A creature of the day, Avis was roused quickly by the touch of sunlight on her face. She needed only another minute in her sheets before she slid smoothly out of bed, little ungainliness or stiffness glimpsed in limbs only just put into action. Then she assumed her favorite position at the window. She loved mornings most of all, always had, even if she felt little regret at having adopted some of a duskwight's nocturnal habits on some important nights. Today she had risen feeling lighter than she had in days, though there was a certain decisiveness about her that never used to be there.Â
Avis looked out into the brightness and tapped her toes lightly on, or between, the long regular shadows on the floor. A new day. What to do? Perhaps...?Â
At intervals during her morning contemplations, Avis's gaze travelled, as if by reflex, towards the scrollcase on her table. As always, it lingered upon the object for a few moments of admiration before it left.Â
Should she return it to him?Â
It wasn't a question new to her consciousness, but she'd succeeded in convincing herself not to, every single time. It was, after all, a beautiful thing. But it seemed out of place there, sitting upon her table void of all possessions except her quill and notebook; it seemed to not belong in that room at all where she owned nothing but a change of clothes, a couple of grimoires, and her own written words.Â
And his.Â
Avis espied it eventually, after a time, turning toward the door; she ran to it, picked it up, smiled, took it to the table, turned it over, furrowed her brow, thought of annotating it, thought against it, read it again and smiled some more. She was decidedly happy. Relieved, mostly. Flattered, perhaps; Avis had never felt repelled by any form of positive attention, from men or otherwise. But this was the first time anyone had been so effusive without necessarily wanting anything for himself. There was such a quiet ease in his writing, and it was... refreshing. Â
She remembered "shining shards" - shining shards! - as she reread the final lines over and over - she couldn't be reading wrong, could she? - she was experienced! - and by this time she had to stand up and pace the room ten times before she could finally set her features straight.Â
Xavarian wasn't like other men; she had never been entangled with, or even met, anyone resembling the duskwight in any way. At the rate things were going, though, these correspondences were likely to consume her inner life. Did she need that, though? Did she want herself bound? Or would she give herself? How did one even give oneself at the level of written exchanges? Of the mind? She had never before experienced this. The novelty of it was exhilarating, to say the least.Â
But he had... promised his friendship. That was more than enough. Somehow she trusted that more than anything else he had ever penned.Â
 Avis read the last two lines one final time, then realized, suddenly, that she didn't need to be sure. She admired the sitting scrollcase one last time before leaving the book with both the letter and her notebook.Â
***
Avis found herself walking up and down Limsa Lominsa recording everything on her notebook. The Roegadyn who pulled a wagon of apkallu past her. The bard who sat in a corner asking for food for his dirty ditties. One of the members of the, well, Missing Member gesticulating in rhyme with barely a cloth streaked across her chest. The Carbuncle on the ledge who was separated from his arcanist. The downtrodden pie in the middle of the street. The boats, little insects from where she stood, pulling themselves out of the bay to gods know where. The way the walls glittered under the sun.Â
She was seized by a sudden desire to ask him everything, show him everything, thrust the world under his nose and empty her hungry questions upon him. She wanted to be inventive, wanted to make his mind dance, if she could, if she still had the power to, and so she listed topics, conversation starters, everything on the paper - everything and anything as long as they continued.Â
The list grew steadily sillier with every item added and, eventually, due to Avis's high spirits, ended up with a mind in the gutter.Â
Perched high atop the docks, winds rushing in her face, flags flapping nearby, Avis lifted her quill with a grin and put it to paper. (Again, her notebook.)Â
A pause.Â
She couldn't - she didn't - didn't know what to write - it didn't matter what she had to ask him, after all. Was the pleasure of it all truly in the knowing of it?Â
***
When she finally sobered up, she was able to write again. She didn't pretend to be clever this time. She thought, she felt, she'd written what she wanted to say, and that that was it.Â
Avis delivered the letter, and, returning to her room, finally pulled the linkpearl from where it'd been kept away since her meeting with the Professor. She spoke tentatively into it - "Good day", she began - then thought better of it and put it away again quickly, not wanting to listen to any responses. She was fine, now, but she could afford to be out of action just one day more, couldn't she? The Professor might miss her, but she missed someone too, and would undertake another longer journey to Lower La Noscea.Â
Avis looked out into the brightness and tapped her toes lightly on, or between, the long regular shadows on the floor. A new day. What to do? Perhaps...?Â
At intervals during her morning contemplations, Avis's gaze travelled, as if by reflex, towards the scrollcase on her table. As always, it lingered upon the object for a few moments of admiration before it left.Â
Should she return it to him?Â
It wasn't a question new to her consciousness, but she'd succeeded in convincing herself not to, every single time. It was, after all, a beautiful thing. But it seemed out of place there, sitting upon her table void of all possessions except her quill and notebook; it seemed to not belong in that room at all where she owned nothing but a change of clothes, a couple of grimoires, and her own written words.Â
And his.Â
Avis espied it eventually, after a time, turning toward the door; she ran to it, picked it up, smiled, took it to the table, turned it over, furrowed her brow, thought of annotating it, thought against it, read it again and smiled some more. She was decidedly happy. Relieved, mostly. Flattered, perhaps; Avis had never felt repelled by any form of positive attention, from men or otherwise. But this was the first time anyone had been so effusive without necessarily wanting anything for himself. There was such a quiet ease in his writing, and it was... refreshing. Â
She remembered "shining shards" - shining shards! - as she reread the final lines over and over - she couldn't be reading wrong, could she? - she was experienced! - and by this time she had to stand up and pace the room ten times before she could finally set her features straight.Â
Xavarian wasn't like other men; she had never been entangled with, or even met, anyone resembling the duskwight in any way. At the rate things were going, though, these correspondences were likely to consume her inner life. Did she need that, though? Did she want herself bound? Or would she give herself? How did one even give oneself at the level of written exchanges? Of the mind? She had never before experienced this. The novelty of it was exhilarating, to say the least.Â
But he had... promised his friendship. That was more than enough. Somehow she trusted that more than anything else he had ever penned.Â
 Avis read the last two lines one final time, then realized, suddenly, that she didn't need to be sure. She admired the sitting scrollcase one last time before leaving the book with both the letter and her notebook.Â
***
Avis found herself walking up and down Limsa Lominsa recording everything on her notebook. The Roegadyn who pulled a wagon of apkallu past her. The bard who sat in a corner asking for food for his dirty ditties. One of the members of the, well, Missing Member gesticulating in rhyme with barely a cloth streaked across her chest. The Carbuncle on the ledge who was separated from his arcanist. The downtrodden pie in the middle of the street. The boats, little insects from where she stood, pulling themselves out of the bay to gods know where. The way the walls glittered under the sun.Â
She was seized by a sudden desire to ask him everything, show him everything, thrust the world under his nose and empty her hungry questions upon him. She wanted to be inventive, wanted to make his mind dance, if she could, if she still had the power to, and so she listed topics, conversation starters, everything on the paper - everything and anything as long as they continued.Â
The list grew steadily sillier with every item added and, eventually, due to Avis's high spirits, ended up with a mind in the gutter.Â
Perched high atop the docks, winds rushing in her face, flags flapping nearby, Avis lifted her quill with a grin and put it to paper. (Again, her notebook.)Â
A pause.Â
She couldn't - she didn't - didn't know what to write - it didn't matter what she had to ask him, after all. Was the pleasure of it all truly in the knowing of it?Â
***
When she finally sobered up, she was able to write again. She didn't pretend to be clever this time. She thought, she felt, she'd written what she wanted to say, and that that was it.Â
Avis delivered the letter, and, returning to her room, finally pulled the linkpearl from where it'd been kept away since her meeting with the Professor. She spoke tentatively into it - "Good day", she began - then thought better of it and put it away again quickly, not wanting to listen to any responses. She was fine, now, but she could afford to be out of action just one day more, couldn't she? The Professor might miss her, but she missed someone too, and would undertake another longer journey to Lower La Noscea.Â
[sub]Avis Inkwood | Qara Qalli
journal/tumblr[/sub]
journal/tumblr[/sub]
