RPC has moved! These pages have been kept for historical purposes

Dasair · **04-21-2015, 12:21 PM**

As fate would have it, things didnâ€™t go as planned. He really shouldâ€™ve expected this by now.

Xavarian never made it to the Scholarâ€™s Celebration, but did make it to Mor Dhonaâ€¦ which had effectively changed everything. He really was lucky that Asheloux had been with him, as much as he didnâ€™t want to admit it. When was the last time it had been so bad, when was the last time it had done that? And how in the hells could he fix it? The questions still haunted him, despite it being some days past his having collapsed there now, despite him having mostly recovered. The questions continued to rear their relentless inquiry in his mind, even then. And gods, after such a completely different, unbelievable endeavor. The â€˜Aether Science Squadâ€™s (as they deemed call themselves) unprecedented endeavor to study those Nymian ruins, how completely amazing it all was, how- how-

He still couldnâ€™t put it into words. Though, truth be told, he wasnâ€™t thinking to put it into words right now. Xavarian frowned to himself, as he made his way with a quick step through the Mizzenmast Inn. He kept his eyes low, and his thoughts were what guided him; most else he paid hardly any attention to.

He thought about Avis instead. Heâ€™d just seen her, just helped her situate the books away that sheâ€™d taken from the Professorâ€™s study that she couldnâ€™t carry on her own, following that great Nymian adventure, and yet.. He was worried for her. Certainly, something wasnâ€™t right; is it really the same with her too? All too used is he to being treated as.. as a center of discontentment, a problem by his very existence. Something to constantly look over, to need to make accommodations for, to slowly loath. That was not what he wanted at all, but was it inevitable no matter where he went? And the very episode in Mor Dhonaâ€¦ how was he to know that would have happened? Was it solely that she felt so dreadful about not being there, or was it something more? She must know that it could happen anywhere, at anytime, he had tried to warn her. But.. for all his mental questions, he wasnâ€™t really that blind to the answers. He knew it wasnâ€™t going to be easy for her, knew things are always different when they happen than merely in far-off-theory. He knew he mattered to her quite a bit, and from what she had told him before about what had happened to one she loved. . . He was worried.

So worried, he hadnâ€™t noticed he was already at his room, and had just leaned his frigid forehead on the door, until some of the ice spreading over it from his chilled Aether crackled. The duskwight blinked, sighed, then pushed the door open, leaving an icy patch on its outside.

In the room, he paced. Heâ€™d set everything down and paced. Xavarianâ€™s unruly hair was mussied any number of ways while he paced, his hands were wrung, and abruptly, he turned towards the table, getting out some paper and pen. They sat there stared at. Then the duskwight got up and paced some more.

Gods know how long it was before he could actually write. It was done through a mix of determination, concern, with a lot of lip pursing. And he was at it quite a long time, thinking it over, writing it, fixing it. His head was rested on the table now and then, possibly drifting off, but never quite asleep, he was too- too much of a mess to sleep. Time escaped the duskwight in his focus. A number of pages were set aside; they werenâ€™t good enough. They werenâ€™t right. He didnâ€™t even know if what he ended up with was right. But it was something. Only at times during his writing had his expression calmed, his mind seemed to have found some other place to sit itself in when he wrote.

Having not rested from the excursion, (though honestly, it may have even been the next day by now, how long had it been? ) he quickly rolled the scroll of a page, before heading out to deliver it to her room. When he got there, he had a brief moment of pause. Wondering if she might be up still. He almost didnâ€™t want to disturb her, and simultaneously did, maybe shake her from whatever it was that gripped her - though if he was the cause. . . how troubling. His lip was bitten while he just.. stood before the door, staring down at the floor. And then quickly, before his mind could catch up with the action, he slid the letter under. He clenched his hands, a cold air falling from them then, before he abruptly turned to go back to his room.

Despite his exhaustion, it took him quite a while to sleep.

Show Content

Spoiler
First I speak of what youâ€™d given.

I fear Iâ€™d seen them late. And thusly write in kind even later. But.

What lovely letters you had priorly given me~

Timely events turning betwixt trouble and intrigue tangled me taught in their tethers. Iâ€™d not yet time to match your words with my whims on where this library might be. Yet I yearn for it. The excitement I felt when you would have given me a puzzle, a riddle, a challenge to search for, with such a place of no small greatness by end. I found myself filled with sparks, those quite apt in your presence, wished to head out soon when I could. Yet, it is something I must put aside days for, as gods know where-when I will end up even remotely near. Not that I mind. It will be such a gift to find. But I had seen them late, [a few blots]

I instead write now just to write to you.

It is a strange thing yet, that which letters do.

Something soothing in their making, burrowed Words shake themselves in waking
and with small shudders rise from beneath
sand, sea, and leaves where theyâ€™d once sleepâ€¦

But now from here they peek instead to greet you on this page.

[blot]

I am no good at being soothing. Not like writing letters, or letting free the Dancing Words.
I cannot presume to be, nor do I. For messes are never simple. And I know little.
So instead, I can merely offer something I hope you might enjoy.

Even in its novice stages of telling, as itâ€™s never been told. Something small to take your hand for a little while.

A small story for you.

A tiny grandling.

[blot]

It was the Moving Day. Doors opened, eager hums and whispers echoed through the caverns, the rhythms of running, walking, and shuffling abound. A particular door was let open too, as all was being collected within to ready for the journey; tomes of young and eld in comfortable rare-wood boxes, small wands and their crystal companions, unbelievably teensy adamantoise shells collected from travelers whoâ€™d tended nests, spheres of glass that shown in the candlelight, tiny chimes, pens, inks, and pages. And from sound, it came to view. Everything out there, everything yet to leave, the bustle of Moving from one place to the next.

A Young One hurries out excited, walking stick in hand and feet lightly chattering against the stone floor. Heâ€™s packed as much as he can be, full of little pouches and strapped bags that make little thumps when he runs, and looks about wild-eyed at the chance to see where theyâ€™ll all go. The familiar steps of his family are heard, many heading the same direction, so he falls into step with them. Many of those who saw the family in, welcome, now bid their travels be well, hoping to see them once more. The Young One recognizes only a few faces, the ones who came to see him, and gives them little hums in passing.

With the farewell hums complete, the Young One starts to hear the Guiding Songs, lightly ringing out from the front of the Moving line, a soft tune to guide the shuffling bodies through the tunnels of stone. It is then that they are off.

Much is passed. Small underground rivers that trickle and glisten with the bioluminance of the moonweeds are passed, wide caverns of crystals, many path ways, and minerals are passed, ruins of prior caverns, having tumbled from duress and disrepair are passed, until they reach a wide, spacious place; trickles of moonlight spot through the ceiling, and the enormous hole of the place runs deep. The Guiding Songs guide the movers to stop moving, to be careful along the formed paths, to not fall down below. And they slowly begin to head onward, carefully, quietly, over these cliffs, before the Guiding Songs bid stop once more.

Something was down there. Furthermore, something was around them.

Surrounding these makeshift stone bridges and the abysses below are golems. Huge, lumbering stone golems, that previously had been silent, then began to stir. It seems they were like to be judged. The Young One was not part of the discussion on how to proceed, but surely they had noticed the piles of odd stones along the bridges and crossways. Noticed similar ones scattered about the way. They decided to make an offering.

Each one Moving picked up an odd stone, and placed it carefully on a pile of them. There was a small formation of them as the line pressed on, each and every urged to do it, each one must help. An odd gesture at first. But when it came time for the Young One to do the same, he noticed something gleaming about the stones. Some sort of Aetherical coat, almost like it was being pulled towards the pile, and then it became clear. The odd stones were parts of a broken golem. It was a peace offering, showing they were not here for destruction. And as it was, they judged the Movers well, and let them pass. It was left to mystery what would have happened to those judged less well, though the answers may have been in the pit beneath.

The Guiding Songs led the movers the rest of the way on, and the Young One couldnâ€™t help but ponder the matter of the crossing. How at times you can collect all you have yourself to be on your way, but others, perhaps, you need someone else to pick up those pieces for you, and bring them to you instead. And maybe, sometimes, itâ€™s both at once.

The Mizzenmast Letters (Closed)

RPC has moved! These pages have been kept for historical purposes