Chrysanthemum
Black Currant & Mint
Hello hello - welcome to my very old (five years????????? how??????) interest check that I just keep editing instead of making a new one. It's comfy here, and my preferences haven't changed a ton - but I do edit it frequently to keep it up to date
You can call me Meg, Megan, Chrys, etc.! I've been RP-ing for literally actually 20+ years somehow, and have a style of writing I like to refer to as YA-novel-esque. I'm on the hunt for a very specific type of person - so if you think we'd be a match, shoot me a message with a hello, a writing sample, and what kind of RP you're looking for right now
Jumping right into it - I'm not fond of listing off themes or pairings... Plot-wise I will say that I generally look for:
Now - a little bit about the type of writer I'm looking for.
I'm open to anything fantasy based right now. BUILD A PLOT WITH ME.
See below for some sample writing; pretty standard for what I try to put out.
2020 Halloween contest submission! A bit old now, but it's a stand alone piece, which is nice!
Click for -> Sample 3
You can call me Meg, Megan, Chrys, etc.! I've been RP-ing for literally actually 20+ years somehow, and have a style of writing I like to refer to as YA-novel-esque. I'm on the hunt for a very specific type of person - so if you think we'd be a match, shoot me a message with a hello, a writing sample, and what kind of RP you're looking for right now
Jumping right into it - I'm not fond of listing off themes or pairings... Plot-wise I will say that I generally look for:
- Not fandoms. Sorry
I have a passion for creating new characters in new worlds. - Fantasy based anything. I started off 10 years ago with the generic gifted-school RP plot (lol) and the fantasy/magical elements have always stuck with me.
- Science fiction fantasy too! YES, PLEASE.
- A drizzle of romance. I'm a romantic, I don't watch TV, I need to make my own drama, yada yada. I enjoy smooshing faces together (but not inevitably - I don't like shoving square pegs into round holes).
- 2x2 (unless you can persuade me otherwise). Like I said, I'm a romantic - but I know there are so many other people who RP who are as well. Let me live vicariously through my female while you live through yours, LOL. Not to mention - having more characters adds depth and interest to a plot and allows for multiple/different types of relationships and interactions. I value these platonic relationships as much as any potential romance and think they're equally important to good storytelling.
* Disclaimer * : Because I've encountered misunderstandings a few times- 2x2, or doubling, does not mean everyone is in every scene. If I have pair A + B and you have C + D - sometimes A/C/D, A/C, B/C, A/B/D are going to have their own interactions! If B went to bed and A/C go to have a conversation - let B sleep!
Now - a little bit about the type of writer I'm looking for.
- I'm looking for a literate/descriptive/veteran roleplayer, I appreciate care, attention to detail and description
- Someone comfortable with mature themes, character flaws, violence, etc.
- Someone who is comfortable with communicating their needs - time wise, interest in the story wise, etc. I like maintaining a dialogue that's going on and let's be real, we've all been ghosted and it stinks.
- I prefer longer posts... a handful of paragraphs. Having thought put into them. 500-1000+ words is my MO lately.
- If you see this, please tell me your favorite color when you PM me!
- We can be FRIENDS!
I'm open to anything fantasy based right now. BUILD A PLOT WITH ME.
See below for some sample writing; pretty standard for what I try to put out.
“Vilder.”
The trees in the courtyard were beginning to mottle with the colors of fall. It was early for that. Would their proximity to condensed magical fields speed that process along?
“Vilder.”
There weren’t many trees in the city. It was better, here on the fringe, but the ones that did line the cobbled walks looked sad and strangled. The varieties they’d chosen to plant weren’t conducive to such limited area for root growth, and the tall buildings limited the sunlight. Maybe with -
A book descended from the air in front of Ephram Vilder, startling him out of his thoughts with a resounding slam as it met the desk. Eph, as he preferred, wildly flicked the wand rolling between his idle fingers into the floor. With a put-upon grimace he began searching for it, ignoring the looming shadow in front of him to mutter curses and rifle under his affronted neighbors’ desk. Dropping his hand on it, Eph plucked the wand from beneath and jammed the slick, carven spear of antler into its hip sheath.
Only once his wand had been secured did Eph look up, smiling tensely at Professor Bellamy, a tall, blonde man with blue eyes as flat as a pond in winter. That frigidity extended across his features, stern expectation now giving Eph the sense that he may have missed something important.
“…Yes? Sir?” he ventured, blinking in the face of the Professor’s derisive snort and the murmuring laughs of the student body.
The Professor closed his eyes, raising his fingers to pinch at the frustrated wrinkle at the bridge of his nose. “Vilder, you’d think that as a student here on scholarship, you’d be working harder to deserve the money the Academy is spending on your education,” he drawled, attempting gravitas and only succeeding in grating against Eph’s raw nerves. Something hot and smoking took new life in his gut, reminiscent of ash and ember.
“I was asking a question on the spell most predominantly used for candle lighting, but as you don’t seem to require the lecture, perhaps you can demonstrate for us?” Professor Bellamy gestured to the front of the room where a candelabra sat, bearing three thick, waxy candles, their wicks already burnt from previous attempts.
Eph blinked once more, this time putting effort into the expression of disbelieving appraisal. “I’m sure there is someone else here who could benefit more from the practice, sir,” he tried, not liking the frustrated boil of magic under his skin. Eph only made fire when he was willing to accept the losing odds in a gamble. Fire was too variable. Even if it listened when you cast it sometimes it could change its mind and do something else – something less, or something worse. He didn’t think anyone would understand him though.
Professor Bellamy said nothing at first, taking a seat behind his desk and gesturing again to the candelabra. “Don’t make me ask again, boy. Light it.” With a creak of his chair, the Professor leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach as if he’d won a bet.
Eph stayed seated. “No thank you, sir,” he said neatly, hearing the bell toll for classes end and beginning to pack his belongings. Around him, no one moved. Away went the quill, heralding the sound of Professor Bellamy’s chair shrieking backwards, away his notebook, punctuated by four long, angry steps. Eph shouldered his worn leather bag and stood, unsurprised to find himself suddenly nose to nose with the Professor. The words ‘light it’ were forming in the man’s mouth, and Eph sighed, halting him and invoking the most humorous look of incredulity on the Professor’s face he’d ever seen.
“Draft a letter to Professor Sumner, if I’ve challenged your ego enough. I won’t do it, you cannot make me,” Eph spoke with soft finality, “Thank you for your illuminating lecture, Professor. Have a good day.” Eph bowed stiffly, aware of his elbows and if he let them flare too far how much the patches in his coat would stand out. He left the bewildered Professor spluttering behind him, more self-conscious of the whispers and quiet jeering of his peers as he took the stairs out of the lecture hall two at a time.
Outside of the lecture hall, Eph stood and wrung his hands into the old bag sagging over his shoulder. He thought, quickly, of all the other things he could have done. Like walk up and light them with a match. Or summon a quick rain, instead. Anything other than flee, his pants hiked around his ankles, untailored and patchy. He couldn’t afford the uniform, and he couldn’t ask Professor Sumner for anything else. She’d already given him so much – his books, studying supplies, an alchemist’s toolkit. Understanding, too. She understood. Bellamy would most certainly write to her now, though Eph was sure she would understand his reasoning. It would not have been a good look unleash a blaze on the Academy’s largest lecture hall.
Eph felt displaced here. Full silver bells hung silent in the windows, polished and gleaming on their cords of white silk. A single cord of bells would change the lives of any small village. In the capital city of Astryn, in the Royal Academy, silver was not a rare commodity. Homes didn’t bother with saltfences, and the silk curtains they draped from the windows were ornately embroidered. They decorated what others bled for out of necessity.
It was still surreal, months after his arrival, years after having left home, drifting for a purpose. He didn’t fit with the students here, pampered men and women who were learning to light candles in their second year. Eph had been doing that since his magic had manifested, at age five – wordlessly. Wandlessly. It wasn’t that hard to reach out to the elements and just ask, but the gentry hadn’t had much of a reason to try until challenged to do so within the safe realm of academia. It wasn’t his fault years of necessary, practical application looked prodigal to these soft bodies.
With a flicker of petty fury, Eph succumbed to his whims and tugged on the moisture in the air, pulling out his wand and scrawling several runes in the air. Eph had often found the best results came with releasing magic without thoroughly defining it, giving natures wild energy a path for which to flow but not dictating its end. Who was he to tell the rain where to fall?
And if the rain decided to fall very particularly of Professor Bellamy’s head, who was he to disagree?
A wild shout of affront echoed from inside the lecture hall, and Eph snorted in amusement, sheathing his wand again and turning left. Theodosia stood in the doorway of the sitting room, as she had been since the start of last week. Eph was surprised to see her, bemused by her intentions as always.
However, today was not the day for indulging his private shock. Muttering some quick pleasantry, Eph scurried into the room, ushering her in before him and shutting the door behind them.
“Countess,” he bowed again, this time with the proper reverence. Standing, Eph worked at gathering his faculties, dragging a hand through his mussed brown hair, finding that he’d forgotten to comb it again. Scowling at himself, Eph glanced warily at the door as Professor Bellamy’s shouting began echoing down the hall. The sound of rain patterned after him, and Eph failed to keep the sly smirk from his features. No one would suspect him sitting for tea with the Countess Steele, meaning he was safe for the handful of minutes she required his attention. He was unsure as to why she required it so consistently, but there was no denying her perfect timing today.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Laungrad Keep had been a beautiful place, once upon a time. It sat perched against the hillside like the lofted wing of a dove, all shades of soft, featherweight greys. When it was built they had mined into the mountainside, carving out blocks of hearty granite to make way for hallways, larders, barracks. It was an old keep. There were no records of its inception, no name to give the brave architect who had designed the sturdy, innovative interlocking of the stone, who had conceptualized the sweeping, angled roof that prevented the heavy snow from pillowing. Once, during the war, it had hosted armies.
After the war, Laungrad's name had been lost to the annuls of time, deserted by the victors and left to stare hollow and barren over the well-sized town of Gradenstowne. Astar had resurrected Laungrad's name, discovering it in a crumbling geographic text wedged in a far corner of the city hall’s library. It sat in her bag now and would be instrumental in navigating the Northlands once she moved on. The maps contained in the tomb more detailed than more recent renditions. The Academy didn't waste time funding surveying missions when there were more magical pursuits available.
The townsfolk claimed that Laungrad had been abandoned for decades, turning the keep into ghost stories to scare their children with. They’d explained to Astar that Gradenstowne had been in Laungrad’s shadow for time immemorial, and that it was as natural as living with the chance of rain. The adults took turns keeping watch, maintaining an unbroken salt line around the perimeter, tucking it into a shielded groove in the carefully constructed saltfence.
Scraps of silk clung to the fence too, and the odd bell or two, but Astar was certain that whatever was living within the confines of the keep paid little heed to the towns attempts at maintaining a firm boundary.
It started with livestock, they said. Wolves weren’t uncommon in these parts, but the towns hunters swore they hadn’t seen a pack in months. No tracks. Pets next. A dog here, a cat there.
Astar had arrived at Gradenstowne to the raucous terror of a child gone missing. A day of preparation later and she was standing in the cold and the damp, burrowed beneath her fur lined cloak to hide from the early snow that was common this far north. One hand lingered on the heavy weight of the double-barreled shotgun holstered against her side. Dressed like a man in heavy boots and pants, she had cut a bewildering figure upon her arrival. There were no curls in her white-blonde hair, fashionable ringlets sacrificed for a functional braid that pinned ironclad against her scalp. She had arrived on horseback, intending to only stay for a night on her way back to Astryn.
The whispers of fear kept her. Pushed her to the hillside, where she now lingered, staring vacantly at the shredded, sodden silk that framed the crumbling hole in the stonework of the saltfence. Clear on the opposite side from the town, she wondered how many of them had been shirking their duties for this to have gone so unnoticed. She wondered if any of them would have took note of the lack of birdsong, or the way the wind seemed to still. How the shadows on this side of the keep seemed to heave, twisting in the slivered, lancet windows that faced the treeline.
Astar would be going into the keep then.
The innkeeper had thought it odd when she’d handed him a letter this morning with instruction to send it only if she did not return before nightfall, but it was a necessary precaution. The practice had saved her life once or twice before, a fail safe to summon academy mages if she failed in her duty.
She would not fail. She would go inside, say, ‘Fuck the Allmother’, and shoot whatever demon she found in the face with two hollow-point silver slugs, filled with silver-thistle moonsalt. Then she would find the dead child and mourn, then cover his eyes with silver pieces and wrap him in the silk shroud she carried in her bag.
Then she would carry him home.
Then, after a night of hard drinking, she would draft another letter to her family that she would actually mail, telling them of her success. And unlike her unsent plea for help, that one would go ignored.
Astar scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, exhaling soft and slow, taking a moment to cobble together her ferocity, her anger, every inch of strength that she derived from her spiteful desire to thrive and conquer in the face of circumstance. Astar didn't need the Allmother, or her magic. She would face demons, and survive, on her own merit.
Dropping her bag against the outside of the wall, Astarte Sumner took a step over the boundary wall and entered Laungrad, wreathed in all its breathing shadows.
The trees in the courtyard were beginning to mottle with the colors of fall. It was early for that. Would their proximity to condensed magical fields speed that process along?
“Vilder.”
There weren’t many trees in the city. It was better, here on the fringe, but the ones that did line the cobbled walks looked sad and strangled. The varieties they’d chosen to plant weren’t conducive to such limited area for root growth, and the tall buildings limited the sunlight. Maybe with -
A book descended from the air in front of Ephram Vilder, startling him out of his thoughts with a resounding slam as it met the desk. Eph, as he preferred, wildly flicked the wand rolling between his idle fingers into the floor. With a put-upon grimace he began searching for it, ignoring the looming shadow in front of him to mutter curses and rifle under his affronted neighbors’ desk. Dropping his hand on it, Eph plucked the wand from beneath and jammed the slick, carven spear of antler into its hip sheath.
Only once his wand had been secured did Eph look up, smiling tensely at Professor Bellamy, a tall, blonde man with blue eyes as flat as a pond in winter. That frigidity extended across his features, stern expectation now giving Eph the sense that he may have missed something important.
“…Yes? Sir?” he ventured, blinking in the face of the Professor’s derisive snort and the murmuring laughs of the student body.
The Professor closed his eyes, raising his fingers to pinch at the frustrated wrinkle at the bridge of his nose. “Vilder, you’d think that as a student here on scholarship, you’d be working harder to deserve the money the Academy is spending on your education,” he drawled, attempting gravitas and only succeeding in grating against Eph’s raw nerves. Something hot and smoking took new life in his gut, reminiscent of ash and ember.
“I was asking a question on the spell most predominantly used for candle lighting, but as you don’t seem to require the lecture, perhaps you can demonstrate for us?” Professor Bellamy gestured to the front of the room where a candelabra sat, bearing three thick, waxy candles, their wicks already burnt from previous attempts.
Eph blinked once more, this time putting effort into the expression of disbelieving appraisal. “I’m sure there is someone else here who could benefit more from the practice, sir,” he tried, not liking the frustrated boil of magic under his skin. Eph only made fire when he was willing to accept the losing odds in a gamble. Fire was too variable. Even if it listened when you cast it sometimes it could change its mind and do something else – something less, or something worse. He didn’t think anyone would understand him though.
Professor Bellamy said nothing at first, taking a seat behind his desk and gesturing again to the candelabra. “Don’t make me ask again, boy. Light it.” With a creak of his chair, the Professor leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach as if he’d won a bet.
Eph stayed seated. “No thank you, sir,” he said neatly, hearing the bell toll for classes end and beginning to pack his belongings. Around him, no one moved. Away went the quill, heralding the sound of Professor Bellamy’s chair shrieking backwards, away his notebook, punctuated by four long, angry steps. Eph shouldered his worn leather bag and stood, unsurprised to find himself suddenly nose to nose with the Professor. The words ‘light it’ were forming in the man’s mouth, and Eph sighed, halting him and invoking the most humorous look of incredulity on the Professor’s face he’d ever seen.
“Draft a letter to Professor Sumner, if I’ve challenged your ego enough. I won’t do it, you cannot make me,” Eph spoke with soft finality, “Thank you for your illuminating lecture, Professor. Have a good day.” Eph bowed stiffly, aware of his elbows and if he let them flare too far how much the patches in his coat would stand out. He left the bewildered Professor spluttering behind him, more self-conscious of the whispers and quiet jeering of his peers as he took the stairs out of the lecture hall two at a time.
Outside of the lecture hall, Eph stood and wrung his hands into the old bag sagging over his shoulder. He thought, quickly, of all the other things he could have done. Like walk up and light them with a match. Or summon a quick rain, instead. Anything other than flee, his pants hiked around his ankles, untailored and patchy. He couldn’t afford the uniform, and he couldn’t ask Professor Sumner for anything else. She’d already given him so much – his books, studying supplies, an alchemist’s toolkit. Understanding, too. She understood. Bellamy would most certainly write to her now, though Eph was sure she would understand his reasoning. It would not have been a good look unleash a blaze on the Academy’s largest lecture hall.
Eph felt displaced here. Full silver bells hung silent in the windows, polished and gleaming on their cords of white silk. A single cord of bells would change the lives of any small village. In the capital city of Astryn, in the Royal Academy, silver was not a rare commodity. Homes didn’t bother with saltfences, and the silk curtains they draped from the windows were ornately embroidered. They decorated what others bled for out of necessity.
It was still surreal, months after his arrival, years after having left home, drifting for a purpose. He didn’t fit with the students here, pampered men and women who were learning to light candles in their second year. Eph had been doing that since his magic had manifested, at age five – wordlessly. Wandlessly. It wasn’t that hard to reach out to the elements and just ask, but the gentry hadn’t had much of a reason to try until challenged to do so within the safe realm of academia. It wasn’t his fault years of necessary, practical application looked prodigal to these soft bodies.
With a flicker of petty fury, Eph succumbed to his whims and tugged on the moisture in the air, pulling out his wand and scrawling several runes in the air. Eph had often found the best results came with releasing magic without thoroughly defining it, giving natures wild energy a path for which to flow but not dictating its end. Who was he to tell the rain where to fall?
And if the rain decided to fall very particularly of Professor Bellamy’s head, who was he to disagree?
A wild shout of affront echoed from inside the lecture hall, and Eph snorted in amusement, sheathing his wand again and turning left. Theodosia stood in the doorway of the sitting room, as she had been since the start of last week. Eph was surprised to see her, bemused by her intentions as always.
However, today was not the day for indulging his private shock. Muttering some quick pleasantry, Eph scurried into the room, ushering her in before him and shutting the door behind them.
“Countess,” he bowed again, this time with the proper reverence. Standing, Eph worked at gathering his faculties, dragging a hand through his mussed brown hair, finding that he’d forgotten to comb it again. Scowling at himself, Eph glanced warily at the door as Professor Bellamy’s shouting began echoing down the hall. The sound of rain patterned after him, and Eph failed to keep the sly smirk from his features. No one would suspect him sitting for tea with the Countess Steele, meaning he was safe for the handful of minutes she required his attention. He was unsure as to why she required it so consistently, but there was no denying her perfect timing today.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Laungrad Keep had been a beautiful place, once upon a time. It sat perched against the hillside like the lofted wing of a dove, all shades of soft, featherweight greys. When it was built they had mined into the mountainside, carving out blocks of hearty granite to make way for hallways, larders, barracks. It was an old keep. There were no records of its inception, no name to give the brave architect who had designed the sturdy, innovative interlocking of the stone, who had conceptualized the sweeping, angled roof that prevented the heavy snow from pillowing. Once, during the war, it had hosted armies.
After the war, Laungrad's name had been lost to the annuls of time, deserted by the victors and left to stare hollow and barren over the well-sized town of Gradenstowne. Astar had resurrected Laungrad's name, discovering it in a crumbling geographic text wedged in a far corner of the city hall’s library. It sat in her bag now and would be instrumental in navigating the Northlands once she moved on. The maps contained in the tomb more detailed than more recent renditions. The Academy didn't waste time funding surveying missions when there were more magical pursuits available.
The townsfolk claimed that Laungrad had been abandoned for decades, turning the keep into ghost stories to scare their children with. They’d explained to Astar that Gradenstowne had been in Laungrad’s shadow for time immemorial, and that it was as natural as living with the chance of rain. The adults took turns keeping watch, maintaining an unbroken salt line around the perimeter, tucking it into a shielded groove in the carefully constructed saltfence.
Scraps of silk clung to the fence too, and the odd bell or two, but Astar was certain that whatever was living within the confines of the keep paid little heed to the towns attempts at maintaining a firm boundary.
It started with livestock, they said. Wolves weren’t uncommon in these parts, but the towns hunters swore they hadn’t seen a pack in months. No tracks. Pets next. A dog here, a cat there.
Astar had arrived at Gradenstowne to the raucous terror of a child gone missing. A day of preparation later and she was standing in the cold and the damp, burrowed beneath her fur lined cloak to hide from the early snow that was common this far north. One hand lingered on the heavy weight of the double-barreled shotgun holstered against her side. Dressed like a man in heavy boots and pants, she had cut a bewildering figure upon her arrival. There were no curls in her white-blonde hair, fashionable ringlets sacrificed for a functional braid that pinned ironclad against her scalp. She had arrived on horseback, intending to only stay for a night on her way back to Astryn.
The whispers of fear kept her. Pushed her to the hillside, where she now lingered, staring vacantly at the shredded, sodden silk that framed the crumbling hole in the stonework of the saltfence. Clear on the opposite side from the town, she wondered how many of them had been shirking their duties for this to have gone so unnoticed. She wondered if any of them would have took note of the lack of birdsong, or the way the wind seemed to still. How the shadows on this side of the keep seemed to heave, twisting in the slivered, lancet windows that faced the treeline.
Astar would be going into the keep then.
The innkeeper had thought it odd when she’d handed him a letter this morning with instruction to send it only if she did not return before nightfall, but it was a necessary precaution. The practice had saved her life once or twice before, a fail safe to summon academy mages if she failed in her duty.
She would not fail. She would go inside, say, ‘Fuck the Allmother’, and shoot whatever demon she found in the face with two hollow-point silver slugs, filled with silver-thistle moonsalt. Then she would find the dead child and mourn, then cover his eyes with silver pieces and wrap him in the silk shroud she carried in her bag.
Then she would carry him home.
Then, after a night of hard drinking, she would draft another letter to her family that she would actually mail, telling them of her success. And unlike her unsent plea for help, that one would go ignored.
Astar scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, exhaling soft and slow, taking a moment to cobble together her ferocity, her anger, every inch of strength that she derived from her spiteful desire to thrive and conquer in the face of circumstance. Astar didn't need the Allmother, or her magic. She would face demons, and survive, on her own merit.
Dropping her bag against the outside of the wall, Astarte Sumner took a step over the boundary wall and entered Laungrad, wreathed in all its breathing shadows.
Oh, he was trouble. Trouble, trouble that was fingerprint warm, Cassius’s footsteps a descending echo from the stairwell. Ari watched him go with a quiet swallow, looking up at Kestri and Tahlia’s tiny smiles and returning their knowing looks with a bashful shrug. “I asked him not to tease, last night. He said he wasn’t,” she explained briefly, fiddling with her empty teacup, thoughtfully trailing a finger around the fine porcelain edge. Her small smile crept flat and pensive, gaze distant even as it searched the bottom of her cup.
Kestri sat back in his chair with a slow creak, spying the uncertainty in the faint dip of Ari’s brow, passing Tahlia a look as if she might have better clarity than himself. When neither of them had much concrete reassurances to offer, Kestri sighed and sat forward leaning his forearms onto the table. “Will you make us guess the extra words?” he prodded, flashing her reassuring slip of a smile when she peeked at him, nose wrinkling in exasperation.
“No extra words to guess. I’ve just… never…” Ari trailed off, seeming even more miserable by this admission, resentful of her inexperience in all things.
Again, Kestri and Tahlia shared a little look, both of them hunting for understanding in the others expression. Clicking his tongue in consideration, Kestri took another stab, picking up the teapot Ari had poured from and adding more of the hot beverage to her cup. “You enjoy experiencing new things,” he pointed out, raising his forefinger to punctuate his statement, setting the kettle down, “Why is this different?”
Ari looked up from the steaming liquid, mouth drawn taught and tense. She loosened it with a hesitant sip, looking up and searching their attention before answering Kestri’s question quietly, “I enjoy being a student of life, that is not the problem. The problem is that not everyone enjoys being a teacher.” Ari shifted in her seat, adding with another sigh, “I would be upset to force Cassius into the role of yet another resentful mentor, with what limited time we probably have.”
That fact was something that had taken Ari a very long time to learn. As a child it had gone quite over her head, attention not yet fine tuned enough to hear the exasperation in the answers to her questions. It had come slowly, small moments stacking upon each other to write one irrefutable truth; the roll of her sisters’ eyes when she asked for help applying blush, the humoring smile the head scribe wore when she asked after the purpose of a punctuation mark when transcribing a spell. No, some did not like teaching. In fact, many seemed to think that the worlds mysteries simply revealed themselves to others as if through osmosis, passing from the air and through skin into miraculous knowing.
Most of what Ari had learned she had read in books or picked up through ceaseless watching. Watching the old fishermen at the docks to learn their knots, watching the mages slide books back onto the shelves, watching her sisters and their husbands take to the dance floor, the intuitive places their hands fell as they held each other close.
Cassius had enjoyed teaching magic, wonders of wonders, but what if he’d overestimated her otherwise? What if he thought she knew what she was doing when she didn’t, not at all. Ari barely knew what a hand on her shoulder felt like, let alone the one he’d wrapped around her waist last night.
What if she said the wrong thing? Or the right thing at the wrong time? What if she did too many things incorrectly and he grew exasperated with her inexperience, changed his mind and treated her like a child?
Was worrying about immaturity a sign of immaturity? Probably! Fuck!
Not to mention the inevitability that once they found a place with good enough soil, they would expect her to settle roots somewhere.
Ari barked a quiet laugh, visibly pulling herself from her thoughts and flickering Kestri and Tahlia a reassuring smile that wasn’t reassuring at all, “And besides,” she chucked unconvincingly, standing with a groan, “Look at me, falling to pieces after two weeks on the road.”
One of them opened their mouths to protest, something about the trip being hard for anyone, but Ari cut it off with a genial wave of her hand, shuffling to her room and returning with her coin pouch. “Yes, yes. But I’m the one on bedrest, aren’t I?” she sucked on her teeth for a moment, already thinking about something else as she appraised the interior of the pouch.
Closing the book on the conversation Kestri had attempted to pry open, Ari asked after the cost of paper and writing utensils. Neither Tahlia or Kestri had known specifically, but Kestri volunteered to venture out and purchase something for her as Tahlia took the opportunity offer a more restful attempt at sleep. They hadn’t managed it last night, between all the disparate conversations and Ari’s plummet towards unconsciousness after Cassius’s departure.
It helped now though, lowering Ari into the deepest of sleep, beyond the reach of nightmares and the pain of overtaxed muscles. Tahlia couldn’t do much to heal them, much like a callous, the process was necessary and natural for progress.
When Tahlia returned from Ari’s room, Kestri was standing in the lounge, dressed for a quick outing and sporting his stave in his hand, held like a walking stick. “I think our Ari might just have different kinds of logs to kick over, yes?” he asked, nose wrinkled in mild frustration as he tied off his sash and looked up at Tahlia, reaching up to tug on a lock of her hair.
“Paper and pens, then. Any treats for you, mierla, while I am out?” he teased quietly, a sincere note lurking behind his smile, indulgence sparkling in his eyes with a swift, golden gleam.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kestri returned only an hour later with a small stack of purchases, three wrapped packages that dwindled to one after a swift and silent visit to Ari’s bedroom alongside a tray of something steaming that he’d brought up with him.
He returned from her room with the book from Bellamy’s office beneath his elbow, settling into the armchair across Tahlia and placing his stave against the wall beside them both. He’d keep it within reach until Cassius returned, prepared, if need to be, to depart with a kick through a window and a gust of wind.
“To celebrate our singular holiday,” Kestri said as he handed over the last package, grinning as Tahlia opened it to reveal an array of meticulously crafted sweets; short, crumbly cookies layered with decorative chocolate of various colors and flavors.
They’d caught his eye on his winding path back to the inn, unsuccessful in his efforts to find a shop with musical instruments. Kestri informed Tahlia as much (with only a minor pout), as he curled back in the armchair, pulling the book into his lap and holding it shut when Nona arrived with a fresh pot of tea to pair with the treat.
The morning passed slowly, anxiety a quiet undercurrent as they idled, splitting their time between reading and talking. Kestri openly shared his findings with Tahlia as he read, sharing what he knew of High Enyir, the language it was written in, and pointing out names as he went. His, Nuriel’s, Daveithai of the Moonlit Night (very powerful, and a bit of a wanderer himself), Jehoel, reigning over a volcanic island between Mercovar and Titrya, Matriel, who had resided in the Kalliaza River before vanishing herself several centuries ago, and more. A handful of names that seemed more or less centered on their current continent, an attempt at recording the approximate whereabouts and concerns of relevant Enyir.
Kestri was sure it had belonged to one of his kin, though he couldn’t tell who would have authored such a record. He thought many of his kin intolerable, but none of them typically displayed such incredible idiocy. Except himself, apparently.
It made him worry after Matriel’s fate. Perhaps she had penned it in an effort to draft a list to warn? Perhaps she’d fallen to Mercovar’s intentions? Impossible to tell. Bellamy’s notes didn’t shed much insight on its origin either, as they were mostly speculations on how to best make use of the information contained. Poor attempts at translation, most names overlooked or misidentified.
Kestri voiced his thoughts and shut the book, busily speculating with Tahlia between very important bites of cookie when Cassius returned.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Ari woke to the scent of chocolate and the quiet sound of conversation outside her door, smearing her hands over her face and rolling over to burrow into the covers. After several minutes of dozing, Ari parsed out Cassius’s voice amongst them and decided it was time to join the living, feeling marginally clearer of mind.
Someone had set a tray at her bedside, a little card folded and stoop upright, tight, neat script pointing describing the various items that awaited her attention. A mug of liquid chocolate, thinned with milk and cream and spelled to keep warm sat alongside two capsules of ground willow bark, which were a natural remedy for inflammation. These she downed quickly, stifling a gasp of appreciation for the beverage as she continued to read, moving to appreciate a moderate sheaf of thick, creamy parchment and a writing set containing three inkwells in differing colors and two dip pens made of glass, pretty by nature but designed for utility.
She’d been expecting two rolls of browned parchment and a stick of charcoal. Not to mention, the coin purse that sat behind it all felt no lighter.
It was helpful that they were out there, and she was in here. Ari could splutter on her confusion privately for a moment, sipping on the warm chocolate and pretending the heat from the drink was what colored her cheeks.
Presents were new. Was this a present? It was as thoughtful as one ought to be.
Perhaps she was a liar, if this was how she was going to react to every novel experience. Not a happy student of life but a terribly anxious and apprehensive one, apparently. She needed to work on that.
Choosing to think of the pens as a good thing (how could they be anything but?), Ari stood and brushed out her hair before changing into something more suitable for the day, buttoning her trousers neatly and donning one of her last clean blouses. It was one of the two that she’d taken from her home, both white and buttoned with bishop sleeves, collars and cuffs decorated in moderate gold embroidery.
“Rested,” Ari chimed after the tail end of Cassius’s statement, her hands tucking behind her back as she slipped from her room, “As much as I can be for today, at least. Thank you, Tahlia, I think it really helped.” She nodded to Tahlia as she spoke, chewing on her bottom lip and glancing at Cassius out of the corner of her eye.
Not nearly subtle enough, Ari gave up and turned to appraise him openly, nodding in satisfaction when he appeared whole and well. Not having heard what prompted his answer, Ari asked her own variation of the same question.
“Well, you look fine, so I suppose I’ll take your word,” she said after his answer, grinning despite herself, insecurities and exhaustion settling at the bottom of her concerns, pure sediment in comparison to Cassius’s arrival. “What about the book? He liked it?”
Kestri sat back in his chair with a slow creak, spying the uncertainty in the faint dip of Ari’s brow, passing Tahlia a look as if she might have better clarity than himself. When neither of them had much concrete reassurances to offer, Kestri sighed and sat forward leaning his forearms onto the table. “Will you make us guess the extra words?” he prodded, flashing her reassuring slip of a smile when she peeked at him, nose wrinkling in exasperation.
“No extra words to guess. I’ve just… never…” Ari trailed off, seeming even more miserable by this admission, resentful of her inexperience in all things.
Again, Kestri and Tahlia shared a little look, both of them hunting for understanding in the others expression. Clicking his tongue in consideration, Kestri took another stab, picking up the teapot Ari had poured from and adding more of the hot beverage to her cup. “You enjoy experiencing new things,” he pointed out, raising his forefinger to punctuate his statement, setting the kettle down, “Why is this different?”
Ari looked up from the steaming liquid, mouth drawn taught and tense. She loosened it with a hesitant sip, looking up and searching their attention before answering Kestri’s question quietly, “I enjoy being a student of life, that is not the problem. The problem is that not everyone enjoys being a teacher.” Ari shifted in her seat, adding with another sigh, “I would be upset to force Cassius into the role of yet another resentful mentor, with what limited time we probably have.”
That fact was something that had taken Ari a very long time to learn. As a child it had gone quite over her head, attention not yet fine tuned enough to hear the exasperation in the answers to her questions. It had come slowly, small moments stacking upon each other to write one irrefutable truth; the roll of her sisters’ eyes when she asked for help applying blush, the humoring smile the head scribe wore when she asked after the purpose of a punctuation mark when transcribing a spell. No, some did not like teaching. In fact, many seemed to think that the worlds mysteries simply revealed themselves to others as if through osmosis, passing from the air and through skin into miraculous knowing.
Most of what Ari had learned she had read in books or picked up through ceaseless watching. Watching the old fishermen at the docks to learn their knots, watching the mages slide books back onto the shelves, watching her sisters and their husbands take to the dance floor, the intuitive places their hands fell as they held each other close.
Cassius had enjoyed teaching magic, wonders of wonders, but what if he’d overestimated her otherwise? What if he thought she knew what she was doing when she didn’t, not at all. Ari barely knew what a hand on her shoulder felt like, let alone the one he’d wrapped around her waist last night.
What if she said the wrong thing? Or the right thing at the wrong time? What if she did too many things incorrectly and he grew exasperated with her inexperience, changed his mind and treated her like a child?
Was worrying about immaturity a sign of immaturity? Probably! Fuck!
Not to mention the inevitability that once they found a place with good enough soil, they would expect her to settle roots somewhere.
Ari barked a quiet laugh, visibly pulling herself from her thoughts and flickering Kestri and Tahlia a reassuring smile that wasn’t reassuring at all, “And besides,” she chucked unconvincingly, standing with a groan, “Look at me, falling to pieces after two weeks on the road.”
One of them opened their mouths to protest, something about the trip being hard for anyone, but Ari cut it off with a genial wave of her hand, shuffling to her room and returning with her coin pouch. “Yes, yes. But I’m the one on bedrest, aren’t I?” she sucked on her teeth for a moment, already thinking about something else as she appraised the interior of the pouch.
Closing the book on the conversation Kestri had attempted to pry open, Ari asked after the cost of paper and writing utensils. Neither Tahlia or Kestri had known specifically, but Kestri volunteered to venture out and purchase something for her as Tahlia took the opportunity offer a more restful attempt at sleep. They hadn’t managed it last night, between all the disparate conversations and Ari’s plummet towards unconsciousness after Cassius’s departure.
It helped now though, lowering Ari into the deepest of sleep, beyond the reach of nightmares and the pain of overtaxed muscles. Tahlia couldn’t do much to heal them, much like a callous, the process was necessary and natural for progress.
When Tahlia returned from Ari’s room, Kestri was standing in the lounge, dressed for a quick outing and sporting his stave in his hand, held like a walking stick. “I think our Ari might just have different kinds of logs to kick over, yes?” he asked, nose wrinkled in mild frustration as he tied off his sash and looked up at Tahlia, reaching up to tug on a lock of her hair.
“Paper and pens, then. Any treats for you, mierla, while I am out?” he teased quietly, a sincere note lurking behind his smile, indulgence sparkling in his eyes with a swift, golden gleam.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kestri returned only an hour later with a small stack of purchases, three wrapped packages that dwindled to one after a swift and silent visit to Ari’s bedroom alongside a tray of something steaming that he’d brought up with him.
He returned from her room with the book from Bellamy’s office beneath his elbow, settling into the armchair across Tahlia and placing his stave against the wall beside them both. He’d keep it within reach until Cassius returned, prepared, if need to be, to depart with a kick through a window and a gust of wind.
“To celebrate our singular holiday,” Kestri said as he handed over the last package, grinning as Tahlia opened it to reveal an array of meticulously crafted sweets; short, crumbly cookies layered with decorative chocolate of various colors and flavors.
They’d caught his eye on his winding path back to the inn, unsuccessful in his efforts to find a shop with musical instruments. Kestri informed Tahlia as much (with only a minor pout), as he curled back in the armchair, pulling the book into his lap and holding it shut when Nona arrived with a fresh pot of tea to pair with the treat.
The morning passed slowly, anxiety a quiet undercurrent as they idled, splitting their time between reading and talking. Kestri openly shared his findings with Tahlia as he read, sharing what he knew of High Enyir, the language it was written in, and pointing out names as he went. His, Nuriel’s, Daveithai of the Moonlit Night (very powerful, and a bit of a wanderer himself), Jehoel, reigning over a volcanic island between Mercovar and Titrya, Matriel, who had resided in the Kalliaza River before vanishing herself several centuries ago, and more. A handful of names that seemed more or less centered on their current continent, an attempt at recording the approximate whereabouts and concerns of relevant Enyir.
Kestri was sure it had belonged to one of his kin, though he couldn’t tell who would have authored such a record. He thought many of his kin intolerable, but none of them typically displayed such incredible idiocy. Except himself, apparently.
It made him worry after Matriel’s fate. Perhaps she had penned it in an effort to draft a list to warn? Perhaps she’d fallen to Mercovar’s intentions? Impossible to tell. Bellamy’s notes didn’t shed much insight on its origin either, as they were mostly speculations on how to best make use of the information contained. Poor attempts at translation, most names overlooked or misidentified.
Kestri voiced his thoughts and shut the book, busily speculating with Tahlia between very important bites of cookie when Cassius returned.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Ari woke to the scent of chocolate and the quiet sound of conversation outside her door, smearing her hands over her face and rolling over to burrow into the covers. After several minutes of dozing, Ari parsed out Cassius’s voice amongst them and decided it was time to join the living, feeling marginally clearer of mind.
Someone had set a tray at her bedside, a little card folded and stoop upright, tight, neat script pointing describing the various items that awaited her attention. A mug of liquid chocolate, thinned with milk and cream and spelled to keep warm sat alongside two capsules of ground willow bark, which were a natural remedy for inflammation. These she downed quickly, stifling a gasp of appreciation for the beverage as she continued to read, moving to appreciate a moderate sheaf of thick, creamy parchment and a writing set containing three inkwells in differing colors and two dip pens made of glass, pretty by nature but designed for utility.
She’d been expecting two rolls of browned parchment and a stick of charcoal. Not to mention, the coin purse that sat behind it all felt no lighter.
It was helpful that they were out there, and she was in here. Ari could splutter on her confusion privately for a moment, sipping on the warm chocolate and pretending the heat from the drink was what colored her cheeks.
Presents were new. Was this a present? It was as thoughtful as one ought to be.
Perhaps she was a liar, if this was how she was going to react to every novel experience. Not a happy student of life but a terribly anxious and apprehensive one, apparently. She needed to work on that.
Choosing to think of the pens as a good thing (how could they be anything but?), Ari stood and brushed out her hair before changing into something more suitable for the day, buttoning her trousers neatly and donning one of her last clean blouses. It was one of the two that she’d taken from her home, both white and buttoned with bishop sleeves, collars and cuffs decorated in moderate gold embroidery.
“Rested,” Ari chimed after the tail end of Cassius’s statement, her hands tucking behind her back as she slipped from her room, “As much as I can be for today, at least. Thank you, Tahlia, I think it really helped.” She nodded to Tahlia as she spoke, chewing on her bottom lip and glancing at Cassius out of the corner of her eye.
Not nearly subtle enough, Ari gave up and turned to appraise him openly, nodding in satisfaction when he appeared whole and well. Not having heard what prompted his answer, Ari asked her own variation of the same question.
“Well, you look fine, so I suppose I’ll take your word,” she said after his answer, grinning despite herself, insecurities and exhaustion settling at the bottom of her concerns, pure sediment in comparison to Cassius’s arrival. “What about the book? He liked it?”
2020 Halloween contest submission! A bit old now, but it's a stand alone piece, which is nice!
Click for -> Sample 3
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