The trip to Jig's university, followed by an unexpected meeting with one of his mercenary proteges who seemed to enjoy nicknaming herself, fuelled much of Avis's rumination upon her return. So much so that she was up even earlier than usual the next day, sitting and poring over notes, papers, reports, diagrams wearing a look of utmost concentration. She had been contemplating an academic lifestyle, the implications of an "official" position, and the institution's proximity to Ul'dah, all of which had led her to acknowledge the quantity of work she had been neglecting for a time.Â
Avis was fond of supposing that she had an innate ability to grasp concepts, make wild connections and pluck strange ideas out of the air. Â She fancied her mind as an unruly thicket that only she knew, that she could call up any file, label, memory, or figment of her imagination as and when she wanted it, no matter how lost it might seem. So she perceived the act of organization as a chore, though she conceded its necessity once in a while. Indeed, "once in a while" the amount of backlogged material and documents she owed the Professor ambushed her at inopportune moments like a forgotten monster under the bed, and she then found herself remembering dates and deadlines in a fluster and, scrambled, days too late, to the task. Despite her sheer dread of "organizing", however, she always enjoyed the effects of the mental exercise once it was done. Things took their place better in her mind then. Words too.Â
Dawn thus found her absorbed in such work, for which she made generous use of Xavarian's paper. The room was quiet save for the scratch of her quill against documents, and so she noticed immediately the tiniest of thuds on her door and the letter's emergence under it.Â
Avis was never good at repelling distractions (unless she was absorbed in a novel), and this particular distraction, of course, was very welcome. She leapt from her seat instantly for the letter and picked it up, faintly registering that the letter seemed significantly wordier than she'd come to expect of him, before unlocking her door and poking her head out for a glimpse of the departing duskwight.
She was grinning as she tossed her drawls at the dark, retreating figure down the corridor, paying no heed to the one or two curious stares she attracted from miscellaneous residents leaving or re-entering their rooms. "The fell lord of the underworld is up late," Avis called, then followed that up immediately with a passable affectation of his characteristic lilt, "Is he so fraught with missing that he'd risk celestial blinding?"
Avis was fond of supposing that she had an innate ability to grasp concepts, make wild connections and pluck strange ideas out of the air. Â She fancied her mind as an unruly thicket that only she knew, that she could call up any file, label, memory, or figment of her imagination as and when she wanted it, no matter how lost it might seem. So she perceived the act of organization as a chore, though she conceded its necessity once in a while. Indeed, "once in a while" the amount of backlogged material and documents she owed the Professor ambushed her at inopportune moments like a forgotten monster under the bed, and she then found herself remembering dates and deadlines in a fluster and, scrambled, days too late, to the task. Despite her sheer dread of "organizing", however, she always enjoyed the effects of the mental exercise once it was done. Things took their place better in her mind then. Words too.Â
Dawn thus found her absorbed in such work, for which she made generous use of Xavarian's paper. The room was quiet save for the scratch of her quill against documents, and so she noticed immediately the tiniest of thuds on her door and the letter's emergence under it.Â
Avis was never good at repelling distractions (unless she was absorbed in a novel), and this particular distraction, of course, was very welcome. She leapt from her seat instantly for the letter and picked it up, faintly registering that the letter seemed significantly wordier than she'd come to expect of him, before unlocking her door and poking her head out for a glimpse of the departing duskwight.
She was grinning as she tossed her drawls at the dark, retreating figure down the corridor, paying no heed to the one or two curious stares she attracted from miscellaneous residents leaving or re-entering their rooms. "The fell lord of the underworld is up late," Avis called, then followed that up immediately with a passable affectation of his characteristic lilt, "Is he so fraught with missing that he'd risk celestial blinding?"
[sub]Avis Inkwood | Qara Qalli
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