The Mizzenmast Letters (Closed)

[Elysia]

The note was completely unnecessary. Its existence was an accident; there had simply been some parchment left over after Avis was done with her meticulously-polite letter to the Arcanists' Guild on the pitiful size of their library. Saving the paper for later and going to bed seemed a waste of a good writing momentum, and so Avis found herself picking up her quill again, smirking slightly at the thought of the duskwight who had lately intrigued her. 

 

The Inn was mostly asleep when Avis located Xavarian's room with no real difficulty, slipped the folded piece of paper under his door, and padded away back to hers as noiselessly as she could. 

 

[align=center]***[/align]

 

"Mess": wreck, spills, tangle, chaos, hodgepodge, ink spills, wine spills, childbirth, disarray, sloppiness, wildfire, sultanate, signature, library, Jandelaine, the god's grip, moth-eaten hearts, back-eaten tomes, talking to walls, knots of numbers, spattered Puks on the beach, the Ruby Road exchange, all persons or none at all, hair that insists on tumbling into your face. 

 

[Dasair]

The thought-of duskwight was pacing.  The kind of pacing that's only just brief, between two fancies, when you think of something to accomplish, rise to do it, and one thought's replaced in stride by something else entirely.  What were you doing?  Pacing, apparently.  Or so was Xavarian's answer to that question, when he heard someone walking outside his door.  

 

With hearing as excruciatingly keen as his, he'd always had the mind to pay attention to anyone moving outside doors.  Because being locked behind one so long, it had almost become like a game of guesses and mind-made tales.  What are they doing?  Where are they going?  What state are they in, by their steps, can he tell?  What had they just returned from?  Rivers of possibilities would rush in and flood his mind, in the several second passing of whomever it may be outside his door.  And of course, the ever present question; Were they there for him?  ... Should he be ready to fight, to hide, or to welcome?

 

Almost always, it never got that far.  So much was it rare that anyone came for him that it was more an idle ritual to muse about than any real alert, more fun to imagine than worry to prepare for.

 

But not this time.

 

This time the steps came closer.  They stopped outside.  Xavarian furrowed his brows in his mid-thought pacing, and now the door had his attention.  He was looking at the space beneath it, in fact, to see how the light from outside played with the shadows of whomever was standing there.  It would tell him a bit about their size, at least.  He hadn't noticed how he'd frozen, both in ceased movement, and the air around him, as the temperature dropped to a harsh cold.

 

The note that slid under the door nearly made him jump out of his skin and freeze the floor over.  

 

He heard the steps moving away then, soft, unimposing, amidst whatever various ruckus he heard from the nearby rooms, (likely ruckus he often tried hard to ignore) and  back down the hall.  With a blink, it took him a moment to process maybe he should have looked to see who it was.  

 

"Hells-"  Well, too late for that now.  Time to see what that was about.

 

And so, a number of transitions began.  Apprehension very quickly became intense curiosity, as the duskwight silently made his way over to the letter on his floor.  Frost became heat and pursed lips became grins and sparks as he read the note.

 

Oh.  Oh.

 

---

 

Despite all the trouble, he's still not lost his smirk.  Finding places. Never his strong suit.  But it never fell short of a small journey.  After he'd written something of his own, he'd left the room and started wandering about the inn... only to remember he didn't actually know if Avis had a room at the inn.  Maybe.  Did he know that?  This required a stop in the middle of the hallway, which eventually became a seat pressed against one side of it, when some less cognitive, more alcohol filled patrons came stumbling by.  So he read his notes.  At some point, he realized he had stood and started walking while reading his notes, as though he actually knew where he was going.  

 

He didn't.  

 

He found himself at the inn's entrance into the Drowning Wench, and, well, he certainly didn't want to stay there.  When the innkeep opened the gate, he, as per usual, made with haste to slide himself nervously around the edges of the bar, out into the open night air of the port city.  He walked a ways out to find a nice quiet spot where he could see the ocean.  ... Until he remembered he wasn't actually there to watch the ocean.  He wasn't actually there for anything, what in the hells was he doing?

 

With a snort, the duskwight headed back towards the Drowning Wench, repeating his almost ritualistic ilming around the bar walls, before finding himself in front of the Innkeep again.  The man always seemed rather jovial, and that time was no different.  If anything, he likely found amusement in the duskwight's tendancy to always skitter along the walls like a mortified house pet.

 

"Ah-"  The duskwight paused.  What was he doing?  

 

"Lost?"  The innkeep just smiled.  It's a joke, but this guy always seems to look somewhat lost, and he really couldn't help it.

 

"Oh- er, n-"  Xavarian paused again.  "Not.. exactly.  Maybe.  Actually, could you tell me if one by the name of Avis has a room here?  She would be about this tall-"  A gesture was made, indicating the stature of the woman.  "Hyur, dark hair, curious disposition..?"

 

It wasn't without some laughter, raunchy implications, lots of stuttering, some huffs, flaring embers, and a few 'calm down, buddy's later that Xavarian was wandering through the halls again with his answer.  Then he just had to find the place.  

 

It had certainly been a journey.

 

But as it was, all manner of hall searching later, he'd done it.  A smirk of triumph was allowed for a victory he considered none too small.  He'd found it in the same night even!  This was definitely something to be proud of.

 

An unsigned 'note' on an interesting grade of paper, near translucent, in which the swirling grains could be seen, was slipped under the door for Avis.  The page was too sturdy to be folded well, but it was placed face down.  With a dorky grin, the somewhat excited duskwight then, quickly and quietly with a half 'running through the house' sort of pace, escaped the scene of the .. note.

 

What a nerd.

 

"Mess:"

An unkempt jumble, hardly humble in its dissonance with something, anything, around its claimed

Spots; blots of ink on pages, tap tapped into muddled puddles of thoughts

And formless sages race by, 'my, my', half closed eyes, uncertain, looking up from the ground to the

Sky - in its vastness, hidden, forbidden, but riddled with storms and swarms of clouds that become

Anything.  Everything. And Nothing at all will yet befall the one who heeded that tangled

Call to Freedom~

 

[Elysia]

Somehow, an hour or so later (one could never be sure with these things), Avis awoke.

 

She had been a child again; for some reason they were all standing on their heads in a line at Pearl Lane, reciting what they knew of the alphabet - which wasn't much, they kept forgetting the last four letters. Her sisters sometimes dove in and out of her vision, providing strange directions to a mysterious "fountain", and grew tails and hair on their legs. Then there was a new boy come to join their fold, and they spat on him, but when he drew himself to full height he was Jasper and Avis suddenly full-grown again had been laughing when he pulled her through Ul'dah and threw them both over the parapet towards said fountain  and - and. Here she was. In her bed. Back in the world of the living. 

 

Avis sat up and cursed her dreams soundly with all the force street expletives could muster, because did it make sense that a city she had felt no regret in detesting and departing was currently the same place she ached for terribly? 

 

She stared into darkness for a while, dazed, amused, saddened, before reaching over and clumsily attempting lighting the lamp, which finally came alive on her third try. As her fingers fumbled for quill and notebook, she glimpsed, out of the corner of her eye, a strange piece of paper tucked neatly under her door. She pondered its presence for a good long minute, before her memory finally kicked into gear. And then Avis was almost on all fours in her bid to get to the letter.

 

The paper was smooth, strong, and somehow... foreign; she marveled at its quality, then found herself envious and wondering what she would have to trade for Xavarian to give her a few pieces of this in exchange. Avis read it over and over again as her mind slowly roused itself, taking pleasure in its craft, teasing apart the verse's rhymes, patterns, structure. (There was also that tiny prick of amused disappointment she felt at the duskwight's failure to respond to her jibe about his hair.)

 

This was no gift, of course, but few had placed such words of such fashion in her keeping before. It was precious. 

 

She took the note to the table and, with a final tiny scrap of parchment, wrote. Furiously this time, spurred by delight for what she'd read, and half her consciousness still awash in memories of 'home' and other places, and Jasper. 

 

This time, when she took her letter along for a second midnight walk, Avis made no effort to conceal her footsteps. She bent and slid the note under Xavarian's door knowing he was most likely still awake within (if he was within), then found herself momentarily uncertain. What had she written? Had she revealed more than she even cared to know about herself? But quickly enough she shook the thought off, moved on. Words were only words, after all; the duskwight, intelligent and enigmatic as he was, perhaps truly possessed little real depth of emotion or understanding beyond his absorption in texts and "knowledge" . If he liked words, he could have them; they were puzzles that could be wonderfully appreciated on their own without necessarily having to know the person that lay behind them. 

That was what she loved words for: that they could be anything one wished - weapons, shields, balms, ornaments. 

 

She was wide awake now and felt no inclination for sleep. Where to? The tavern, perhaps, or the sea? 

 

 

 

If a 'mess' is related to, as you suggest, a "call to freedom", it is a folded rose with unshorn thorns. Some creatures constantly seek freedom, as light winds whistling across plains, terraces, the rims of glasses. Everywhere yet nowhere (everything yet nothing). What if true freedom is impossible? And if true freedom is true loneliness? What if purity, or the purity of the pursuit, of the goal, of anything, isn't ever what we truly want? Even knowledge. Even love. We are indeed 'messes', hopelessly incomplete chimeras, forever in thrall to other bloods, other thoughts, other skins upon skins. We cup ourselves in the core of a flower, build our own intricate layers of petals, and tell ourselves that it's beautiful, and we say, "these bright hues, they are the walls I have chosen".

 

[Dasair]

Xavarian was, in fact, still in his room. He'd not expected a reply so soon, but then again, he was never one for expecting much at all. That made everything just a bit more exciting, and a bit less disappointing.

 

He'd been busy organizing what little was left here. When someone moves, even just part-way, there's always the strange dissonance between the new room and the old; one more bereft of things than the other. And Xavarian had the need to organize them, all the things left behind, even though there weren't that many. Yet. ...Maybe. Imagine what he could do with more space.

 

Beyond that, there was also the careful matter of dividing what he had between two places. Which location would be best for what thing? He'd never much thought of it, not since he had moved his workspace elsewhere from the inn room; the two places, where one worked, and where one stayed, as far as he remembered, were usually one in the same. Even if it may have been many different rooms overall.

 

Focused, he hadn't thought much of the steps outside the door he heard this time. He heard them, of course, but sorting out these remaining papers into the remaining scroll cases was the last thing he needed to do before heading out, and it had most of his attention. ... Until he heard the steps stop at his door.

 

The duskwight probably should have expected a note to be slipped under the door, considering what had happened earlier in the night. He probably shouldn't have needed to freeze, yet again, beyond slooowly turning around to look, once more, at the space under his door for the light shining through in the dark room.

 

But he didn't, he did, and again, the floor froze over when the page slipped through.

 

The duskwight snorted. At himself for being so jumpy, mostly. The man ran a hand through his living mess of hair as though it would help keep it out of his face (which it didn't, of course), at first somewhat embarrassed despite no one being present, but that was all the time he needed for his mild alarm to be replaced with an excited grin. The floor thawed with warmth, the papers were down, and he was up with one swift motion as he made way to wander over, sock-footed and soundless, to the little note that was left.

 

Xavarian unceremoniously plopped himself down right there on the floor to pick the note up and look it over. This was exciting, he'd really never had an exchange quite like this before. No one would ever know what in the hells he would be going on about if he even dared to try anything like it down Below. Of course, he learned to enjoy that, to some extent. There was, of course the Sylphs who'd always liked his riddles, but that was never by letter, only by mouth. He couldn't help but smirk at the parchment scraps these had been written on too; the first already tucked nicely into his elaborate tome, where he tried to place everything important that can fit in there. There was something charming about them, like an afterthought, which in many ways, can be more thought-provoking than a forethought.

 

But his expression changed somewhat upon what he read. A strange sort of concern crept over his features, creased with a furrowed brow, and lips pursed in the anticipation of one who wants to speak, but doesn't want to interrupt. He can't help but glance up at the door when he's done reading, though the shadows that crept through the cracks were gone. He knew he'd heard her leave. He pursed his lips a different way.

 

The scrap of parchment was read several more times on the floor, another while rising and wandering to the table, and once more when the scribe sat, pulling out his pen, and freeing a larger sheet from his stacks of yet-to-be-scrollcased paper. He set the little note carefully to the upper left of his page, and then quickly started writing, scrawling, really, mouthing some things silently as the pen jittered.

 

___

 

When he was done, there was all manner of decisiveness to his steps. He was out the door and down the hall without apprehension. ... Then, after an about-face, he was down the right hall without apprehension.

 

Giving Avis' door a once-over, as though it was standing between him and something important, he pursed his lips again. Briefly looked down at his much longer sheet, another translucent, swirling page, and slid it, face down, under the door.

 

The writing remained immaculate, but something about it seemed.. quick, and with feeling. Perhaps it was the elongated, whip-like flourishes, or the slightly harder pressed first letters of lines.

 

Xavarian lingered for a moment, after the page was delivered, looking down at the floor with a hand over his mouth in thought. There were many ways what he wrote could be taken. How would Avis decide to piece it together? She seemed rather perceptive, certainly clever and full of whimsy, but also didn't seem able to read him. 'Seem' being the main word there, of course. Giving up on his concerned contemplation of the floorboards to any passers by, he let out a breath, blew some hair from his face, and went back to finish his organizing before heading out for the night. That didn't keep his thoughts from continuing on about it though.

 

I write of A Mess. And My Mess.

The Mess you questioned 'why?'

And I said 'you may see'

Have you seen it?

My mess you mentioned in tumbles of hair, and a mess you mentioned in vaguer~

You wrote of A Mess. And Your Mess.

Or so I thought. So you must, unless you didn't and found other messes all their own to note, but even in selection, the choice would be yours~

Messes abound, but are in infinite shambles.

Everything and Nothing, formless, like faces seen in a haze when awaking from a fall, but recognizable all

as what they are, even if born thorned of yet seen danger.

 

___

 

Freedom is as you say.

 

Yet I see it as more, or less, simple and complex.

 

It changes, as all things. It connects, as all things.

'True Freedom' finds its place among any in its throes at all. For is it not true, what they have? A freedom big or small?

There's a vastness in it, in which one finds themselves no longer kept by the walls

they'd been watching with all reprise. Instead, there is the surprise

of Choice.

 

A changing, singing, calling Voice.

 

And even if they dance

willing to another confinement, another cave of set direction, another place to hide,

another pretty flower, the freedom is in the Choice

of having it where it once was not.

 

New Choices gained, and hope for less lost.

 

The being able. The having it there, once where

it could never even be seen. A new path gleamed.

 

When something closes, everything opens.

When something opens, everything opens.

And that is it.

 

When you seek to find, you find in seeking, and finding what you seek brings yet more to see.

Freedom is as endless as Possibility, and some possibilities are only seen clearly with some Choices made. The call then bade.

 

And another Choice song sends.

 

It is ever uncertain, but is

always as true as it extends.

 

Or so I think,

as it is a mess. Never finished.

The chimera incomplete, but not hopeless. Seeks focus.

Then found, does it again.

 

There is more comfort in being unfinished

than most seem to believe.

How else do they expect to live

if they Have all that they need?

 

___

 

Freedom is in My Mess.

But Freedom sounds to be in Your Mess too.

 

Yet who is one to write of freedom who has barely seen it move? Barely held the possibilities it spreads across all?

It comes in words and wishes, but is it ever really known? Or is it always known, and waiting to be seen

in places thought it's never been?

Are those who claim to wish it

willing to give it back as well?

 

 

The Truth is what the truth is to us.

And I don't know the answers.

 

But in My Mess, I find I hear Choice call.

 

Do you?

 

[Elysia]

The sky over Limsa Lominsa seemed reluctant to release its purple-pink hues that hour, and it was only when the typical morning pallor seeped through that Avis allowed herself to begin the winding walk back up from Fisherman's Bottom. At the Mizzenmast Inn, the Inn-keeper, though bleary-eyed from a long night's watch, kept up a straighter posture and raised an eyebrow ironically as Avis, yawning, trudged past him. Fatigued though he was, he had a keen memory, and he was no doubt remembering the odd duskwight who had asked for this very Hyur hours ago, before her exit from the Inn, and then the duskwight's departure some time later. There was a story to be had. 

 

He watched secrets. Kept them. Housed them. 

 

[align=center]***[/align]

 

Sitting on her bed, reading Xavarian's reply  over and over again, Avis found herself running an entire gamut of emotions. First, amusement as she imagined the duskwight's nervous, low voice tumbling and stuttering over such elegant aphorisms as he had scribed. Next, a strange, warm, sadness - bittersweet. And finally a slow, creeping annoyance began its way up her neck and into her face. She was frowning by the time she finished the letter for the tenth or so time and tossed it, with some vehemence, onto the table beside the bed. 

 

Those sagely airs. She didn't need them. She knew herself perfectly well, thank you very much. What had she written to him again? 

 

Her head hurt.

 

Too proud to admit that he had gotten under her skin at last, struck closer than she'd ever been used to from people, Avis gave a groan, lay down, and curled herself into the wall as sunlight began to flood the room. (Was she turning into a duskwight too?)

 

[align=center]*** [/align]

 

Avis rose after midday and left the inn. Three uneventful ferry rides, two afternoons and one bout of bantering with Thubyrgeim about the relative merits of fiction later, she returned. 

 

The letter was still where she'd left it, slightly creased and with one edge hanging off the table. Avis returned to it again, and this time she was gratified, somewhat moved. He had been trying to speak to her through his writing, after all, even woven some of her words with his (as she had), and that was... something, goodwill, concern, interest, what-have-you... was it not? 

 

She took up her quill, reached for parchment, realized there was none left, kicked herself mentally for forgetting to purchase any - then grew an idea. 

 

Scissors in one hand, notebook in the other, Avis began performing a delicate minor operation. Twilight had begun in earnest when she was finally done, and it took some squinting and peering, her nose almost to the surface of the table, before she realized she'd been too absorbed to light her lamp. 

 

And, for the final touches, she tore off an empty page on her notebook and folded it in half, scribbling on it the following words: 

 

You wrote, "are those who claim to wish it willing to give it back as well"? 

 

I will show you I have learnt. 

 

Have it. 

 

This, at least, I chose freely. This giving. Open this, and everything else opens, yes? Even you?

 

[align=center]***[/align]

 

Avis had to stop twice on her way to Xavarian's door to gather up the pieces that had slipped from her deliberately flimsy excuse of an envelope. She was grinning lightly when she dropped the note off at Xavarian's door. This was a gamble she wasn't used to, but two could play at that puzzle. She whistled a handful of notes meaningfully at his door before she returned to her room. 

 

It was a challenge. 

 

 

ng rock walls - is a strong rook of a heart.

brief occupancy of the tall grasses of Osc

Torch, for the purpose of rumination and

 

*

 

s! the path to the Weavers'

 

*

 

his racist distaste for members of the Miqo'

intelligence. Silly. The arcanist guildmaste

 

*

 

with hefty arms he lifts the jar and

it all down there among the chairs,

an earthy humour i breathe in and 

 

*

 

I can almost se

 

*

 

walked 

 

*

 

Highlander-walks-into-a-bar jokes - all composed 

I know you'd have loved them.)

 

*

 

The whirligig. Why that word 

he does is a little mystery in 

ss of his mind, constantly asti

etheric sparks keep moving o

feelings, like flies orbiting ar

 

 

*

 

and who would've thought that to be a god

and a vagrant

was divine punishment 

for his belittling of little lives? 

he wanders and never chooses,

a cursed

forever. 

 

*

 

the mistake of yawning when she spoke, and t

beat it out of there as she rapped against our f

kissed history goodbye. It was Azeyma I praye

 

*

 

I love this world and yet I cannot choose

 

*

 

my first dance steps

yours, fumbling over

another damned drea

 

*

 

The Story of Oschon 

 

 

*

 

Tomorrow, another

 

*

 

and

 

*

 

first arrive, and my ears are greet

some sea birds missing from the b

tapestries I cannot help but banish

thoughts with glee. 

 

*

 

I do. 

 

[Dasair]

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.

 

 

When something opens,

Everything opens.

Even me.

 

But Everything is never so clear to gleam,

As you have shown and seen.

 

So for a gift of what you Are

I return a gift Chosen

 

To fit how I have Been.

 

Many words are for one. A single word is for many.

All have answers.

 

Find me in my riddles.

 

From the young Start onward One

is how I lived, awoke, and slept.

And One is how I was

 

fairly Two with unseen cause, or so was thought.

Though maybe not. They hovered over, curious-wrought.

The Twoness shone in quite-seen ways,

 

Threes forming in the haze

about my skin those Fourful days.

 

But not the sort that ever thaws. From bones through flesh like claws

a single sample of ample Five it caused.

 

Times were truly grand when I found that I could stand,

but just for me, you see.

They do not take the hand of what they do not understand.

 

And though used at rare times called,

It was a puzzle never solved.

 

Or so they chose to say.

Instead they felt it best that I

stayed Six and One away.

 

two[/b] symbols on it, one above and facing the other.]

Tired, Tend, And so quickly on the Mend are

words they often choose to spend

in the presence of this state.

 

Stalled, Sore, Pallor and sallow and quite often more

are oftentimes ways to really be sure

Thal may be waiting at your gate.

 

So Stop, Stay, Rest a while 'fore heading your way

then you may manage to keep it at bay

they say, while keeping a distance at best.

 

Immune, Infect, now what ways have they to protect

themselves against the potential effect

they fear may next well up in their chest?

 

 

five[/b] symbols on it, four on each corner, and one in the middle.]

Shock.

 

A grab at the throat, the first choke.

That winding darkness that looks like smoke

seeping from the corners out

 

and all doors lock.

 

Trapped.

 

When you don't know

if you'll make it

through

alive.

 

Before your strength is sapped

That shake

feeling what's inside crushed to break

between relentless hands you thought brought comfort

now only take

it all away

 

describes this state.

 

 

 

four[/b] symbols, in a circle all pointing towards each other.]

It is felt.

 

A pang, a stab, a scarring thought, a loss.

Trudging through the broken glass at any cost.

 

The mind shares the body's misery,

enhances, expounds, reflects and rebounds

it over and over.

 

Unpleasant.

 

Though some mark it as 'a way to tell

you live'. Through this agony's swell

they claim 'it was worth it'. Or.

 

'It wasn't worth it at all.'

 

There is no decision to it. But a precision through it.

A long lasting laugh as you fall. Or a pin-prick second.

Your call

 

but only sometimes.

 

It dwells or it ends, but no matter it sends cringing throes,

no amends.

 

 

 

one[/b] symbol on it.]

A state you'll try

to keep nearby,

held close with no reprisal

 

As this state is one

that's already done,

far past the stage of arrival.

 

In box, in cage,

words stuck on a page

and placed away to cherish

 

Is where this will stay

'less freed, or they say

'This is no way for you to perish'.

 

 

 

three[/b] symbols on it, in a triangular formation.]

Formed when force of Life collects

to solid fragments one expects

of Aether.

 

Let them grow.

 

Goregeous how light flows

through their faceted shows

of presence.

 

But heed

 

their power. They can bring more than Seen,

forced to conceed in masses to beings unfreed

of worship.

 

And still.

 

A use undetermined by will should not fill

perception of something until

fear remains.

 

Instead, keep a piece.

 

And understand

why they grow.

 

 

 

six[/b] symbols on it, two rows, with one above the other.]

A singularity.

 

Often times a peculiar rarity.

 

Set apart from the start.

Or the middle.

Or the end.

 

But sometimes just to send

that one out.

 

It draws attention

 

often not meant for contention

 

But has its contrast

with all the other wolves who are

huddled close.

 

By choice, by force, by no reason

at all there is no season

to call

its own.

 

Instead, it is _____ .

 

 

 

 

[Elysia]

[align=center]INTERLUDE[/align]

 

Avis awoke. 

 

It had been another brief, yet convoluted dream, of magitek frying pans and raining limbs and rotund feathered beings. All this was no doubt the product of a few morbid hours spent in the basement speed-reading wide-eyed through what little there was of Garlean history before, emotionally-drained from the horror of Garlemald and her employer's confession, the hyur fled back upstairs into the children's section. There she'd spent another long period of time walking in the worlds and woods of her old favorites, books of pictures and rhyme. Until she fell asleep with the book in her lap, the page turned to an amusing illustration of Mother Dodo attempting to repel assailants with a colorful list of don'ts. Get it? 

 

She hadn't realized how fatigued she was, though sleep had been a dismal possibility since her meeting with Jigumundo. 

 

Still disoriented, Avis cast her gaze upwards slowly to connect with that of the bookstore's attendant. His glaring concern was quite obviously directed at the faint elegant watermark her drool had made on a recently-creased page, and not at all at the dangerous way in which her head had lolled in slumber, as if it'd hung from a near-snapping thread.

 

With an elegant touch to the left side of her mouth, where it was still moist, Avis smiled and asked sweetly for the time of day. 

 

The attendant gave it. 

 

At that Avis bolted from her seat - then collapsed back into it as pain shot through her neck from having dozed off in a position bearing an unfortunate likeness to a badly executed beheading. It took Avis another few neck-rubbing moments of wincing and incoherent apologizing before she finally mustered up the composure to walk, as sedately as possible, out of the establishment - with an unpaid book in hand. She paid for her completely unintended crime with the attendant's irate lecture and another excruciating twist in the wrong direction to her sorry neck. At midday, Avis finally hobbled from the Eagle & Quill, which was paradise regained, cursing and... 

 

glad... 

 

...in a way she hadn't felt for years.

 

She knew, though, that she had left without having dropped by Xavarian's study for a farewell. She wondered what he would think of that. 

 

[align=center]***[/align]

 

Sir Fabuli, steady to a fault, was still exactly where she'd left him, down at the docks, despite all the hours that had passed. Angry warks punctuated the air for a good few minutes before Avis finally got the chocobo to calm down. His displeasure was not unfounded, of course; she had, after all, disappeared somewhere further into the Mist with Xavarian, that most decidedly unnatural and apparently malevolent of duskwights, for half a day. His disapproval was complete.

 

Still, Avis's feelings were hardly touched by the legitimate concerns of her steadfast steed. As the pair clunked through the Mist, Avis had the strange feeling that she had walked through a tunnel and exited from it into an alternate reality, that the world had shifted, become altogether larger and sadder, somehow. She turned Sir Fabuli off course, briefly, to look once again over the sea. The sun had set the lights to dancing upon the waters. She found herself pulling out her notebook and anchoring that view with her scribbling, as though she needed some sort of marker to signify this: 

 

...that she had left one chapter of her wanderings resolutely behind.

 

[align=center]***[/align]

 

At the Mizzenmast Inn, the innkeeper seemed to have been waiting for Avis all night. He dangled an elaborate scrollcase from one hand as she approached, silent, his face drawn into a perfect blank, like a lone porter carrying a lamp through light winds and snow. Avis knew it for what it was straightaway, and covered the last few steps with her hands reaching out like a child certain of her gift.

[Elysia]

Back in her room, Avis laboured a long time with the eight pieces of paper spread beneath her hands, upending notes (consisting mostly of single words, letters, and deep dark splotches where frustrated criss-crosses were made) into her journal. A long list of nouns and adjectives had begun snaking its way unevenly down the page. An hour or so passed before she gave up for the time being and leant back against her chair, mentally spent, but satisfied in the hope that she had managed to solve at least part of the riddle. 

 

A few minutes of blank staring commenced as Avis's mind cast itself out on the waters to rest. Then, quickly, she snapped out of it, and, decisively picking up the quill again, she copied out the entirety of the verses on the dark page and fitted her chosen words in. She read it over and over, and over again. Not that it was completely new to her; he'd designed his pages so that they fed one into the other, and from the first she'd had an inkling of what to expect. Not that she needed to be certain she was right. Only that this was the second Story to be placed in her hand in a matter of days, and it was up to her to keep them both safe. 

 

Even if she had never asked for them... no, that wasn't right; she'd asked for them as she always had, but she had never understood fully what that entailed until now. 

 

Avis reached for one of the five pieces of parchment she'd plucked from Xavarian's study just the day before, and spent a few moments feeling its texture and its strength once again before she set her quill to it. 

 

Perhaps I am viewing the world through a window, and even if I'm before it or walking through it, there is a pane between our souls, and I can't get into the wilderness...?

True knowledge is close and bitter. Is more than an old book of myths and legends. Is blood from biting your tongue and your cheek to keep the secrets in. Will hold you, bind you. The price to pay for the wilderness is your freedom. 

 

Now I'm made custodian of -

 

She stopped. Why should she send this to Xavarian? What was the point of acquainting him with thoughts even she disliked? What should she even tell him? In her agitation she nearly struck a line across the page, but decided it did no justice to the paper, and so she folded it away into a drawer and didn't look at it again. 

 

[align=center]***[/align]

 

Avis found herself making her way to the Drowning Wench. She longed suddenly for the cheery ruckus of the tavern, noise, laughter, strong drink. But even as she partook of her favorite brew her head swam with the same six (or seven, or eight) words over and over again, and she found - this was the strangest of all - that tonight she could not enjoy or even concentrate on any of the dozens of conversations alight all around her. 

 

So she sat in her corner and brooded. Then she took her notebook to a bench at the Aftcastle, and brooded. Then the pier, where she brooded still more. Then the Bismarck, where she brooded long enough for the restaurant's manager to bother her personally about placing an order. (She never did.) Then back to her room, where her method of answer became clear. 

 

A dozen or so revisions later, Avis folded up the few sheets of paper she'd penned on and ripped from her notebook (a sad, misshapen thing now) and made her way to Xavarian's room. She paused outside it, then remembered, not without a tangible jolt of disappointment, that he wasn't going to be around that much here anymore, and took it back to her room. Should she deliver it to his study at the Eagle & Quill? No; it was best that everything stayed here in the Mizzenmast, a world set apart from the other. But would he see it? 

 

A total of three trips back and forth were made before Avis finally made up her mind. As always, the pages, fed into the dark slit under his door. Then it was sleep for her, finally, sweet, glorious sleep after a long, troubled time. 

 

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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, 

 

If you can be a mess as you

Then I can be a friend as true  

 

[Dasair]

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.

 

[align=center]--[/align]

 

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.

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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, 

 

If you can be a mess as you

Then I can be a friend as true  

 

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.

 

[align=center]--[/align]

 

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.

 

How much manner of trouble, a scribe at loss of word. Lost instead in what they've read

or fancied they have heard.

 

Stories have a paradox, an intricate design

in which

there are no answers inherant, yet

somehow it all aligns.

 

And not merely in rhymes.

 

Oh how strange it is to realize

when where one feels most themselves

they find

it's also where they hide.

 

[small ink blot]

 

As I.

 

But you've found them some I see

in words I've read over and through

and again anew

for what they are and what they keep inside.

 

Something of Yours

will be kept

dear, safe, and close

from all now or to be Known.

 

Should such be wished, for

 

if I am The Mess as I,

tangled, spattered, hair in eyes

and you a friend as true,

then I will gladly be as well

a most true friend to you.

 

Perhaps a fright to its flight indeed,

yet

it stands as a place where everything opens

when it wouldn't have before.

'Unsure' endured

More flight assured

to find if there is more

than being alone among crystals on the floor.

 

And were That Mess long past instead

forgive that I am brash.

For Something roams outside of tomes

and made my thoughts its catch.

 

Not near the point, but should still you wonder:

You've found but One and Five

and I

have hid them on that side.

 

 

[Elysia]

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. 

 

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...? 

 

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. 

 

Should she return it to him? 

 

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. 

 

And his. 

 

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.  

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

But he had... promised his friendship. That was more than enough. Somehow she trusted that more than anything else he had ever penned. 

 

 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. 

 

***

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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.) 

 

A pause. 

 

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? 

 

***

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

 

 

 

My Friend,

 

Not Something, but Many Things. To catch one's breath, not just one's thoughts. To light a heart, not just a mind. 

 

Of late I have finally begun to see the true form of stories. They are spills and smears and stains. They are brambles and bites. They are tattoos, clear and bright at the outset, faint and mishappen over time as your skin loosens itself from the trappings of youth. They will yield a hundred answers and send into the world another thousand questions. They will bow you with their weight, as unpolished agates around your neck, and their unhatched secrets will make a nest of your faltering hands. 

 

The one who collects stories knows that they will never let him - her - go. The one who knows stories knows that the world is a great tome and that its blood is on his  - her - hands. 

 

What 

 

a 

 

mess, indeed. 

 

And we have made one, you and I. 

 

And so it will be, because the true messes of this world are the stories we tell to stay another night. You have not entirely found me, and I have not entirely found you. And so it continues. 

 

My friend, when one binds oneself to Something, something else closes. Is this your choice? 

 

Tell me the story of what happens next to Fe. 

 

[Dasair]

[align=center]Interlude[/align]

 

Xavarian's mind hadn't stopped swimming.

 

He had so much to focus on, and yet, despite all the practice he took with his Aether, despite the work he'd given the grimoire he'd been commissioned on, despite his nervous organizing and re-organizing of his room, and despite his wandering to places he'd gotten turned around at several times, his thoughts hadn't stopped their drifting to what he was trying to distract himself from. Why was he so nervous? Was it even really nervous that he was? But the thoughts just came back instead as what would she say? every time he tried to come up with an answer.

 

Strange trails of Aether went remarked upon, and several passing apologies were given throughout the night. Still, near the dawn he returned to the Inn.

 

Still, nothing.

 

But what could he expect through the night hours? It was a bit early for him to rest, but he was eager to do it. Perhaps that was what he needed to right his thoughts. Forcing himself to sleep wasn't all that difficult (especially for a thaumaturge) and he eventually drifted off after the unusually worrisome day.

 

[align=center]____[/align]

 

The duskwight awoke slowly the next evening; the kind of slow coming to when you really don't want to wake up, where that dream you can only remember a part of and the feeling it gave seem like an excellent place to remain, and damn consciousness for sluggishly trying to drag you on. He laid in his bed for a while. His head re-hid itself under the covers. Though eventually he emerged from the cocoon of blankets, and he readied himself to exist out in the world.

 

He'd gotten a different elaborate undershirt, some pants, and long socks pulled on by the time he noted the.. note by the door. Lips pressed thin, and the temperature shot up immediately. The letter received a steady stare, and while the duskwight meant to stay still, as though the thing might leap up at him any moment, he couldn't help but shift a bit anxiously.

 

It took but a few moments for him to scramble over there, and nearly lunge at the letter, as though it might escape like a moth or a frog if he wasn't fast enough. The duskwight settled himself on the floor, wriggling around and took in a deep breath that caused him to momentarily sit up straight. He let it out. Then held it again, as he went to unfold the letter- but quickly remembered his scepter and practically flailed to scoot over to the table and grab it where he left it.

 

A few moments more were taken to locate the strap to hold the wand onto his arm. It hadn't moved from the spot he'd tossed it last morning; a chair he'd situated near the bed, just for the things he always tended to keep close to him. Xavarian plopped himself sitting back on the bed, and was briefly distracted by eying the arm in question. A hand ran over the spot where he tended to place the strap; all manner of odd, blotchy scars littered the arm, front and back, but that spot in particular seemed to have a strange, small 'ring' of a mark around it too. It was a weird sort of circular shape, like someone had pressed the rim of a glass hard to it. Lips were pressed together, but the duskwight seemed to generally ignore it, taking the strap, returning to the table, and sitting down at it to place the scepter on his arm, and fit the strap around them both. He blew hair out of his face as the heat and embers around him died down, and then scrambled back over to the spot on the floor, as though the letter had been waiting for his return.

 

The ritual of holding his breath repeated, once he'd wiggled into place, and he unfolded the letter now without fear of either freezing or scorching it.

 

At the very first line he already had a huge grin. She did want to be his friend. He hadn't overreached, hadn't been too bold to say he would be one to her. Words are tricky things, and he knows if it wasn't what she'd wanted to say, then she could easily reply with 'that wasn't meant for you' and it'd still make perfect sense all. He'd half expected it, really. Maybe even more than half. But he was quite glad he was wrong. The little sparks that jumped all over him abound as he continued to read. And soon, they were coupled with a steadily rising heat.

 

Blinks of surprise held as Xavarian read on. He read the letter over and over, covering his mouth at times, a grin hardly able to leave his features, though his brow was sometimes furrowed. Anxious? Contemplating? Certainly 'pleased' was in there somewhere. He found himself getting up and pacing with the page, a free hand running through his mess of hair, him nearly tripping over that chair once. The small room was wandered with barely audible tiny sounds he made to himself in the tumble of thoughts that came from the letter. This feeling. Was he reading this right? Was he?

 

"Hells~" He murmured to himself, a little laugh escaping soon after. "I-" He gestures, letter still in hand as though it were waiting for him to say something. What should he even say? What does he want to say? ... How in the hells is he even going to articulate it? And she wanted a story... Did she mean really? Or did she mean..? Could she mean..?

 

He noted how warm it was in the room now, how the sparks danced all along his arms, and how sometimes there would be this odd.. wave of Aether coming from him. It was a mess. The lines about the mess he and her have ran through his mind again, and he had to cover his face.

 

Pacing continued until the duskwight thought he was calm enough to write something down. Turns out, he wasn't; the paper got a large ink blot on it before Xavarian blurted out some amused expletives, and pushed it away. A second attempt after a few minutes resulted in the duskwight standing, turning away, and rubbing his face with both hands. He didn't know what to do. Maybe he just needs time. Like the hells this would leave his mind, he knew it, it would torment him until he figured it out, him out, them out.

 

But perhaps getting out this.. energy he felt might help it. Thoughts drifted towards seeing her, but - but no, he can't, not like this. He still wouldn't know what to say! And it doesn't work like that, does it?

 

By now the duskwight has already gotten the rest of his clothing on to head out, pulling on boots, messing around with his robes, and returns to the table with the letter. With no small amount of care for it, he slips the page into his tome, before heading abruptly out of the room soon after. His study was the first destination that came to mind, so that was where Xavarian went.

[Dasair]

Things hadn't gone as planned.

 

Not that they went poorly, it certainly wasn't wrong either; but things had gone basically in the opposite direction of the plan. Not that he was arguing. The duskwight had come back to the inn room, and he still had the hairclip in his hair. Upon closing the door with his back, Xavarian smirked to himself, quietly amused at an irony all his own, before he decided this was it. That page isn't going without words this time.

 

He didn't even remove his boots, merely sat himself in the chair and took up the pen stationed on the table with another sheet of that swirly-grained paper he had in the room.

 

Surprisingly, though it came to a slower start, he actually did manage to write something down this time.

 

A few reads over later, the duskwight remembered something, a ripple of Aether and a side-eye glance to the door all that was expressing his thoughts, before he took up what he'd just written, carefully placing it into his large, elaborate, tome at his side, then hurried back out the door again. ... However, he didn't go the right way for Avis' room.

 

[align=center]_____[/align]

 

Xavarian returned to the Mizzenmast in a rush, the clip that was in his hair had been taken out and returned again, as he found hurrying about as he was, it was actually quite useful. He darted around like a child rushing to find a hiding place with a friend nearly at the end of their count, smirking and amused. The Innkeeper had let him quickly in, to his delight, and the duskwight was now fleeing down the halls in a quickpaced and light-footed dash; at least as much as his long robes would allow for.

 

He couldn't help but wonder if Avis had gathered where he was heading by his vague answer. She'd find out soon enough indeed~ But by the hells, it'd be a problem if she met him there, wouldn't it? At least he wanted to drop it off before her return; if he was caught, let it be with nothing left in his possession. How embarrassing, to have to hand the roll of pages to her when he'd just seen her.

 

He only got himself turned around once to Avis' door, and a little before he reached it, he'd pulled out the pages in a ring once again. There was a number of different papers here, (sheets of light parchment, more of the swirling sort he used, pages that were gold-leaf-edged, pages with small designs in the corners; each one somewhat different, as he'd just scribe them there when bored for flourish, and so on) all of decent to high quality, and the one on top was the swirling page he'd written on earlier. If there was nothing wrong with his paper, and she wouldn't ask herself, he'd just toss it in her room. She could do what she wanted with it, but she had it then, and maybe if she found herself with nothing else, she'd have little choice than to get more herself or actually use it. He still couldn't help but think of her poor notebook, and gave a quick, silent huff. Drooling on books and ripping pages out of her notebooks, how dreadful. Though even those thoughts didn't wipe the smirk from his face.

 

The pages were all held together by what he called a 'scroll ring'; not quite a scroll case, by any means, but much more durable than a tie or a ribbon, and caused less damage to rolled pages. It was, essentially, a small, wide ring that pages are rolled into. This one particularly small enough to fit under the door, but it also clamps in such a way that can hold a number of pages together flat, and by a corner as well. Not nearly as elaborate as the scrollcase he'd given, these were more akin to a rich-man's paperclip, at least down in the caverns. Still, it was metal with a few small engravings on it, but looked like it'd been used.

 

The roll of pages was slipped under the door, Xavarian grinning amused, before he quickly and quietly bounded back down the hall, not wanting to be caught there... this time.

 

Companion in Messes,

 

 

It is Something

and Many Things, I'd say;

Thought and breath caught

Heart and mind wrought

 

with Something and Many the same.

 

 

When I sought to Know a Story

went and pulled me in.

Their unbridled forms shown as

you spoke them once again.

 

What grand forms they're given then.

 

Hidden answers to questions only questioned in mind

and in heart, and in being, as they slowly unwind

 

or merely untangle

just a little bit more.

But this time is different,

of that I am sure.

 

For I've held many stories

and never before

has it been quite

a Mess as

what we may have

in store.

 

Or at least from New sight.

And I think you are

right.

 

"Because the true messes of this world

are the stories we tell to stay

another night."

 

And so, friend of mine,

I'll tell you

that it'd be my choice to bind

myself to

Something of Many Things.

And may something close behind

while much more opens by flighted wings.

 

Thus I choose to be stranded

and in doing so Decide.

 

I would much like to tell

you the story of Fe

yet can't do it that well

as not all's found, you see.

 

But you said so yourself,

it continues to be.

Perhaps Fe can be Fe

bound to Something, yet free.

 

Or not such at all; it's not all up to me.

 

 

[Elysia]

Avis had found herself frowning slightly in the direction of a bookshelf (for here the bookshelves never managed to keep out of your way) after Xavarian left, in his usual bustle of robes and papers. She'd managed to break out of it after a moment or two, returning to the tiny chair in which she'd dozed and been caught dozing (again), and turning a page or two of lengthy descriptions of amorous caresses before she realized she wasn't really focusing anymore. She had lost the reading thread somewhere along the way, and knew it would not return for some time. 

 

So she rose and went to the bookstore attendant, sliding that drool-marked copy of U'naanza Jhin's Taking the Thief across the counter. The novel fetched a hefty price, which Avis winced at, but it would not do, in vain she had struggled, her feelings could not be repressed, it had been her favorite book from the age of nine... and now she was finally reunited with a copy of it, of course it was a greater priority over the history and translation theory texts she'd recently been sticking her nose into too. Not that they would necessarily let her leave with any of those either. 

 

The attendant actually looked gratified that Avis was finally making a first purchase from the store, and looked one small step nearer to forgiving her of all her bookstore-related sins. Then he caught sight of the Thief in half a state of undress on the book's cover and pressed his lips together, and Avis lifted her chin at that, smirking and willing him to say it. He didn't, and let her be on her way. 

 

Back atop the ever-dependable Sir Fabuli, Avis reflected on the amount of time that had eclipsed since the revelation of the Nymian tome in Xavarian's study. It couldn't be more than two... or three... right? She realized with a kind of bemused horror that she really didn't know. She wasn't even sure where she had slept, if that was even possible - the longer she lingered in the Eagle & Quill, the more the hours failed to make sense - days blurred into nights and nights into days. Once, craving for fresher air, she'd made a day trip to Wineport, but something had brought her crawling back to the bookstore again. 

 

She was almost at the inn when she realized that she'd neglected to buy paper again - not that she had much money left after the U'naanza Jhin, though. 

 

[align=center]***[/align]

 

Avis had taken to making small talk with the trusty Innkeeper lately, ever since he'd rescued the scrollcase from where it'd been left hanging on Avis's door. These bits of conversation ranged from comments on the weather to interrogations that revealed the relative plainness of the Innkeeper's name. As always, he stood where he always did, observing the tavern-goers, a clothed, watching wall of green behind the counter. When Avis approached, then, after an absence of Hydaelyn-knew-how-many days, she had a bright smile for him, and it seemed he had word for her too. 

 

"It seems you're just a short while b'hind 'im, this time," he quipped. 

 

Avis stood rooted to the stop for  few moments as warmth rose through her skin and everything clicked - the reason for his curious hurry, his vague parting words, the secretiveness - as though he'd planned something for her. And he had. "That's... interesting," she replied lamely - and immediately kicked herself inwardly - what a terrible response, for shame, Avis. She managed, somehow, to hold her expression in check, her back straight and her head high as she walked sedately past the innkeeper into the halls and corridors of the Mizzenmast. 

 

Once she was certain she was safely out of sight of the Innkeeper, she broke into a mad dash for her door.

 

[align=center]***[/align]

 

There it was, that broad smile spreading across her face helplessly where she stood, bent over the table, spreading Xavarian's gift out over the table, until it was consumed by a patchwork of elegantly-crafted paper. She found herself touching them with more incredulity than wonder, lifting one or two of them at intervals to give them her customary sniff; then her pleasure began to ebb, and uneasiness took its place. 

 

He'd given her the scroll case, the scroll ring, writing supplies and the Eagle & Quill, which was tantamount to a kingdom. She had nothing to offer except a few shabby pages and a smattering of prose poetry. 

 

More importantly, she was used to a world where gifts came with prices; she knew the language of trade and never expected to be treated otherwise, even if her philosophy differed and she made little claims of others... She was used to living lightly. Living on less. Because the worlds - inner and outer - were... more. 

 

Yet Xavarian... what did he even mean? Were these gifts?

 

Avis found herself pacing the room, in much the same way Xavarian, unbeknownst to her, had done on previous occasions. Except she left no trail of ice or embers, of course. On her third circumnavigation of the bare, too-wide space she stopped, seemingly resolute, and pulling off her hair-tie and left longboot, hurled them both with some vehemence in the direction of the window. 

 

She folded her arms and stared at both objects, considering, as though they were strange to her. Then her gaze drifted again to the beautiful mess on her table.

 

Well, if he would insist on furnishing her with all this paper... who was she to stand on ceremony? 

 

This overthinking when it came to Xavarian was really beginning to annoy her. 

 

[align=center]***[/align]

The other longboot finally removed, Avis turned her attention to the letter itself - which proved, of course, to be an even greater headache.

 

What had she done? It'd started out innocently enough. The first note was little more than a playful jibe and a display of curiosity, interest, careless goodwill. Now she didn't know what she read and what she wanted it to read. She found herself laughing, again, at herself.

 

Her fingers had found a couplet which they seemed to take pleasure in tracing, over and over and over again. 

 

[align=center]***[/align]

It took her a much shorter time than she'd expected to get down to her reply. She pulled a sheet of paper from her new stack and began, with little hesitation, to write. Then she pulled another, a smaller piece, and scribbled briefly on that one too. She folded both completed manuscripts in halves, once, as usual, then decided that words alone might do this paper insufficient justice, especially if she had to return them to their maker. (What an odd situation this was.) So she spread them out again, this time making diagonal folds. The way a girl from Pearl Lane had shown her, years and years ago, with posters she'd ripped from the city's walls. 

 

He'd echoed her metaphor, mentioned the wings in flight... perhaps he knew her name, too. 

 

Avis's first few tries were failures; she must have missed steps along the way (it had been so long since she'd last put her fingers to such a task). By the time the birds took form properly, the paper had gotten so unevenly creased that there was nothing for it but to try again or make a copy and toss the original out altogether. But the latter would have been a waste of perfectly good paper... so Avis said to herself as she brought the paper beings in assisted flight to Xavarian's room. She pushed them underneath the door, lifted her hand to knock, dropped it, then left. 

 

 

 

Friend,

 

I've been among books to understand what needs to be done with the Nymian tome - I have been slipping and sliding through pages, often skipping stones across them for a ripple or two before I flit to another volume. I never stay long. The science of translation nearly overwhelms me - many words I do not know - bits and pieces of other words put together to describe the bits and pieces of words I do know, yet another riddle i have to learn to unlock. Even then the key is up to me to find. So I walk through books and glimpse here and there shadows of ancient scholars who bend nightly over etchings made in a stone and whisper prayers of helplessness to it, as if it is a god who hides his face; I witness the unearthing of the 'first' story from a series of cuts-in-threes, an epic of love and betrayal as lascivious as the modern one you caught me with; I see the linguist who returns from the ruins babbling in an unknown tongue and he dies, unknown to all. 

 

It occurs to me that a scholar's persistence must make for him or her a lonely existence, especially that of a translator; alone and alien among words he - she - cannot make sense of, and it is up to him - her - to read the world in which it is found, but he - she can only read it according to the world he - she - knows, hopelessly lost... We are all translators. We will always be wrong. The great Mystery - do we feel happiness, or sadness, that It eternally remains? 

 

(I think of Eorzea's races. We brought to its shores words of our own, all secrets, all messes, and are they all lost now? or hidden? - though, of course, this common tongue is many-hued -)

 

You are difficult to translate, Xavarian, and I have never been more worried about being wrong.  

 

But I haven't regretted this challenge yet.

 

 

 

"Perhaps Fe can be Fe

bound to Something, yet free." 

 

And thus fe is known, found, and bound. 

 

[Dasair]

[align=center]Interlude[/align]

 

It hadn't been that long. Xavarian had been back to the bookstore not long later, just as he said he would, and wasn't surprised to find Avis had already made her way out, as she'd implied. He'd stayed there to do a bit more work, among other things, feeling rather energetic that evening. The duskwight returned later, his pleased demeanor from prior delivery still lingering with him as he made his way into the inn room. Yet, he wasn't quite expecting quite what he found. The two, small, folded birds rested on the floor by his feet, he'd nearly kicked one, but stopped short when it caught his eye.

 

Surprised blinking ensued. He had stopped moving for just a moment to listen to the air around him. Floor creaks from outside, muted voices from the surrounding rooms, other sounds he never cared much to identify, even though at times they were difficult to ignore in their.. loudness. Nothing close, in the room with him. He let out his held breath, then knelt to carefully pick up the small paper birds, and inspect them closer.

 

Then a smirk took over. The paper crafted by his own hands, he could recognize anywhere.

 

He was initially quite pleased, almost thrilled at what she had made for him. Look how intricate and lovely these were, small paper birds, like the flight both had mentioned in their words. He started glancing around on where to keep them, before sitting with them at the table to look them over closer, when- with some strange combination between a sinking 'oh no', and a curious raise of his eyebrows, he saw letters written on the birds' forms. Or at least one, maybe a single letter on the other. Lips pursed together. "Hells-" He found himself torn.

 

She had crafted these quaint little creatures for him, both delicate in their construction, even in their uneven-ness, yet sturdy from the paper; he'd wanted to keep them as they were, but Avis surely wrote something within. Words she'd previously spoken ran through his mind; those of moral dilemmas, and who would he save if given the choice between her, the writer or the book. Of course, without question, it was her; her or both, if possible. But questions seeped through his thoughts not unlike those now with a much less clear answer; what gifts would he dismantle for what he thought they contained? Would he take apart something so carefully crafted for the Knowledge within? Would he unravel tiny beings' existences wrought with time and care to get at what was inside? Could they be fixed, then, could they be saved once their secrets were shown? Or were those the wrong questions altogether?

 

Would leaving them whole mean thinking them too fragile, too delicate and wish them kept in their state so they may never fulfill their purpose, the very reason they were wrought? Would he choose never to Know the inner most thoughts of another, even if they are held out given, to leave them alone instead as whatever their outer appearance shows by his own assumptions, for the sake of keeping them as he may have wished? Keep them; nice, and pretty, and safely locked away for his enjoyment, in willful ignorance of what they may actually hold?

 

The very thought upset him, the temperature, though it had already since risen with sparks abound, grew momentarily hotter; Xavarian found himself with a passing dull anger at something entirely removed from the paper birds before him, and he knew his decision then. The inner aggravation was immediately dispelled with a quiet huff, as the duskwight began, very carefully, attempting to unfold the tiny paper birds.

 

He read the first over. Once, twice, any number of times, smiling softly to himself, as just as many thoughts ran through his mind. But the second one.

 

The second one was harder to unwravel, but the tiny phrases it held caused Xavarian's eyes to grow wide, the Aether to ripple with sparks around him, even though his scepter on his arm held it in check. He covered his mouth for a moment, a small sound escaping a grin, read it over and over, and the other one afterward too.

 

He hurried to grab at some paper, only to push it away to stand. And pace. Time and again he paced forth and back. The duskwight's grin could not be contained, but he worried with it just as much. What did she mean? Was it what he thought? Was it as implied? Was it simply of the story she wished that he hadn't provided? How was he even to reply to that tiny once-bird? He opened his mouth as though to explain himself to the pages. Explain that he had no idea what to tell them.

 

Then he turned away and ran a hand through his hair. "Hells- Hells~"

 

He quickly sat to write, started something. Stopped. Went to push it away, then wrote something more instead. Before he stopped and abruptly stood again. What is wrong with him? He just about abruptly walked right out of his room then, only to turn quickly around, whisking up the pages in hand, to slide them all into his tome, before he quickly fled, as though something may form from the darkness in the room and grab him if he didn't.

 

 

 

Xavarian was only out the door for less than a minute before he was back inside again, yet this time, he began to throw off his layers to replace them with new ones. What he needed was to be absolutely distracted from this; these thoughts whirling about his head would get him nowhere, and he was certain that directing all of his attention to the sea was just the solution. But this time he would be prepared, godsdamnit all. Actually be ready to get as close as he could to the water. Then. Then after he's had his experiments, cleared his mind of all that resonated of the letters and their writer, the way she chirped her quips, the way her words gently coiled themselves around him and twirled, that had him spinning in circles, he might be able to say something about all this. Something not based entirely on what he'd hoped he read.

[Dasair]

Very little went as planned.

 

It wasn't even just a vague sidestep around the plan, but instead, more like a solid punch right into the plan's face before striding with a whistle in the opposite direction. Of course, that makes it sound like it went poorly. Something Xavarian has slowly been learning is, in cases like these, when nothing goes according to plan, it actually results in one of the best outcomes that far supersede what he could otherwise ever hope for.

 

Xavarian and a tired Avis had made their way back from the Mist beaches to the Mizzenmast nearer to evening. The duskwight was carrying a few packs with him, as well as some folded clothes that hid his hands and arms beneath. When the Innkeeper had noted their arrival, Xavarian did his best not to grin profusely, but the effort failed almost as soon as it began, and just caused him even more quiet amusement. He didn't speak overly much though, thanked the innkeeper for letting them in, and only giving a smiling (though possibly flustered) huff at any vague remarks about the returning pair for the later hours.

 

Occasional sidelong glances with repressed mischievous grins to his companion reaffirmed she was still there. That all of that had actually happened. There was a bit of guilt in how giddy he felt next to her exhaustion, and certainly did his absolute damnest to keep it down, though his smile would not be tamed, and neither would the Aetheric warmth and sparks around him. Of course, he was at the same time endearedly concerned; the story-loving scribe had spent gods-know-how-long waiting for him to wake when she only wished to sleep more comfortably herself. Just prior, the two of them had dozed off on the beach after... a terribly, wonderfully unexpected meeting. Though she didn't find slumber as long as he had. What a mess they were~ They had long since dried from their escapade in the sea water, but nonetheless, both of them needed a change, a bath, and probably some less sandy quarters to sort themselves out. If she didn't object, Xavarian would walk Avis back to her room, mostly quiet unless she spoke, (it's always hard to hold conversation when sleepy and the mind is swimming with thought) and likely (sometimes) letting her take the lead when his own musings distracted him from the proper direction.

 

Once at Avis' door, the duskwight stopped, and throwing the clothing he held over his shoulder (the one without the hovering eye-gem above it), Xavarian gave her a soft grin while he took her hand, very gently, for just a short moment. He still was rather timid about the whole physical closeness thing, but damnit, he was trying. Little, harmless sparks began to jump over to her then. "Rest yourself well, Avis of the Heavens~ I.. will have that key, and more answers, for you soon~" His voice came nearly as a whisper, and he couldn't help a tiny snicker at his own first comment. What a dork; but she'd started it. Her hand was released quickly enough, not wanting to keep her any longer than he unintentionally already had done, and he only stayed as long as she chose to keep him before he made his way with quiet steps back to his own room.

 

His door opened. His door closed. Back leaned against that very door still, Xavarian's excitement let itself out in the form of a grin that took over his features, quiet laughter, and the need to cover his warm face. What had just happened~? His thoughts hardly knew where to begin, so he let them roam, formless in pictures and feelings, and instead took in all he felt from them to elicit an overly pleased 'Hm~'. It didn't take the duskwight long for the urge to write it all down to come back to him, and when he finally looked at his table from behind his hands, that was when he remembered.

 

Throwing everything he'd carried down, he scrambled over to the table, dusting himself off of any remaining sand, before pulling out his tome. The letters were reread. His prior unfinished passages too. He didn't have any idea what to write, even still, but he just wanted to, so with no plan at all, all grins, warmth, and sparks, he brought pen to page.

 

[align=center]________[/align]

 

The words had been scrawled without pause, almost a gesture in themselves; when his pen flew across the page, he hardly thought. Just wrote. Only a few times did he stop and consider the pacing, but it was that sort of consideration where your mind is attached more to a feeling than the finessing skill involved. When he was done, he let out a quiet snicker, before reading the page over to see if it made any sense at all. As though he was unsure. In truth, he was. However, he seemed satisfied, then scribbled something quickly on the back of the previous page he'd left unfinished, before standing once more.

 

He had no idea how long that had taken him. It was night again now, and he had few doubts that Avis would be asleep. Which was certainly just as well, he hoped she slept a good long while. His thoughts continued to be more prominent than his actions, and he hardly noticed himself collecting the letters, and walking himself back out the door amidst warmth and sparks.

 

Xavarian ambled down the hall musing. It was when he found himself at the end of the wrong hall that he snorted and tried to muse a little less, but to little avail, and it was the second wrong-hall that made him think a bit more about where his body was wandering instead of his imagination. Eventually, he made it.

 

By the time he was at the door, he had a doofy sort of mischievous grin. Like he was passing along a secret of sorts, one he hoped and thought might make the recipient laugh, or as pleased as he was. Very quietly, as though to not disturb any goings-on on the other side, he slid two pages under the door. Both were of the swirly sort of paper, both had small writings on their backs, which were face up to be seen first. One sheet, though, had gold leaf along its edge.

 

Belatedly, after the papers were out of reach, the duskwight remembered the folded paper birds. A small huff caused the tall man to kneel and get down on all fours, peering under the door, to see if he might reach the letters to do something more elaborate with them, but- well, they were a bit far out of fingers-under-the-door grasp, and- Then he realized what he was doing and abruptly sat himself up, dusting himself off like that certainly didn't just happen, and started cracking up once he was upright again. He had to cover his mouth with both hands, reminding himself to 'shoosh', before he left the door smiling to finally take that bath he desperately needed.

 

 

Friend, and Companion in Messes,

 

You are yet right, in Many Ways.

Or so it takes form to me, in its formless haze,

that we are all translating another.

 

Each other.

 

Or attempting, as such a thing oft means relenting

one way, one time, for a next,

the one we think best,

or instead

what we'd like to hear.

 

Yet there's much less to fear

when the other stands near,

for they can always be asked.

 

Or so I tell myself to last~

And I hope, for now, I can keep from dying

with that.

 

The good translator must realize how wrong they are,

but also how much it

could mean to be right,

that leaping chance,

the one that lingers through light and night;

all circumstance

be damned.

For some things are better learned with

one's own stranding

 

an oft quiet landing

that crashes waves through all

once known.

 

As you have shown.

 

[blot]

 

Yet translating is different from

understanding.

That is where its gift truly hides.

Translation merely shows, at times,

where understanding resides.

Or so I find I think, for while words

are most precious, unending things, can spin worlds

for all that they bring, and sing tales, thoughts, evoke feelings through plots 'twixt ink blots...

 

To understand can defy it all, and bring them more

than there before.

 

[a few more spots]

 

I am not the only one in this mess with ill-ease of translation~

You, too, are Something that I never knew

nor know how to

discern in your Truth.

 

Though I, tip-toing, take to trust you

and adjust my thoughts through

what you Freely give, and your words.

 

I hope what I miss is not thought unheard.

 

And know the utter lack of regret

remains shared between us.

 

I hide in my rhymes that come easier at times than

otherwise; big surprise~

They somehow will come through when I may otherwise hide my eyes.

 

Because I too, worry I am wrong.

Always that I am wrong.

 

But I will tell you

that you can strand me.

Ask me to understand me

if you can find the words~ Which from me, is absurd,

but exactly why I say so. For

 

there is a stir in worry

and if you dislike its flurry

I'll try to answer with more.

 

Though, unassured I'll find the words

from these untranslated worlds unheard,

 

[the letter abruptly ends here]

 

 

 

 

I know not what I write~

Like

cases when the fight

with words is gone,

and their subtle, desperate sounds

escape

before I know to catch them.

 

There are, those times, with which when all

life's rhymes

find themselves lovely chimes.

 

But what say them?

 

May they speak with excited, flighted

squeaks?

 

Do they peer forth, as untold intrest

piques?

 

The anomaly,

an ensemble seen

in the mind, the heart, the whole self

contained

by necessity. Yet

incessantly

does it push forward, beyond the borders

and call,

 

held within, but hardly contained at all,

like language.

The endless, potential sounds, phrases,

combinations of words that cause dazes

where Everything and Nothing are found.

 

For

as you said, when one is bound,

stranded,

there will be more -

an entirely newfound shore -

and in the sand, did

I find myself Found

by those unspeakable sounds,

a new world from which now

to speak? To be?

Where you're there to see it with me?

 

I know not what I write~

But I do so without fright,

while I imagine what world

our shore might lead to.

Where your gentle wars

of color form

into all manner of places,

finding stories in spaces

we may never have before.

 

Within me,

there is an overwleming warm -

beyond the flames I know,

yet its free-chaotic-comfort is so

that it escapes description due;

 

Thus,

the only way to scribe it then

'twixt our messes none too few,

is simpler wrought than I'd have thought.

The answer:

 

'It is you.'

 

[Elysia]

Xavarian's pre-slumber rhyme hadn't helped, or perhaps it should have been uttered again before they'd parted ways inside the inn. For in the morning Avis found herself dragged into consciousness by the abrupt cessation of yet another dream of Ul'dah. It hadn't been an especially unpleasant or vivid dream - indeed, she could recall little about it almost moments after, as she sat up in bed and rubbed sleep out of her eyes; it was simply the sort in which one pursued the fleeing visions endlessly, wondering what the hell happened, who did what, and why - why - why this need to remember. Something old, once again. Something from a very young age that she once loved. Though she could not put into any concrete detail what this memory was, its scent lingered. 

 

She rose sluggishly, sliding out from beneath the sheets only to find that a mildly alarming quantity of sand lay in her bed. Brow furrowed, Avis brushed them absently onto the floor, pulling salt-stiffened hair out of her face with her other hand. Another part of her mind began fighting for dominion over the one lost in the fruitless search for old things. Her lips curved into a half smile, she looked instinctively towards the door and -

 

There they were. Letters. 

 

She picked them up carefully from where they lay, brushing any dirt or sand that lay on them off, and padded back excitedly to her bed with the two precious items. She drew her feet up to her chest as she read, back against the wall, and in so doing restored more specks of sand to their undesirable occupation of her sheets. 

 

Mirth and amusement lit up her features as she read them both. He had fallen hard - though, in truth, so had she, perhaps. She'd needed little persuasion towards the end, though Xavarian had intended none of it, probably did not anticipate or realize the effects of his words on her. In a span of conversations they had tumbled into Something, she knew not what it was, only it wasn't exactly the torrid passion she was used to feeling, it was a wry, quieter fondness whose strength she could not yet discern. 

 

Then she found a Word in the letter, and it all came back to her. 

 

[align=center]***[/align]

 

A bath and some perfunctory sweeping of all the sand into a corner of the room later, Avis found her mind clear enough to write. There was a good deal of hesitation towards the end of her letter, and her quill hovered above the paper (Xavarian's, of course) for a few long minutes as she considered briefly the implications of being accountable. But she wrote it in anyway with a smile. 

 

When she locked her room and strode down the hallway to Xavarian's room, she was fully decked out for a journey - well, as fully decked out as was usual for Avis, of course, she always travelled light. Grimoire, notebook, money, water, gemstone. Check. She was dressed in the long ink blue ensemble that she'd received a few compliments on, the only one that carried any indication that she might, after all, have the aesthetic inclinations of the gentry. 

 

Before she slid the letter under his door, she touched it to her lips without self-consciousness, a hidden message that even Xavarian would not be able to find. Then she left, and if any regret for their misaligned hours existed, it was not to be clearly gleaned from the odd tune she hummed under her breath. 

 

 

Xavarian,

 

What words to awake to in the first light of day. You have bested me at an endeavour I'd assumed I was top of the game in. Certainly you give me a run for my money in both scribery and the art of the love poem.

 

I jest.

 

The Irony is a serendipitous one, no? 

 

Uncanny what language unlocks in its readers, especially in those who have cast words out like a fisher's net over the universe. I sit here, happily lost, and deliriously found, and have to pause at multiple intervals in the writing of this to wander again among your words. What worlds you have given me, and more than you realize, for we who use words are hardly master archers, and the tiniest word employed can cause a ripple we hardly intended. "Ensemble", though hardly a small one in size or definition, unlocks a memory in me, another old one, dredged up from last night's dream.

 

Here is the memory:

 

I am eight or nine when I turn another corner on another street and a motley crew of musicians presents itself before me. Decked out in splotches of wine red and tamarind, they move with the music's swell like tendrils, at once reaching out, then drawing back again. There is a voice, a high, fluty one, belonging to an Adam's apple the likes of which I've never afterwards seen, grotesque in its largeness. I aim a finger in its direction and giggle aloud, and for my youthful discourtesy the warbler, never missing a beat, tosses me a morsel - what it was I cannot remember - but clearly he takes me to be one of the underclass. And then I'm running home with its staleness in my mouth and the song ringing in my ears.

 

This melody is one I've been searching for through dreams, dreams whose contents mostly elude me. I did not know I was looking for a lost song until I found it, this morning, in your letter, in a word. Now I hear with my mind's ears (memory is far less reliable than the physical hearing organs, and surely nothing compared to a duskwight's hearing) a few faint scraps of it, badly eroded by time and memory. It is all that remains, and I am realizing that it has come to stand for an age of laughter, and wonder, and zero consequence, that will never return again -

 

I am not certain why I should be telling you this.

 

Only that a glimmer of this lost age returned with you and I in the sea. I, too, found myself a child again, with you.

 

We have led very different childhoods, but perhaps now, perhaps, this mess makes new  beings of us. We might traverse to odder and stranger places, and navigate them with our maps, our hands and feet, and seas of words. We might play, young and old as we are, with the worlds's constant unmaking, and our own constant unknowing.

 

Meanwhile an errand and - and a Something of the sort I have related here - calls me to Thanalan.

 

I will be I will be back before long,  under-dweller.

 

 

- Avis

 

[Dasair]

It was longer than the duskwight had expected before he returned to the inn. He'd been busy. 'Reorganizing' was a downplayed way to put how much he'd changed his room. Nevermind, he'd been practicing; the Aether channeling in his lesser talented practice of Conjury was, he thought (or at least liked to) getting better. But it had taken quite a hold on his focus lately, as though he needed to do this before much else could be done. After all, they would need more progress on the translating. And while he had discerned some things, it was hardly enough. He wanted to be ready if he should ask another to get what he thought they needed. And even if not for that, he wanted to be ready for what was unexpected. Xavarian felt he'd neglected his studies far too long.

 

Though, no small part of the matter was his continuously spiraling thoughts; an odd thing, that as much as he mused about them, he needed to insist, almost chide himself, into doing more than that. In no small part, they inspired him. In no small part, all of it was a paradox. So in yet another part, finding himself lost in other tasks seemed to somehow make sense.. until he realized it'd been far too long since he'd been to the inn.

 

When he returned, it was there waiting for him. A letter. He didn't even try to hide his smile, the little jumping embers on him attested, and quickly he re-fitted his scepter in its place on his arm before taking up the page, one he'd given, he noticed, to look over. The first few lines read caused a heated huff from the sparking mage, and he thusly decided to place the note down and shuffle around in embarrassed and silent protest a little while, as he used his hands to help kick off his boots. Stocking feet now free, the duskwight retook the letter, then curled himself up on the bed to re-read from the beginning, and the whole way through this time.

 

Grins and quiet snickers abound. Though through it, Xavarian had an endeared smile; that she would tell him such a thing. That she found it clearer through his words. And he found himself, though he knew it be wrong, hearing a tune in his own mind when he read her small story. He opened his mouth then, as though to comment on it, though just cracked up quietly to himself at the thought. Uncanny what language does indeed~

 

The duskwight needed a moment, rereading the letter several times, before just flopping back in his bed. He closed his eyes to listen to what went through his mind. He wasn't quite tired, but he mused for a while, until his musings seemed to give him the energy to up and begin to write in return.

 

[align=center]________[/align]

 

It was already the first signs of morning by the time Xavarian was done, and there was something sleepy to the duskwight's steps as he quietly ambled to deliver his own letter. He got turned around a few times, yet blowing hair from his face was the only reaction he really gave to the mistakes; even then, his thoughts had him in a different place.

 

As he stopped at her door, he almost knocked without thinking. The duskwight let out a snirk, having stopped himself in time to just lightly place his hand on the door, a much less audible gesture, before kneeling instead to slide a single sheet of swirling paper beneath. A yawn escaped him then, tired enough to not even feel embarrassed as he scooted in some for someone passing through the hallway behind him. Though soon enough he rose, and ran a hand through his hair and over his face. A small grin remained. He hoped what he wrote made some amount of sense, but turned his thoughts quickly back to their own musings once more as he quietly returned towards his own room to rest.

 

What a Gift, an Honor, a Something

Between all those; much more akin to what

results a grin who just

arrived

from a soft moment when you Know

that your Words have touched another's

lives.

 

More than one, I think, for a nod to all

the different sorts of quiet sighs we keep by

to face different places with yet slightly

different faces,

and yet, still we keep our paces

aligned

as we Are what we Are still, you see.

 

For Words to touch them all is

a rare thing indeed, but Something I

am all too glad that happened.

And Something you

already do

to me.

 

[blot]

 

I [spot] Your jest~ You've yet

placed phrases more direct

than I seem to be able to wind here instead,

that said,

I may yet try.

 

Though I'll not give up my rhyme~

 

To yet attempt and speak clearer, my Words scatter as it sounded

the fishes did, at times, when something drew nearer. In all directions from what they thought may come

to guide them. Still,

 

that pleased grin remains yet as it will, sitting as it were unmoving

and causing dancing thoughts to spill

on this page. What a poor attempt gave

at writing clearly~

 

And what a fond memory you've shared with me. That I might help you find

a Song~ A rhythm that sounds the way to uncovering, slowly, a place that'd hidden from view or clear thought~ One that seems to have, itself, been dancing through your dreams uncaught.

Even in trickling notes, though, a passing gasp of smoke 'twixt

gentle fingers, I hope you may grasp it more fully found

or

that you, perhaps we, may find that age lost yet anew.

 

[blot]

 

Might I share something too, with you?

 

We see through sound, those under-dwellers 'neath the ground.

 

And it was so, that I, sometimes, when not reading would find

myself young, pressed up to the door's wall, ears and all

listening to the sound of words said or song sung. Your own Words reminded me

of one throated clear melody, a woman's voice I didn't know suddenly sung out

like soft ringing bells, a rhythm that flowed out so well,

I could hear how it lept from the walls.

I could see them, then, all. Eyes closed, that voice brought me on and showed

how the caverns branched, where they turned, and from her voice I learned. I grabbed a page in hand, and a secret map began to take its shape. For, I always mused what it'd be to escape, and of course, I had to be prepared~ In my huddled room, hearing that tune

was a most exciting reminder that there may be more soon. It was proof

of all that lay outside. Helped my dreams abide, showed me the way through the caves I'd barely seen. I would hum it on for days, then, and with it always be pleased.

 

I think that you're right~ I'm so glad you joined me that night.

 

We come from such different young places, but

I would most certainly think, if you do as well, that we are new beings springing forth with Our Mess. Please, let us play, young and old as we are,

with all things digress; the oddest, the strangest - may we follow our maps

and find ourselves off them, yet in our newness make them, if we want them~

May we be such children as in the sea, place together from these journeys an age just to Be, and yet still free.

 

Not the same, but new, as we.

 

[blot]

 

I've just an idea~ But soon enough, perhaps. We'll see~

 

 

 

Until then, may you find well all that calls you to Thanalan.

If you've not already returned~ (This could find you later than I would've hoped, I'm sure.)

 

Travel free, Avis of Above~

 

[there is an elaborate symbolic like script here, though if turned upside down, it reads 'Xavarian']

 

 

[Elysia]

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. 

 

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.  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. 

 

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. 

 

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?"

[Dasair]

The duskwight wasn't that far down the hall, and had certainly heard her words - likely even heard Avis' steps - though he was, of course, rather dreary. That didn't stop him from being completely flustered at her calling (to him, shouting,) through the inn after him. A swirl of warm air and jumping sparks billowed up around Xavarian, and he turned around to face the one who'd caught him. He really wanted to huff, and pout, but was just left with an amused, sleepy sort of grin. After a moment's hesitation, he took a few steps back towards her, though didn't close the distance entirely. Yet. He'd leave that up to her. ... Maybe.

 

"Perhaps~ Per- perhaps to both~ The darkness that is occupied oft surrounds and consumes with little concern for time~ So I found myself for a while, and yet- Well, the free lady of the heavens, for what she gave, is not one I'd wanted to keep waiting any longer~" He briefly rubs his face. "If she had been waiting at all, of course... though~"

 

With a pause, he assumes a wry smirk. "While one may be fraught with missing to risk blinding, might she be willing to break the unspoken rules of Words? Are there such things, these rules? Doth one dare further approach them? Or do Worlds come ever closer to meeting~?"

 

The duskwight's words come surprisingly easily, just sort of spilling out of him almost without thought, his tone quiet. Though, he clearly seems tired. That sort of tired where you just mutter what's on your mind before you stop it to see if it makes any sense at all. He definitely was paying 'sense' very little heed; and those one or two stares likely found it best to keep heading where they were heading by the oddness of the conversation now. Xavarian leaned his shoulder against the wall idly, a comfortable alternative to standing in the middle of a hallway. The small Aetherical sparks still jumped along him, and he wasn't actually thinking anything in particular other than how he actually was pleased to see her, as he waited to see what she'd do now that she'd caught him.

[Elysia]

Now she was smiling like a girl in the height of her adolescence again, glad once more for the language only they shared, no matter how brief this current correspondence lasted. Avis moved slightly more into view and leaned against the door post without stepping completely into the hallway; she was dressed in very simple garb suited for the confines of a room lived in alone, and was only just barely modest. 

 

"Rules?" She gave a little chuckle, though her tone, while teasing, was as quiet as his. "I have little respect for rules... except, perhaps, some grammatical ones. I would not have expected you to be a stickler for them, Xavarian, even your rhymes have an irregularity to them at times. And yet," she added, her mind pleasantly sharpened by the fruits of her 'organization' just a minute before, "rules are certainly intriguing creatures to bend, seduce, or play with. If Worlds should meet eventually, I say let them - there'll always be a corner of it we keep unknowable, bounded simply by, well, rules that make the core of us, us." 

 

She folded her arms, watching his reaction, noting his weariness. She wouldn't keep him if he had to leave.

[Dasair]

Xavarian mirrored a similar sort of smile, rather hopeless in its place there, as he couldn't stop it even if he'd tried. Though a dull realization set in upon seeing how she presented herself, the duskwight somewhat more flustered, temperature reaching a comfortable warm with any number of little sparks on him, like he'd walked in on something, but his tiredness didn't allow his slight worry too long, or at least not quite in the same way. Everything seemed more like the beginnings of a waking dream to him, oddly comfortable, where somehow, to him, everything made sense until someone else brought it to question. Was he interrupting something..? No, no, she had called to him first, hadn't she? Of course he wasn't.

 

Xavarian was a different sort of unruly. His hair was, well, it was the living mess of curls and flippy-ness that it always was, really. The duskwight wore the arguably fancy long-coat he often does; one for traveling or more messy endeavors, a durable thing designed well to fit without discomfort over a chocobo, with all sorts of straps to hold things built right in. Asymmetrical as it was, it seemed somehow as though it was slightly disheveled; what should have been 'down the center' was turned a bit too far to one side, like it may have just been thrown on in a haste only intending for a short time out in public, a necessary evil, but one without much adjusting to it or thought. Here was a mess with dwindling cares for appearances.

 

When Avis spoke, Xavarian was even more pleased, his smile becoming a toothy grin, and a quiet snicker. Her language there. "What you speak, with what words you choose..~" He starts, almost idly. "Yours~ I.. Imagine, though, that by such rules themselves, Challenges are formed~ Those which quietly move ever closer," As he spoke, he slowly did the same with his approach, until the distance between them was much more fitting for a quiet conversation. "subtle by steps, till the newly formed Challenge begins to whisper, to lightly tug the hand of the one who hears its hidden call~ Though these might fall between your spoken lines, should they be so seducing, thus reducing the hard edges of rules to mere waves at play~ And perhaps, then, Worlds might meet this way~" A pause, and a playful snirk. "Or nay, and may elsewhere away~ But by you I stand with such rules; is it not best, that only we are to say? And of course, you are right; the Unknown's quite like to stay~"

 

The duskwight grins a pleased, tired smile, having leaned himself against the wall in his new closer location. Whatever he's saying, it seems to make perfect sense to him, and given pause in the conversation, he may 'rest his eyes' leaning there, if only for a short moment or two.

[Elysia]

Avis had an eyebrow arched through Xavarian's words; verbally he could be abstruse and somewhat harder to follow, especially if he spoke in pieces. Still she understood well enough, especially as he complemented his words with a literal reduction of the distance between them. He was learning, this duskwight. And at the end of his rhymes Avis gave a soft laugh - he'd completely put her earlier one to shame.

 

She took his cue - if a cue it was, one could never be quite certain with Xavarian - and crossed the last few steps to him with scant regard for whoever happened to be watching the odd pair. Smirking up at him, she took his right hand in both of hers, a smooth, natural movement with no trace of tentativeness. "Careful," she said in a low voice, returning the earlier 'gesture' and running her thumb across his palm lines meaningfully, "reading between the lines, or out of the margins can be dangerous. Words and actions can fall out of their proper places. Though I suppose we're no longer strangers to that in the light of 'new shores'... We have been very dangerous, and I dare say, creative." There was, of course, no cautionary note in her voice, only a low tremor of excitement.

 

She'd also seen his eyes close in fatigue for a moment, so she continued, "But you seem hardly awake enough for challenges, even if your mind's sharp enough to make rhymes. Or tangled enough - I will never know which does it. I can be merciful, and have you begin your inevitable perusal of daylight with me another time when we are both physically and intellectually capable of them." 

 

She knew exactly what she was saying; a note of mischief had slid back into her tone. For the time being she was content to observe him, and to be amused by the usual mess he made of his appearance. She had missed him, after all. 

[Dasair]

Xavarian had a dorky smile on his face when Avis had decided to take his hand. Tiny little sparks jumped from his hand to hers as she took it for herself, and they weren't harmful, much as before. He continued to lean against the wall, ever pleased to listen to her words, though seemed to get somewhat flustered again, nonetheless. Certainly not to the levels he may have been if he were more awake, but enough to keep the air warm.

 

"Creative and dangerous..~ I know I'd quite like such things to continue, hm~?"

 

His thoughts end up speaking now more than his speech does, but he still huffs, blowing some hair from his face, though with a smirk at her later comments. "Why can it not be a sharp tangle~? My mind for their rhyme, that is~ Because really, I think both suit well enough for what which-way my words seem to find themselves in their absurd wandering herds, hm? Not that 'wandering herds' sound to be the most elegant of things for which words can be... So I see.. your point~ And-" He huffs again, then laughs, closing his fingers lightly over one of her hands. "Merciful~ You know, that dreadfully sounds like a challenge itself, one that I hardly wish to back away from, and won't! yet... I might fall out of my proper place of consciousness now, by little volition of my own, quite abruptly should I take it, or it take me. What a shame that would be, to miss a moment of it~"

 

He continued to think little of what he was saying as the words were already out before he could contemplate them, leaving little room for him to stutter or amend himself as he was wont to... basically all the rest of the time.

 

"Still, I am pleased you caught me, between the lines as it may be, and- it will happen eventually~ Or I hope, I've not given up~ ... But- but you've a letter, and I'm not here nor there, and-" He finally pauses, his words have been slurring together and growing quieter over time, but he actually seems to realize it for a moment. "And I should likely stop speaking, shouldn't I~? When.. when we are both apt, in body and mind. .... I need to sleep~" He finally ends his patchwork mess of words with an apologetic laugh, placing his other hand briefly over hers. What a scattered goober. What does half of that even mean?

[Elysia]

Again, those curious little sparks of his which had made the not-unwelcome decision to roam onto her hands. She followed them again with an amused interest, but then Xavarian began making a complete mess of his somnolent self, and that had all her attention. 

 

She had to pull a hand from his to cover her mouth as he spoke, but when his 'wandering herds' struck she could not contain herself, giving up an odd, sharp yelp of laughter. Certainly that caused, in the distance, another passing resident's head to turn. Activity was picking up in the Inn. "Wandering herds. Wonderful. I will never look at another La Noscean buffalo buffoon without imagining you - your, your, spu-sputtering - dribs - dribs and d-drabs, of speech, speeches, thoughts, figments, figs, green and sparkling figs~" Again, she contrived to mimick him, though with rather questionable success. "I wonder what strange sort of animal, vegetable or mineral you'd assign to mine were you not half-asleep. It seems to me a delightful experiment to conduct, to compare the quality of your metaphors before and after rest. Though sleep deprivation would certainly raise some ethical issues."

 

She grinned, wondering if he remembered this half-serious aspect of their first conversation those weeks ago. But now she loosed her other hand, and made to turn him around, to steer him in the opposite direction from her doorway. "You should probably go and be a dead, deaf, dark lump in your own room before I... change my mind. And - ah..." As her fingers caught his elbow, she seemed to remember something. "I've got something to return to you, yes~"

[Dasair]

The Aether around the duskwight did an odd thing as the warmth dipped to a stark cool for a moment before raising itself back up. There was a small wince given at her sudden laugh, and about him a few sparks still remained, yet less numerous. He huffs. He might have almost been offended by her mockery... if it wasn't so ridiculous. And he felt that he was probably pretty ridiculous.

 

"Y-yes, well- Hells, hells." Another huff, and he clamps his mouth shut instead of stating how he shouldn't speak again. "A.. a mistake I- as if I were not bad enough- Though I.. can't really deny experiments. . ." He mutters in something more like whispers to himself. But he rubs his face with a hand, and can't help a grin to himself, especially as he's forcibly spun and pushed on. It really doesn't take much from Avis to get him to move, Xavarian just sort of goes with it. There is a snort of amusement, and the warmth seems then to make its return.

 

"Pray tell, how could you change your mind~? I mean, look, listen to what you're dealing with~ And.. Do you?" He looks back to her drearily curious at whatever it was she meant about returning something to him.