write. Or try. He found for a long time he just stared at the page, not knowing how he even wanted to begin, to even try to condense all that he was feeling and thinking into words. Though once he actually managed to start, the rest began to trickle out across the paper easier.
The duskwight made a quick, quiet, yet worried walk to Avis' door. In his haste, he'd somehow managed to go the right direction the first time, and didn't actually realize it until the door was in front of him with the appropriate denotation. That couldn't help but get a smile out of him.
Troubled air around him shifted all over in temperature, tiny sparks abound, though much more subtle than usual, with his scepter still in place. He looked over briefly the single page he had. He made faces at it. They were all somewhat worried faces. Faces made when right before taking a leap you don't know you'll make to the other side. Faces made before taking a cared-for test, faces for anticipation of the worst or the best. Bright teal eyes darted between the page and the door, and half of him wanted to stay there. But that wasn't how this World they had worked, was it? What is he even thinking anyway? Huffs are made to himself, almost indignantly, before Xavarian slid a single sheet of that swirling paper under Avis' door. This time, face up. Its script was immaculate in most places, yet there was a small ink blot on the page once. He'd left it. It was, unfortunately, something he did that was a bit telling of him, afterall, and that was half the point, wasn't it?
Once done, and a nervous pause later, the duskwight hurried himself off, and likely out into the night air. He needed to do something with himself to shake this.. whatever this is filling his head, as he couldn't decide if he liked it, or found it mildly terrifying.
Those days prior, when Avis had left the bookstore unannounced, Xavarian hadn't really thought much of it; in fact, he really didn't expect he'd hear from her again at all, unless he was the one who hunted her down, or she wandered in because she had questions about something or other. She was somewhat of a wild thing in his eyes, and she would do exactly as she pleased when she pleased it with no time for the trifling formalities of greetings and goodbyes. If her whims caught whiff of something to follow, she'd be off in the next few moments. Or so he thought. Not that he found any fault with it in the least, likely just the opposite. Though he would have, in fact, been surprised if she had made pause and given him any sort of farewell. Of course, it may have been just as well she hadn't too, because in those prior days and nights, Xavarian had any number of visitors in his study bringing him all sorts of things, between tasks, information, books, and.. gods know what those damned artifacts were.
All of it had been an endeavor in itself, and by the end of it, the duskwight found he was both exhausted from the encounters and his work, in addition to not wanting to be in that room any further. So back to the Inn it was.
It was the pages at his feet when he opened the door that lit the duskwight's features up from dreary. "Oh-oh.." Lips were sucked in at the anticipation between gathering the pages, noticing the paper, then heating up to a point where, yet again, he had to drop them and step back. He fumbled to find his scepter and stuck it back into its spot against his arm in his sleeve, before he went to, carefully, collect the pages like small gifts again. Instead of the table, Xavarian found himself wandering over to the bed to sit himself down on it, while gingerly turning the pages around to see if they were all in order. He set them down again, when he found he couldn't just kick his boots off and actually needed to unbuckle them for them to be loosed (what a pain). But once one, two boots were kicked across the room as they were freed, he grabbed at the pages once more, then scoot himself back against the wall behind the bed. Stocking feet and knees were pulled up as he held the pages close to read.
As he began, a fond sort of smile crossed his features. A story. What she lived for. That she would give him a story for his riddles didn't slip by him, and he let himself be taken into the world she was presenting for him; though he always considered the writer. A few things caught his interest, but it wasn't until 'sickness' that he really gave pause. At that, his lips pressed together, and any number of other thoughts raced, though he continued to read it through to the end. He caught several other words of his interest as well after that, but gave another pause at the last two lines.
Xavarian felt himself warming up, despite the scepter to his arm. In the context of the story, it was a bitter-sweet sort of lost solace. In the context of something for him, though. . .
The duskwight took to reading the story over and over. Before long, he'd flopped over on his bed and was laying down on his back reading it. He enjoyed it for what it was. Enjoyed it for what it meant, or what he thought it did. And then he'd looked for different things, certain words, connections, correlations to what he already knew, anything and everything he looked at. And he kept at it for a while. Or what felt like it must've been a while.
--
Xavarian awoke abruptly the next evening. Blinks prompted him to somewhat pat himself in fear of rolling over and crunching something, but he found the letters still safely laid on his chest from whenever he must've fallen to sleep. By the gods, he was glad his scepter kept him from any strange temperature anomolies, and even more glad that he slept like a deadman; despite his excellent hearing, he barely moved at all when he slept, and was often akin to a rock. He wouldn't have easily forgiven himself if he'd rolled all over and damaged these pages. They too looked like they were from Avis' notebook.. That she would pull out so many for him.
With a mostly silent yawn, numerous face rubs, and some wincing stretches, the duskwight pushed himself out of the bed from his unintended (though definitely needed) sleep, to place the papers on the table, and himself in the chair in front of them. Then he got to work.
First, he scribed an exact copy of her words, even copying the font, (because he could) and began to underline a few particular things. These caused him to grin. She'd found some of them. Other words, he emphasized, writing over them carefully several times, words that were close, perhaps, but not quite. He also used this to try and determine what he thought may have been her guesses, though these were not the right words. Perhaps they were for the story, but not for what he was considering now.
Quote:Once there lived a winged thing, a quiet, strange one amidst the clamour of its similarly-winged relatives, who reveled in their being winged and their hundred and one rings. This winged thing was neither he nor she, but was happy to be, and fe was simply Fe.Â
Now the rest loved their rings and adorned their scales with them, indeed melded these with the full length of their wings, and became little better than younglings. For they flew little now, and waited for their prey as frogs do, and grew their tongues long for this purpose. At times they locked their prey away and ate them stale after a time, when they grew useless for rhyme. They hid their prey everywhere through the valley so that they would always be close by to gorge on, whenever they tired of cutting, tonguing, even waddling.Â
Fe was not fat and Fe flew. Fe fed in the wind and flowed with the waters and formed friendships with flowers and fawns. Around then, stools of gold, gold, great gold, spread out below fe in the valley of their home. The winged things were growing larger, and larger, in size, and now there was nowhere to hide their prey, but below their elbows, between their knees, within sands of gold. Fe saw it and fe felt nothing. Fe was no Winged Thing, Fe was simply... Fe. A strange mess of a Fe, but a Fe, no more, no less. Fe flew.Â
It is said that this caused the sickness in the valley. The gold rusted and crumbled into dead leaves, and the prey buried alive in them began to ferment. Through the valley the sickness spread, and the winged things lost their claws, teeth, even their wings laden with rings - for soon these began to burn, too. Fe watched, unfeeling, as fe valley was lost to pain and to Thal. Fe flew, and was of them no more, had never been. Then, mid-flight, Fe felt other cries, other sounds of sorrow. From above fe looked, and there fe espied the flowers and fawns, their faces contorted in fury; they were losing their petals, and their hoofs, and their beautiful bright eyes to the sickness that swept the land.Â
Fe flew down and walked among them, but they were no more; so fe lay in what remained of the gold and turned this way and that for a season; fe came to a crystal and looked into it and saw fe claws, fe teeth, fe fully-spread wings. No harm had come to fe, but fe was alone.Â
In a rage Fe flew at the crystal headlong, and it burst into a thousand-and-one pieces. They lay all around fe and glittered in the sun, and in those thousand-and-one pieces were a thousand-and-one Fes. Now Fe went to each one of them and stared into them, fe heart full, hopeful in hopelessness. Then fe sat amidst the throng of splintered fes and said,Â
If you can be a mess as you
Then I can be a friend as true Â
Then Xavarian pursed his lips, the temperature rather warm, following other various thoughts while rereading the last lines several times. Slowly, he pulled some paper from the stack that remained here, and began to write. Or try. He found for a long time he just stared at the page, not knowing how he even wanted to begin, to even try to condense all that he was feeling and thinking into words. Though once he actually managed to start, the rest began to trickle out across the paper easier.
--
The duskwight made a quick, quiet, yet worried walk to Avis' door. In his haste, he'd somehow managed to go the right direction the first time, and didn't actually realize it until the door was in front of him with the appropriate denotation. That couldn't help but get a smile out of him.
Troubled air around him shifted all over in temperature, tiny sparks abound, though much more subtle than usual, with his scepter still in place. He looked over briefly the single page he had. He made faces at it. They were all somewhat worried faces. Faces made when right before taking a leap you don't know you'll make to the other side. Faces made before taking a cared-for test, faces for anticipation of the worst or the best. Bright teal eyes darted between the page and the door, and half of him wanted to stay there. But that wasn't how this World they had worked, was it? What is he even thinking anyway? Huffs are made to himself, almost indignantly, before Xavarian slid a single sheet of that swirling paper under Avis' door. This time, face up. Its script was immaculate in most places, yet there was a small ink blot on the page once. He'd left it. It was, unfortunately, something he did that was a bit telling of him, afterall, and that was half the point, wasn't it?
Once done, and a nervous pause later, the duskwight hurried himself off, and likely out into the night air. He needed to do something with himself to shake this.. whatever this is filling his head, as he couldn't decide if he liked it, or found it mildly terrifying.
