Fantasy The Little Things (IC)

[Not Char Aznable]

Spelless Human

Enzo Santini

Clerk of the Landlocked

Enzo's Apartment

Enzo stepped off the main streets of Tubero and into an alley, navigating through a twist of left and right turns until he reached a faded mahogany door marked with a tarnished plaque that read "13." He fished a small keyring from his pocket and unlocked the door, stepping into a dim corridor lined with old mailboxes that led to a wooden staircase. Four flights of creaky steps later and he finally arrived at his apartment. He unlocked the door and entered.
The apartment was a narrow stretch of space extending left of the entryway, about a meter and a half wide and just over six meters long. It was sparsely furnished with little more than a secretary desk, a chair, and a small bed. Across from the bed was a modest kitchen area, separated by another doorway, that was slightly wider and half the length of the main room.
The biggest source of light in the apartment came from a singular window to the right of the doorway. Most of the rays bouncing up from the wooden flooring were devoured by the room's dark gray walls, leaving the apartment in a perpetual dimness. This was supplemented by a desk lamp situated on top of the secretary and a pair of wall fixtures mounted in the kitchen, though they were little more than simply sufficient.
As Enzo stepped inside, he hung his cloak on a nail protruding from the wall and deposited his belongings on the secretary desk as he passed into the kitchen. He turned on the tap, waited a moment for the cold water sputtering out to strengthen into a decent stream, then splashed his face and wet his hair some. He repeated the former twice more before he twisted the faucet off, ran his fingers through his hair, and stared blankly at the chipped wall behind the sink.
The residual water dripping from the tap periodically sounded off with a resounding plink against the porcelain sink, each quiet splash hammering against his ears, a small explosion breaking apart the apartment's stillness.
Enzo fixated on the droplets as they formed and fell, one by one, into the basin's white depths. He followed one's descent until it splashed between the glimmering reflection of a sconce and the looming shadow of a featureless figure. They stood in silence, exchanging wordless gazes until Enzo exhaled softly, retreating back into the main room.
Seated at the secretary, Enzo opened the envelope from earlier, letting its contents spill out onto the worn desktop. Meticulously, he organized his earnings into three stacks: one for expenses, another for savings, and.... A familiar ache settled in his chest as he eyed the third, largest stack. He retrieved another envelope, plain and unmarred, from a drawer and slid the money inside. With precise strokes, he penned a mainland address and a name, then sealed the envelope and added a postage stamp. Once Enzo finished, he stored his savings in a small safe within the secretary's lower cabinet. He donned his cloak, gathered his belongings, pocketed the cash he set aside for the day, and then left with the new envelope in hand.
It was missing a return address. They always were.

Code by Serobliss

 

[Dovinique]

Seafolk

Elsie Avonlea

Azure Current

Somewhere in Tubero

Eh...? The first question wasn't too hard?

Elsie shifted slightly, tucking her hair behind her ears, her face lighting up with a confident smile. She replied to Ranieri’s question with a cheerful lilt in her voice, "I come here often! Almost every day, actually. To play, to study, to mingle. Oh, and I’m not running away, if that’s what you’re worried about..." Leaning in closer, she craned her neck and whispered, her hand cupping around her mouth, "...but don’t tell my father that you met me, okay?" She pulled back and gave him a playful thumbs up, a mischievous twinkle dancing in her eyes. She briefly hesitated, debating whether to mention her inspection, but decided against it for now.

Ranieri's second question prompted an immediate nod from Elsie. "Of course! But not today or tomorrow... maybe not next week either," she pondered aloud, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "But I will go back... someday?"

The third question from Ranieri sent a tremor through her heart, the vibrant hues of her expression dimming into a shadowy gloom. She swallowed hard, clutching her dress as silence enveloped her. Memories of that fateful night surged forward, vivid and relentless… the sharp crack of gunfire, the icy splash of water as she dove into the sea to escape.

Piscadori... Alessi...

"I..."

Does Ranieri know anything about the murder?

Should I tell him something?

Can I trust him?

What will happen if he knows I am close to them?

Elsie's eyes met Ranieri's violet gaze for a fleeting moment before dropping to her trembling hands. "Umm... I know them quite well," she began, her voice wavering as she bit her lower lip to hold back tears. "They are very kind to me... and I like them so much."

Tears ready to spill from her eyes, but Elsie fought to hold them back. She looked up at Ranieri again, her eyes glistening, her nose threatening to drip. Her face flushed red from the effort of containing her emotions. With a sharp sniffle and a forced, but brave smile, she added, "Yeah, I know them! Do you know them too, sir?"

Interaction: Silvercurrent (Ranieri)
Mention: None

Code by Serobliss

 

[Laraes]

Matia

collab with.

Headphones as Bistra D'Ambrogio(purple text)

image credits.

bg art: Dubrovnik
Bistra art:Morry

coded by.

uxie!

Bistra

written by.

Headphones as Bistra D'Ambrogio (purple text)

Moanin' --- Bobby Timmons

𝟷𝟾𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚊𝚢, 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗
...
“Good luck with the guests! I'll make sure Bistra doesn't linger!" And with that, she jumped onto her broom and vanished, as sudden and fleeting as a storm.

A storm that was now heading eastward — towards the post office. Despite it being another beautiful day in Tubero, it was not an exaggeration to say that within Matia, a kind of storm really was brewing. In any case, she couldn’t wait to vent to the only person in town, who she was comfortable enough with, to do so. The name "Ramene" was still on everyone's lips and seemed to follow Matia as she flew past newspaper stands and gossiping clusters of people. Matia breathed a sigh of relief as the familiar bell tower of the post office appeared on the horizon, a comforting sight amidst her whirlwind of frustration.

The journalist landed in a cluster of pigeons, her heels clicking loudly as she touched down, and the birds scampered off in all directions, leaving a cloud of feathers in their wake. A few passers-by grumbled something about inconsiderate broom riders, but Matia made her way unperturbed up the stairs, towards the tall, double-leaf entrance of the post office, plucking some pigeon feathers from her hair in the meantime. Her fingers had already wrapped around one of the golden knobs, when suddenly the door was firmly pulled forward.

“Aio!”, she and the other person chorused. With a twist and a turn, the two narrowly avoided collision and stared at one another for a heartbeat before the other lady let out a single laugh. She was a young woman, half a head shorter than Matia, wearing a black silk dress with a dropped waist and a hemline at the knees. In contrast to its straight silhouette, its sleeves widened slightly after the shoulder into a bishop form and were adorned with columns of red, orange and white diamond outlines. At their very end, each wrapped neatly around the wrist and was tied with a short bow, giving the dress an overall elegant but also free-spirited appearance. Much more striking, however, was her long light ginger hair, which had been pinned to her right and flowed loosely down to her elbow. Even from underneath the wide-brimmed pointy black hat, it stood out distinctly against her dress, like a fiery stream on the slope of a volcanic hill, a telltale feature of Café Ambrosia’s owner.

“Matia!” Bistra D’Ambrogio exclaimed.

“Bistra!” Matia let out a laugh — both an expression of relief at seeing her friend, as well of mild surprise. The two women exchanged a quick kiss on the cheek. “You really are here. I was looking for you at the café. I can't believe your moody Italian actually gave me the right place.”

“And I haven’t seen you in the past 3 days.” she pointed out, smiling. “Another day and I would have gotten my kitty to hop on my broom and look for you.”

Matia raised an eyebrow at this. Since when did Bistra have a cat? But before she could comment on the odd remark, Bistra continued.

“Off to mail your latest scoop, hmm? Or are you on a letters-only basis with your mother again?”

Matia pulled a face when Bistra mentioned her next scoop, and then dramatically clutched at her heart when the word “mother” was mentioned.

“God, no. I was only home the week before last, for Perdu's birthday. That will hopefully give me a few months' respite.” Erasing any lingering memories of her little brother's rather stiff birthday party with a flick of her wrist, she smoothed out the creases in her dress that she had caused in the heat of the moment. She really didn't want to talk about her family right now. A long, deep sigh escaped her mouth. “As for my next article: I’m treading water. For once, things look even bleaker on that front than in family matters."

As if to remind her, the handbag at her side shook a little, almost impatiently. With every minute of the day, the letter she had stowed away inside her notebook seemed to weigh a little more, and the shoulder strap was beginning to cut uncomfortably into her shoulder.

"Right. How could I forget. I’m also still on the hunt for a roommate. You wouldn't happen to know anyone in need of divine company and terrible cooking skills, would ya?" She playfully pulled up her shoulders in a questioning gesture and, along with them, the corners of her mouth. The smile didn't quite seem to reach her eyes, though. They still appeared tired...and a bit dispirited.

“Unless the divine company came out of the seafoam on a seashell throne, I’m afraid not.” Bistra replied, her voice light and full of levity. Seeing how her friend was growing more despondent by the second, the sparks in her eyes were replaced with kind softness. She tapped her broom on the ground and then slightly lifted it up to point to the sky. “Say no more. Lets go up.”

The roof of the post office building was harshly divided by the shadow of its bell tower. A small ledge on the ivy-covered facade of the building had become a frequented meeting spot for the two women over the years. Its central location and imposing height offered one of the best views of the city— from here, you could see a good stretch of the harbor promenade, as well as the nearby smaller alleys, which at this hour were only visited by a few strollers. You could even make out the docks, though only in the distance.

The idea had come to Matia and Bistra a few years ago over a few glasses of red wine, although the building’s roof was more of a compromise. In reality, the two witches had found the notion of holding their coffee klatches on the large hands of the clock tower incredibly amusing. Unfortunately, they had somewhat overestimated the size of the clock and had also not quite considered the fact that one could only sit there comfortably at exactly three or nine o'clock.

Apparently, not many other residents of Tubero had come up with this idea – in any case, they had never encountered anyone else here, except for a pair of smooching teenagers a couple years back.

The two leaned their brooms against the familiar spot on the bell tower wall and made themselves comfortable on the facade's ledge. They fell silent for a moment, Matia absent-mindedly toyed with an ivy leaf, while Bistra crossed her legs and, supporting her head with a bent arm, raised an eyebrow.

"Sooo? Spit it out." she asked with a knowing smile.

Matia sighed. Now, sitting here, she felt rather silly. She watched the pedestrians a few meters below them, who, like busy bees, entered the post office building and left a few minutes later with letters and packages in their hands. The ivy leaf crumbled between her fingers.

"It’s just… I don’t know, Bistra. I don't know what's wrong with me lately.” She absentmindedly brushed the remnants of the leaf from her dress. “I’ve never let these things hold me back for long. But this time, it's different somehow. I'm getting nowhere with the Ramene case, even though I'm poring over my research day and night, trying to find a possible lead. But nothing. Nada.”

She stared at her palms, hands outstretched as though she were imploring the heavens for a clue. Yet, a few seconds passed and, with no such blessing in sight, she let out a sigh and allowed her arms to fall back onto her lap.

“Mmm.” the other witch hummed.

“And it’s not just that. You should see the apartment! It's almost as stuffy and cluttered as it is up here.” Matia tapped her fingers against the side of her head. “I know that's not going to help much with the roommate search either. Even that feels like an unsolvable puzzle, right now. Oh!” She raised up a finger. “That reminds me."

The blonde rummaged through her handbag like a frantic hound burrowing into the ground in search of a mole. Bistra curiously leaned a bit closer, as if she was going to learn what had sparked her friend’s memory before the latter even found it.

"Here. Came in yesterday. An applicant for the room." Matia unfolded the letter, cleared her voice and began reading aloud, her voice adopting a mockingly formal tone: “Dear Miss Matia, I hope this letter finds you well.”

“Mmm~”

“My name is Zarina Corsentino, and I came across your advertisement in the newspaper looking for a housemate. After some consideration, I believe I might be a good fit for your home.”

“You don’t say~”

“I take it she’s an optimist.” Matia chuckled. “I am a young woman with a passion for life and a strong sense of responsibility.”

“Ooo, dear.”

“Currently, I live with my father in a charming part of Tubero, but I am seeking a change of scenery and some independence. A bit about me: I am diligent, neat, and enjoy maintaining a tidy and welcoming living space.”

“Sounds like the ideal wife.” Bistra snickered fondly.

“Yeah, a real catch.” Matia quipped. “Prim and proper, probably folds her socks and labels her spices. It’s just hard to imagine living with someone like that.”

“Please, some men dream of having a woman like that around.” her friend leaned back, allowing her ginger hair to cascade down her back, still smiling as before. “Even if that woman was their mother.” A cold shiver ran down Matia's spine at the thought. Bistra tilted her head to the side so she could look at Matia and asked. “And you’re seeing the appeal, no?”

“What choice do I have?” Matia sighed. “Rent doesn’t pay itself… And it’s not like she sounds horrible.”

“O, I never said that,” she chirped and waved her hand as she went on. “It’s just, being solvent can’t be your only criteria, you know. If that were the case, you’d have gotten married to one of those rich fellas in Cagliari.”

“Well, Giuseppe would surely disagree.” Matia pulled a face. “Anyway, just wait until we get to this part.” She made a brief dramatic pause. “I work as a part of the local Guard, so you can be assured of my reliability and commitment. Why does she need to work for the Guard of all places?”

"Hah!” Bistra’s brief laugh got her back to an upright position. “Oh, Mati~. Joke aside, we've been over this a thousand times. Just because you came up short once doesn't mean everyone at the Guard is out to get you."

Matia pouted. “I have yet to meet a member of the Guard that isn't a secretive and pedantic busybody…”

Bistra’s eyebrows curved upwards and she gently pinched Matia's arm, making her laugh. “Okay, that's a lie. But still.” Matia refocused her gaze on the letter and searched for the right passage. "Anyway. Where was I? Ah, yes. The next part even sounds quite nice." She continued reading aloud, her tone now slightly more animated: “Despite my professional duties, I am friendly and enjoy engaging with others. I am an early riser and a lover of the morning sun, often starting my day with a broom ride through our picturesque town. My days are filled with various activities, but I always make time for a good conversation and a hearty meal.”

“Down to earth, an early bird and active. She might just match your energy.”

“Oh, and get this!” For the first time since starting to read, Matia sounded genuinely excited. “I have a pet cat named Mocha who would accompany me. Mocha is such a cute name. She is well-behaved and quite the charmer, always bringing a smile to those she meets.”

“A cat!” Bistra exclaimed. “Dolce and Vita will have a new little friend.”

Matia’s expression softened. “I do like cats.” She folded the letter back together, more tenderly this time. “That’s basically it. At the end, she writes that she’d like to meet in person.”

“And I think you should.” The other witch’s verdict sounded quick and clear. While using her left hand to press onto the roof for support, her right one adjusted her hat, fingers gently holding on to the soft brim, the underside of which was orange. “She sounds like a diligent person. Considering how she writes and the sheer length of the letter, you can tell this girl is straightforward. She knows who she is and she’s being completely honest about it.” Content with the hat’s angle, Bistra returned her gaze to Matia, her smile and certainty ever present. “And I know what you value most are honesty and dedication. Maybe you don’t think that this is what you need right now, but maybe it’s what you need so you can move forward?”

Realising she may have gotten a bit too serious for the occasion, the woman quickly tapped both of her hands on her knees and said lightheartedly, “In any case, that’s what the letter tells. Who knows? Maybe she’ll end up being one of those jolly folks who like going on long herb treks.”

Matia chuckled. "Imagine that! I've never been on one of those, and here I am calling myself a witch." Her smile softened into a thoughtful expression. "Perhaps you have a point. Giving it a shot certainly couldn't hurt. What have I got to lose?"

“Your solitary confinement? Your artistic retreat?” Bistra kept on listing jokingly. “. . . Your monastic meandering?”

“Seriously, an alliteration?” the blonde witch replied dryly. Then, she mulled over the idea for a few moments more, before suddenly exhaling resolutely. "Yep." She clenched a fist in front of her, ready to face this new challenge. "I'll call her right when we get back." Matia's golden earrings glimmered in the sun as she leaned forward slightly to look her friend in the eye. "Thank you, Bistra, for listening. I feel at least…" She playfully weighed Zarina’s letter in one hand. “… 24 grams lighter.”

“Enough to warrant a treat~”

"Got it."

The two witches sat in silence for a moment, surrounded by the warmth of that late spring afternoon. Matia leaned forward and rested her head on her hand, her eyes drifting over the waterfront below. The promenade was bustling, as always, but there was a noticeable tension in the air. She noticed a group of people gathered near a newsstand, all animatedly discussing something. One man pointed at the neatly stacked newspapers and then smacked one hand over the other, while another man nodded in rhythm and two women looked on, each leaning sideways towards the other from time to time as they chattered. Matia’s gaze lingered on them, the subtle tenseness of her eyebrows and mouth prompting Bistra to follow her line of sight.

“That case really can’t leave your mind, hmm?” she asked quietly. As if to confirm, Matia’s fingers found their way back to fiddling with the ivy leaves. “Every crime has a culprit, and culprits leave a trail. I’m sure you found at least one crumb, no?”

“Not really. I have bits and pieces, pieces of a puzzle that don’t quite fit together. My gut tells me that I’m looking in the right place, but I’m not finding anything. Oh, I also meant to ask you. What did you mean earlier when you talked about ‘your kitt–”

The rest of Matia's question caught in her throat. Her gaze had snagged on something along one of the streets close to the nearby school.

“That can’t be...” she murmured.

She squinted her eyes and leaned dangerously far forward over the edge of the building to get a better look. Startled by this sudden, yet not uncommon action, Bistra quickly grabbed and pulled her by the shoulder while taking her broom with her other hand.

“Mati! Be careful!” she yelped.

Matia seemed not to hear her. With hurried movements, she pulled her sunglasses off her head. As if she intended to clean the darkened lenses, she began making circular motions on them with the hem of her skirt, murmuring incantations under her breath. Then she hastily put the glasses on her nose and looked through them. She squinted, but the desired effect didn’t materialize.

“Damned useless thing,” she cursed.

“Ei.” Bistra smiled and poked her gently with the blunt end of her broom. “Give them here.” She extended her open palm. When the sunglasses landed in her hand, she spun them slowly, faint orange dust suddenly appearing and twirling around her fingers as she brought them closer to her lips and whispered a sweet command. Once the dark tint of the glass gradually faded to a light blue shimmer, she nodded and handed them back to their owner. “Here you go. Now it should work.”

“Thanks.” Matia put the glasses on and fixed her gaze on the same spot. “Aha!” And indeed, it worked like a charm.

The source of Matia's sudden excitement transformed from barely discernible silhouettes into clearly recognizable faces. A tall man with endlessly long, deep blue hair that flowed down to his feet, wearing official-looking attire, stood with his back to her. She didn’t need to see his face to recognize him. Ranieri. In a blurred downward motion, she shifted her gaze a few heads lower until his counterpart came into view. Occasionally obscured by the man's imposing back, she recognized a small boy... no, a girl. She had long, azure blue hair and wore a simple white dress. She couldn't be older than sixteen.

“Ha!” Matia let out a short, incredulous laugh. “This can't be real!” With eyes shining, she whirled around to her friend, who had been watching her with eyes burning with curiosity. “That has got to be the girl the jean was talking about this morning!”

“Who?”

Impatiently, Matia summed up the reason for her excitement, her eyes still glued to Ranieri and his companion. “Well, I went to the docks early this morning, you know, to keep an ear out. Figured maybe someone had to have seen or heard something. And this guy told me that he had just brought Ranieri over.”

“Ranieri… Ranieri…” Bistra tilted her head, wondering where she had heard the name before.

“You know… that relic guardian the Amaranth Current always sends ahead. Word on the street is, they are currently searching for a relic that disappeared. Must’ve been stolen—” She reprimanded herself for being presumptuous. “...or misplaced somewhere around the time of the murder. And I’ll be damned if the two incidents aren’t connected in some way.” Matia continued, her voice full of excitement. “Anyway, the Jean said Ranieri was looking for a ‘very young-looking woman’.” She made quotation marks in the air with her fingers. “And it seems like...” She grinned, a wild glint in her eye. “...he had some success.”

Having heard all of this, it took a mere heartbeat for Bistra to make her decision. She put a hand on Matia’s shoulder and uttered with a smile the words that the other woman had heard more than a few times in her lifetime.

“Girl, let’s tail him.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Silvercurrent]

​

Maybe I should have been born into the Azure current. Their tears are so pure, pearlescent and earnest.


When I learned what Relic guardians do, I regretted taking the art of ‘Pressure’ from the lesser artifact; Abyssal stone. My three questions… made people cry even if it had nothing to do with the power borrowed from such an ancient treasure.


No, my tears were long silenced. I only wish I could do the same for her. Tragic, to have loved a family by chance, only to watch it’s small numbers dwindle. We get used to a certain amount of stars in the sky, only to awaken one day and see… the ever changing fold has taken one or two.
​

To this girl, though, this isn’t a small change. His eyes, so coveted by the Bureau, had never failed to extract an intrinsic truth from someone he questioned. ​

A stain etched itself into the marble of her heart.


“I didn’t have the pleasure, sadly.” Ranieri replied to her, eyes soft and swimming with their usual thoughtful undertones. He had sat there, watching her pull the loose ropes of her emotions into a staunch happy smile, which left him mirroring her bravery. “But I’d like to pay my respects one day. For now, my questioning and inspection is over and I thank you for your cooperation, Elsie. There is only one more thing that must be done,” He placed a pallor hand over his knee and hoisted himself, long dark tresses rolling over his shoulder.

“I must supply you with money for lunch. And, as you decide where you’ll be eating, I am going to seek out a Photographer.” He stated, leaning back in a way one does to get the kink out after sitting for too long. “Visual evidence is required before I can return and make my report.”


As they began to walk along, Ranieri didn’t go much faster than her, letting her take as much time as she needed to wipe her building tears. He produced a linen cloth from his breast pocket and offered it out. “And don’t worry, I have no intention of telling your father that you’re here. It’s your business to do so or not- you’re an adult, after all. I will have to tell someone of your current that you’re alright– if only so it’ll go through the grapevine.” he gave her a half smile, tilting his head. “Speaking of. I hear it’s customary to leave An Azure current member with a personal belonging as a sign of respect. In the Amaranth Current we craft something together.” He pointed at the cloth in her hand.


“Keep the handkerchief. If anyone ever bothers you, show them the embroidery and they will think twice about their course of action.”


With that, he turned away and waited on her to follow. “I believe this early in the day the Purple room won’t be as active, so… I’ll take my time locating the Photographer.”

While Ranieri waited and fold one hand over the other on his cane, he felt on the wind... A subtle but unmistakable sensation of a... Not prying eye-- but perhaps a curious one. He couldn't help but restrain a smile at that thought.

Don't be shy. I'll move nice and slow for you, mystery sleuth.

Interactions: Dovinique Laraes ​

 

[Headphones]

Judgedom of Sardinia

Code by Serobliss

•

Province of Cagliari

•

Town of Tubero

•

•

•

Lore

18th May, late afternoon

In the hall of St. Nicholas the Wondermaker many Sardinians had gathered for evening prayer. They stood at its centre, between white marble pillars and walls full of murals in earthly tones, quietly listening to the priests' gentle hymn which echoed upward to the dome. Golden stars and small white doves mingled on an indigo canvas high above the heads of the congregation. Some people looked up at their splendour, some had humbly lowered their eyes and others eagerly took in the sight of the old man and the softly illuminated icons on the iconostasis behind him.

With thick grizzled eyebrows and a frizzy snow-white beard that reached his chest, Father Polycarp held the Holy Book open in his hands but needed not look down through the glasses perched halfway down his nose. His figure, upright as a pine and clad in black, yet never having lost that healthy bit of chubbiness form his youth, faced the masses with a tranquil gaze. He sang to them of the wonders of their world that God had created - the earth that was firm, the mountain springs that trickled down to the valleys, the grasses and trees which fed on the waters, the birds which weaved their nests and chirped on their branches, the does and rabbits which frolicked by day, the lions which hunted at night, the many creatures great and small that lived in the ocean, the landfolk who were merry with the fruits of the earth and the seafolk who were joyous with the bounty of the sea. He sang in prayer to God, asking that He keep his people safe and that those who cross the law may fall into the net of justice whilst the innocent may soar. And, finally, he sang of his hope that God may be there, there for those whose path had grown dim, who had been outcast by their fellows, who had found the road too harsh to thread and had neither shoulder, nor shelter to lean on, to be there and forgive them and give them strength through the night, for the new dawn was fast approaching.

The chain of the thurible rustled rhythmically with the voices of the choir. Father Polycarp was the lead singer, joined on each side by a few of this brother-priests under the candle-lit chandelier and by the rest who were up on the balcony above the entrance. Although they had done their very best to prepare, as they had each and every day in the past and especially because more people had started coming in the last couple of days, it couldn't be helped that this time of year was simply an odd one. The vesper, or evening prayer, started at 5 in the afternoon and usually lasted no more than an hour. According to ancient tradition, this was the beginning of the new 'day', for first there was night and then the sun came. In other words, for the priests this was the first prayer of 'the day' and was supposed to be at sunset. However, since summer was about to knock on their doorstep, not only was dusk some 2 hours away, at 20:30, but the sun was also sufficiently high in the sky to brighten the nave, so much so that they didn't have to put candles by the pillars.

The smell of incense and burning wax lingered in the air when 18 o'clock arrived. Thе service came to an end and people began heading out, their murmurs steadily growing louder by the time they reached the gates. Wearing long colourful veils on their heads, elderly women strode slowly together, arm in arm, discussing who they had and hadn't seen today doing and not doing this and that. The more nosy ones among them would call out to or stand in the way of some of the clergy who had begun tidying up, in order to chit-chat or ask about their ailments. While those less fortunate priests tended to their followers and kindly lead them outside, Father Polycarp went through the Deacon's Door to the Sanctuary behind the iconostasis. He took a moment of pause to sit down and take a sip of honey water that someone had kindly made for him in advance. This kind gesture brought a smile to his face and eased the dryness in his throat and the thoughts within his mind as he steadily went through the next tasks they had to complete.

Once the faithful left the garden, he and some of the others would have to take the usual assembly of blessed water, incense, flower oil, candles and a sprig of hyssop to the "necrologio wall" by the entrance. It was a long wooden encased notice board, surrounded by laurel trees, where people would hang a necrologio for their deceased loved one. Said notice typically consisted of a portrait or photograph of the dead, their name, dates of birth and death, age at time of death, how much time had passed and a short poem or sentence from the family. Such announcements were usually made on the day of passing, the 40th day, 90th day, 6th month, 9th month and every year after death and used to only be in writing. When the majority started having images, however, the priests felt it right to move the board from the church's steps to the inner side of the garden entrance, so the faces, be they only marks on paper, may face the church. The only thing the clergy usually had to do after a necrologio was pinned was help with removing and replacing it as per the family's wish, yet three days ago they found themselves in an unique situation.

Sardo Ramene and Alessi Piscadori had been found dead at the beach and the case had been dubbed a murder by the police. Father Polycarp had performed a prayer for both of them at the morgue, but to this day their bodies remained there, their flesh tainted and souls untended, for the sake of preserving evidence. Quiet dismay rustled the leaves of the church's gardens since. The burial was a sacred custom, something that not only helped the soul of the dead, but also served the living who, by laying their beloved to rest in the soil of their land, a land upon which they had laughed and loved, could finally accept their loss. Now, however, the only thing the priests could do for both men and their families was to conduct a brief cleansing ritual in front of their necrologii each day at sunset, praying that their spirits may endure the night, as if they were men lost at sea.

Though he sat alone in the Sanctuary, Father Polycarp was with those people in his thoughts and contemplated the many things that had yet to come. Sixteen days remained until the ceremony of the 20th day and thirty-six days until the 40th day, when it was said that the soul departed for the heavenly realm. What would happen in the time in-between, he could only guess.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

As the sun slowly fluttered lower and lower above the western mountain peaks, the work day of most harbour laborers was coming to a close. Once hearing the word from their boss-men, they'd gather in groups from as little as two to as many as ten and head up into town, adding a new, usually loud and playfully opinionated voice to the jovial street chorus. Those of them who were locals would follow their trail back home, while the outsiders would, more often than not, first stop at one of the public baths before going anywhere else. They'd wash the sweat and salt off their backs, scrape off the dirt from their feet, change into clean clothes and emerge anew, refreshed and ready to enjoy their free time. Some would first go to their lodging, while others, together with the town's youth, would directly take off for whichever late-time establishment their pockets could afford. And if their pockets happened to be shallow, there was a place downtown, at the foot of what was the industrial and harbour area, that could cater to them, called Pub Leon.

Although the word "pub" was in the name, it functioned more closely to what Sardinians would call a "trattoria" with a hint of British influence. Its owner, the brash Antoni Basileddu, well-known for his moniker 'Toni the Can', had travelled once to the United Kingdom. No one knew exactly what he'd done there or where he'd even been. He'd always tell a different story, each more convincing than the last, the only constant being a visit to a pub, which he'd quote for having inspired him to make one back in his home-country. The living proof would, as Toni never missed to point out, be The Leon itself. From a small, inconspicuous two-storey warehouse it became a meeting place for people from all walks of life, where you could enjoy good food and a drink or two from late afternoon until the break of dawn. For a reasonably low price, to boot.

As sweet of a deal as it may sound now, a few years ago, its first couple of months were as golden as the bottom of a cast iron pot. While a number of foreigners had flocked to the first pub in town, to reminisce the feeling of home, the notion of a place that only served alcohol and fried potatoes and fish simply didn't cut it with most Sardinians. They'd pay it a curious visit, but as soon as they saw the non-existent menu and the darksome interior, they'd unapologetically turn around and leave. The complaints had been so harsh, from the lowest of sailors no less, that Basileddu had to rethink the entire thing and pull out a miracle from that magical can of his. And that was something he always assured he can do.

Today, if you walked by those thick double doors not long after their opening hour, you'd already hear the low hum of discussion. Should you take your chances and walk through them, you'd be welcomed by a wide central area with fourteen or so square tables, each with a white tablecloth on top and four chairs around it. Unlike before, it was aptly illuminated, not only by the lamps that had been mounted on the five columns to the left, but also by what convincingly looked like three street lamps among the tables, each having three light branches.
Behind the columns was a narrow stretch of dark wooded banquette seating, its colour matching the dark walnut panelling on the lower-half of the walls and fitting nicely with the vivid burgundy above. Every two tables the seating would protrude forward by one seat, forming a total of four booths, the last of which was in the corner furthest from the door and had a single table. From there the seating continued uninterrupted by the perpendicular wall, long tables in front of it, and stopped at a certain distance before the next wall.
As for the bar, it was on the other side of the central area, on a straight path to the right from the central entrance. It was a large wooden structure, finely varnished and made of walnut, with smooth curving edges and sides of its counter, tall round black wooden stools before it and several tall shelves full of bottles and glasses behind it. On each of its sides there were two doors that lead to the kitchen, the one closer to the main entrance being followed by another door at the end of the wall which lead to the public toilet.

This arrangement created two distinct spaces. One was the single-storey windowless area, which stretched between the left wall and the five columns. There the lighting was dimmer, the tables - longer and a clear divide existed between booths, forming a more private place for large parties. The other was the central and bar area, which was not only exceptionally well-lit, but the second floor had been entirely removed. This allowed the walls to rise high and reach the roof, giving the room more volume, hence, more air for the many customers who could be seated at once. The wall directly above the columns had windows which let in the sunlight, while the continuation of the one behind the bar had them as well, but not for the same reason. Those windows belonged to the second floor rooms which existed above and could only be accessed from the kitchen. They were primarily used by Toni, presumably as an archive and office, and one was rented out to Margherita, The Leon's cook. This second floor also had a long metal terrace, which looked like an awning above the bar and provided anyone there with a perfect view of the trattoria. On its underside were several small lights which helped illuminate both the bar and a large chalkboard, which had been hung in the space between the bar's shelves and the terrace. On its black surface the following was written with silvery letters:

Antipasti:
1. cold-cut platter (salami or cheese)
2. fried sardines
3. steamed clams with wine
Primi piatti
1. fregola con arselle
2. cassola (mullet, mussels & octopus)
3. linguine con le vongole
Secondi piatti
1. sheep meat skewer
2. smoked and grilled mullet
3. pollo a succhittu

If you wanted Sardinians to sit and drink, you had to serve them real food in steps as well. That was the hard bite Antoni had to swallow back in the day and forfeited his plans for a billiards room in favour of a proper kitchen. While keeping some of the visual aesthetics of the pub he'd witnessed in Britain, rather than the famous simple street food, The Leon had a daily menu with 3 courses: the antipasti, which customers would usually enjoy with a cocktail; the primi piatti, which they'd order with another type of alcohol, commonly white wine; and the secondi piatti, which was usually the heaviest dish and was consumed with another drink. Not all customers followed this order, but you could more often than not tell if someone was a foreigner or not based on what they'd order and how they'd eat and drink. Some of the staff even liked playing a guessing game from time to time, trying their best to figure out not only if someone was a foreigner but also which country they were from. And the one with the highest winning streak thus far was none other than the unmoving statue known as Giovanni Frau, the bartender. He was currently behind the bar, lining up his clean cups with an iron golden-eyed focus. Although it looked like it was a serious task, in truth, he was simply keeping himself busy so that he wouldn't be called to the kitchen. The time was already past 18 o'clock and Margherita was in there, wearing one of her kimono-sleeved silk robes, boiling those clams and frying that fish as if they were her ex-husband in Hell and she was the Devil in charge of his eternal burning blaze. Although it was still relatively early, people were nevertheless trickling in one after the other, occupying tables and either chatting or waiting for their friends to show, so he had to be available either way. Until 19 o'clock hit and dinner officially began, he had no intention of setting foot in there, a sentiment most of the staff shared, but often couldn't hope to hold on to.

 

[Frownist]

Vivianna Amato

Pub Leon | Current Attire

MENTIONS | Headphones

As the afternoon air settled over the town, the streets were once again flourishing with night goers—whether they’d be in a group or by themselves, the fact remained that they had finished a long day of labor, so it was only natural that like flies, they would begin trickling into the first buildings of leisure they could think of. The Pub Leon was only one such thing. While it and the Pub’s owner held highly in the minds of Sardinians, it still remained a serviceable option for the folks who were strapped on money. While they got to enjoy relaxing bliss after a long day of work, the work for Vivianna, had lamentably, just begun.

Well it had already begun—at 6 o’clock—but by the time Vivianna came to her senses, it was well past that time. In fact the clock was already approaching dinner and only kept ticking away, no matter how much she groaned at the stupid thing in a drunken annoyance.

The young woman was back in her small apartment, the nun and the walk to the bank crossed her mind in a blurry haze, ‘…Did I give the money to Roberto?’ The more she thought about it, the less she cared. If she didn’t he’d come banging up and down her hallway again, being sure to wake the whole complex. She’d just give it to him then if it came to that.

Her head laid against her coach as she looked around and when light from the window hit her dark eyes, it caused nothing but discomfort. Her view trailed from the blinding rays to the wooden table ahead of her, cold cigarettes sat in a once-clear cup, empty glass bottles rolled uselessly onto the carpet, doing nothing but adding to the aroma that flowed throughout the cluttered place.

Sitting up, her eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to clear her ache—her mind in addition. ‘Time for work...’ Rising from the coach, Vivianna’s view darkened as she swayed, having to take a moment before letting her hand leave the cushions. She was still wearing the same clothes from this morning, but now stained with the newfound scent of alcohol and smoke—adding to the unpleasant concoction. Regardless it never crossed her drunk mind to change. So instead she stumbled around her apartment, cursing every time she tripped on some lose container and looking for the only good pair of leather shoes she had. After finding them both sprawled around in their respective corners, she put them on and was off.

The walk to the Pub was a routinely dance, even without a clear head, she took the same path she always went. Most would think it would because this sorry excuse of a woman was looking for more to drink, but in reality, she worked there ever since she moved to Tubero. Still, it didn’t stop the irritated stares from the corners of people eyes. Oftentimes during her walk she’d hear loud whispers from women wondering why Antoni would let Vivianna work there despite all her bad habits—Around alcohol no less. Sometimes, drunkards, usually sailors at the Pub would ask her directly. The dark-haired woman would always reply with a “Don’t you also have more important things to do?” With a deadpan tone. It would usually shut them up, but it did nothing but garner disapproval from her coworkers.

It was better than flat out ignoring the men’s intrusion, as they would keep repeating the question like a broken record, crying louder and louder each time like children trying to get their mother’s attention.

She stopped at the thick double doors, without even opening them she could hear the sound of buzzing chatter and the clicking of cups from behind it.

Besides those moments, there was no major flaws from Vivianna on the job—barring for her disregard for the time and the surprisingly short fuse she had with certain people who frequented the place.

She was quiet, did what she was told usually without complaint, easy to collaborate with and pleasant enough with the folks she took orders from. Although, most customers would complain about how she never prattled along with them, smiled, or even made herself look presentable. Things that were expected of these kinds of occupations. When confronted if she didn’t already let out an annoyed grunt in response, Vivianna would flatly say, “Go complain to Toni.” And they’d say that honesty was a quality.

Pushing the doors to the establishment open, the smell of food and wine immediately hit her nose. Passing the first few tables of the Pub, she stumbled past the lingering bodies and approached the bar, where the well known Giovanni stood—cleaning the drinkware. Sitting down on one of the stools, her heavy head rested on the bar table. Her words slurred, she spoke, “Hey tall kid.. Give me an ice water.”

 

[Silvercurrent]

​

Following Elsie and Ranieri through the winding streets of Tubero.​

Cafe Ambrosia….​

The arms of a father, a mother’s love… all in a cup and at your fingertips. The scent at this point had long drawn in many a honey bee, but had yet to capture the attention of Ranieri. At least, not not fully. He’d kept his dark secret to himself ever since appearing before the people of Upper Tubero… That being…






He didn’t like Espresso.





If anyone knew, he’d be a social pariah. No, worse… he wasn’t sure, but he suspected the Guard would have him in a cell for it. Land people… loved… Espresso.



And so, when he followed Elsie’s short frame along the road and noticed each turn they took lead them closer to the smell of coffee in the air, his lips wilted into a frown and his brow knitted. The face of a man who was trying to keep his breakfast. It wasn’t the taste, it was the smell. Any scent like cigarette smoke or coffee beans, even some chocolates– all of it made Ranieri a bit queasy. He had a delicate stomach and a sense of smell that burdened him no matter where he went.



How was Elsie dealing with it? From the looks of it, her flowy dress danced here and there as her feet tip tapped and carried her through each back-street she seemed quite familiar with. The road less traveled, it would seem. Ranieri often saw this in people who didn’t wish to be seen or talked to– odd to see such a social young woman go this route, but not at all shocking.



As they walked, Elsie seemed oddly silent, though her smile and awe for her beloved town hadn’t faded at all. She was concentrating on remembering how to get to that Cafe from this particular mysterious street. No flowers were hanging, not even the casual succulent plant. There was a sleepy gray dog sleeping on the dusty steps beside a long line of old, mahogany doors. Further around, a few wooden planks and barrels, rope, sacks and all manner of town detritus laid strewn here.

“Are you sure we’re going…” Ranieri began, but his voice died down when the echo pierced the quiet they walked in.

“Mhm, we’re headed there. It’s the longer way, but it’s much easier than shuffling through the morning crowd.” Elsie replied, linking her fingers behind her back and hopping over a sharp piece of a broken wine bottle.

“...I See. I’ve never come this way.” He replied.

“Most don’t. It’s sad back here, right? To most people.” Elsie chuckled, turning to reveal to him a single sprout from a crack in the road. Between stone and shattered glass discarded by someone in a drunken rage, a curious green spiral with a single yellow bud at the end. Reaching up towards what sunlight lingered near.

“Not sad, simply… Less vibrant.” Ranieri smiled. “I’ll learn from you, then.”

Elsie smiled sadly and turned, keeping on walking. More like scurrying; a struggle to out-walk someone with long legs, though his gait was already much slower than the shorter girl.

They passed by a man which Elsie easily evaded by ducking around a corner, nearly losing Ranieri, to which he huffed and picked up his pace, only to catch the very particular scent of incense wafting off of the gruff man in a dark coat. His dark tresses seemed damp and glossy, eyes with bags under them and the look of someone in a trance. Or more so, someone in their own head.

Ranieri knew that strong smell that could choke the strongest of them; Catinca’s place at the Guild. This man passed by, he stumbled from a door with “13” chiseled into the plaque. Well, at least it wasn’t 17, he thought.

A few haunting cries of a baby in the distance, the cough of someone unwell, the unprovoked bark of an alley dog… And the rattling of old keys followed this muted soul to his residence. Ranieri pinched his nose; not because Enzo smelled that badly, no more than any sailor, but it was the incense that clung to the fabric of his wears. If a teal cloud that enveloped all in it’s wake were a scent, that’d be this. Unmistakable.

Ranieri watched the man turn on his heel from a dark room, but his watchful eyes noticed… boy, he wished he could stop noticing things, but this is what the bureau asks of him.


He noticed the gaping hole in Enzo’s coat.

A moth bitten, perhaps accidental gash gained from work at the docks, or a sabotage? It looked as though the pocket was already worn down, and hadn’t been patched up. A few pieces of paper fluttered down-wind until they rested near a trash bin. Thankfully it didn’t seem like the man’s pay had been among the fallen items, but the contents of his pocket were certainly snowing down without his notice. His haunted eyes, hollow, only stared forward as he droned on to wherever his destination was for the day.


Ranieri might have called out to him if he felt he’d get his attention. Rather, the Relic guardian leaned down to pluck one of the papers from the dirty ground. Inky, stained parchment. Seemed to be a few lists– chicken scratch handwriting. Some of the lists were marked by someone named “Mauro”. As in… Captain Mauro? The sailing instructor and Jean that worked in Port nebbia?

Raising a brow, Ranieri took a few minutes. He was given time to inhale the stale air as he glanced back to the “13” door.



Mauro was known to have spoken to Sardo in the past- not that anyone in his top brass social circle would ever have admitted this, let alone see it first-hand. But some clues were allotted to be known by Ranieri, and that was one string leading in a direction, thin as it was. A man working for Mauro, who was new, from off the island… Who knows.



For now, conjecture.

“Mister!” Elsie’s voice rang out. “Are you well? You stopped for a while.”

“Sorry, yes, I-” Ranieri clenched the papers in his palm as a dark figure rushed by. Like a ghost looping its previous life, a phantom of routine, the path was re-tread but with a bit more purpose. Ranieri caught that scent once more…


Surely the man would now realize that his pocket was falling apart–

And yet, with an envelope clutched in one hand, he placed the item in his pocket briefly to adjust his keys with eyes like foggy glass. Turning the corner, Enzo was gone.

But what wasn’t gone was the envelope he’d been so protective of before. Grasped in his hand one second, resting now in the thread-worn pocket that had been bleeding its contents.

“Sir, your… goodness, do you need a new coat?”

Ranieri asked Enzo, using his cane to gesture at the fallen envelope. Elsie seemed hesitant to stay, eyes avoiding Enzo for a moment as Ranieri asked the other man this question. Though, he wasn’t sure if her discomfort came from the gossip around Mauro’s crew, or if all Port nebbia jeans caused her worry. He wouldn’t blame her after the recent tragedy at the beach.

“Excuse me.” Ranieri bowed to Enzo, handing him the envelope he scooped off the ground. “We’re both headed to Cafe Ambrosia- you know the one? If you’d be kind enough to let me ask you a question or two,” Ranieri motioned to his coat. “I can fix that for you. Or… point you to someone who sells reliable coats.”

After the offer, Ranieri smiled at Enzo and simply told him,

“Well, we’ll wait for you. I’m Ranieri, a Relic guardian. I’d very much like to know about this Captain Mauro.”


Unsure of what impression he’d made, Ranieri picked up his pace to finally catch up to Elsie who had made quite the gap between them, leaving Ranieri even more pale than usual.

Uhg… He had just wanted to give Elsie the money to go eat and drink as much as she wanted, but figured this early in the morning it’d be better to just prepare for lunch and ask around for the photographer after such. But he still had a bad feeling- like it would be rude to let her run off with such a sad aura surrounding her.

His mistake.

Or, was it?

The last time he’d been to Cafe Ambrosia, there was a crowd of school girls at a table, giggling and waving over Costa. They made it a competition to try and gain his awareness, to get him to smile, to do anything other than be polite and cater to them.

In fact, that was some time ago. A few weeks, perhaps. It was rare to actually sit there, since Ranieri had his… dark secret… The freakish inability to enjoy espresso on this island.

Costa… Perhaps he’d know a photographer. He seemed quite in the know, just from the brief words they shared. Ranieri had asked him about local customs on land here, as Ranieri was rarely the kind to leave Su Corde unless work asked it of him.

As he began one of his many grand monologues- the likes of which surely Costa would never have in his own head… surely…

Elsie’s figure began to swerve, seeming to have found the proper lane to shoot down. The descent was steep and he needed his cane to steady himself for it while she seemed to rocket down through, with only one obstacle in her way. A young man with broad shoulders who threw each foot out before him like he owned the street. His pristine suit only wrinkled when he rolled a shoulder, took his hat off to dust the “common” street particles off and place it back over his brunette curls.

His trajectory was sending him to clash with a distracted Elsie, although when his gaze lifted and he caught her in his hawk-like stare, his eyes were locked in on her vibrant blue hair. His path was no longer accidental, he was making pace for her, like a moth drawn to a flame. Ranieri recognized his boy, though no name found purchase in his mind. The only knee-jerk reaction Ranieri could muster was to wait for the young man to step into a puddle near one of the fountains and…

His leather shoe was halted, frozen in place by some unseen force. Mateo paused as Elsie effortlessly scurried by him, her long blue hair cracking like a whip as she vanished once more from view. Ranieri adjusted his cuffs, his collar, his tie. He pretended to need a moment to gather himself in order to watch Mateo Carroni squirm and tug on his shoe with great discomfort.

“What…” He said with an effort.

Mateo’s foot finally slipped from his shoe with an ungraceful jerking motion, twisting away from the ominous puddle that had held him in place, all while Ranieri brushed by to finally meet up with Elsie around the corner. Mateo’s flawless olive skin sported no blemishes, which only made the bruising on his knuckles stand out all the more.

What an ugly hearted boy.

This was exhausting, and the day had only begun.

“Here we are! Have you been here, sir?” Elsie held the handkerchief, fidgeting with it as she pattered along the lush greenery leading along the gate guiding them to the cafe.

“I have, though I tend to visit contacts rather than sample the food and drink.” Ranieri chuckled breathlessly.

“You’re missing out.” Elsie declared, pointing to the colorful mélange of flowers smiling up towards the sun rays.

“Perhaps.” Ranieri chuckled, finally catching his breath. “Looks like quite the crowd here. Is that a…” The dark haired man squinted in the direction of a nun.

Before an answer could be given, Elsie seemed to be lost in her own world again, shifting where she stood like an old memory was tugging on her sleeve. Ranieri didn’t stare, figuring he ought to give her some space. “Would you meet with me again? Here? We can say this is the place where I’ll bring the photographer to get an image of your relic. Then you’ll be free of me.” Ranieri asked her.

“Ohh… mhm…” She frowned, holding the handkerchief close. “You really won’t say anything to my Father right?”

“Promise.” He nodded, then finally claimed a seat nearby and let out a heavy sigh. He needed water… So badly. Anything to ease the dryness of his throat.

~Mentions~
Not Char Aznable headphonecables Laraes Printer ​

 

[Not Char Aznable]

Spelless Human

Enzo Santini

Clerk of the Landlocked

Somewhere in Tubero / To the Post Office

Enzo’s visit to the post office was a regular event. It depended on the pay frequency, but he visited the post office at least once a month and always for the purpose of mailing a portion of his earnings to an address located in Italy. Given the contents, he preferred handing it off in-person rather than trusting it to sit safely in his apartment’s mailbox until pickup; after all, there was no telling when or if it would be picked up, he understood that his locale wasn’t easy on the eyes.
There were a few different pathways to go to the post office from Enzo’s apartment. Two were similar in length, almost equally faster, but Enzo often took the third, slowest route that ran alongside a park. He enjoyed it from the outside, watching the swaying trees and happy families, but never stepped foot inside. He didn’t want to ruin that.
Alongside that park, on that same pathway, Sister Sybilla moved with uncharacteristic urgency through the street. Her usually steady pace had been replaced by a brisk, purposeful stride; the rhythm of her cane tapping against the cobblestones keeping time with her hastened footsteps, paving the way for her.
Sybilla was eager to return to the church and speak with Father Polycarp about pressing matters that weighed heavily on her mind. The upcoming ceremony for the deceased in particular was a matter of great concern, the newspaper’s lack of new information was troubling and she hoped that the Father could provide the guidance and insight that she needed. Her thoughts raced ahead to the questions she would pose, and then if Father Polycarp had even been able to receive any new information since their last conversation.
It was during this time when Enzo and Sybilla were both lost in thought that they found themselves slamming into one another. Sybilla gasped in surprise. She fell onto her knees, marring the ends of her pristine robe with dirt, as her cane clattered against the pavement.
Enzo stumbled, right leg clicking and clacking as he reared it back and planted it down to catch himself. He steadied himself, then realized the situation. A wave of heat washed down his neck.
“Sister Sybilla, I’m sorry!” exclaimed Enzo.
A rush of vulnerability came over Sybilla. Her cane was an anchor in her daily journey and a trusted companion. Its absence was akin to the loss of a limb, and she knelt there in shock as though a part of herself had been brutally ripped away. It was a strange sensation of disconnection coursing through her, adrift and incomplete. Yet, in spite of it, her composure held firm and her face expressed only a steady, urgent determination.
Sybilla’s hand, slender and delicate, reached out across the rough cement. Fingers splayed, tracing and scanning, she searched for her fallen cane with only a small tremble in the hand to show for her own disturbance. The morning’s tranquility had been abruptly interrupted and her thoughts, once so focused, had been scattered to the wind.
“Are you alright?” Enzo asked, kneeling down in front of her. He looked at her face. Sybilla’s beauty was hidden beneath the fine white veil draped in front of her head, which upon seeing stung Enzo with the guilt of having broken something fragile. Gazing through the veil, he noticed that her eyes were muted and wandering faintly, and at that point he realized that Sybilla had yet to pick up the cane. Her hand drew near, but never found its mark.
Gently, he intercepted her hand and guided it. The familiar smooth wood of her cane pressed back into her palm, but its comforting texture was quickly replaced by a horrible prickling sensation infecting her hand; the snaps and crackles of a radio rendered into a physical sensation, threatening to climb upwards and slowly engulf the entire limb.
Sybilla clutched the cane and tore away from Enzo’s grasp, shuddering as the pinpricks flowed down to her fingertips and dripped away into nothingness.
Enzo leaned away, taken aback by the suddenness of her retreat. “Did I hurt you?” His aura’s intensity dissipated drastically with the short distance created, but the faint threat of its needling feeling lingered in his direction.
“No, no,” Sybilla responded quickly, “I… I am fine, thank you.” There was strain in her voice and an expression of quiet concern drawn over her face. She grasped the cane fully, using it to steady herself as she rose to her feet. “It was just a surprise, that’s all.”
“Oh, I see.” Enzo stood up, his eyes briefly lingering on the hand she’d pulled away. “Still, I’m sorry,” he continued. “I had my head in the clouds, I should’ve been paying attention to where I was going. Are you sure you’re alright, Sister Sybilla?”
“Yes, yes,” she answered with a soft, forgiving smile. “Excuse me, but do I know you?”
The question gave Enzo some pause. It clicked with him after a moment that he’d been using Sister Sybilla’s name, though he’d never spoken to her in the past.
“No, Sister, I’ve seen you before around town and know your name, but we don’t know each other, no,” he said. “I’m really sorry, Sister. Your robe is a mess because of me.”
“Please, don’t worry, it will be taken care of. It isn’t the first time and I’m sure it won’t be the last, such is life without sight.” She laughed, brushing off her dress. “Might I learn your name? I’ll make sure to send a bill for its cleaning later,” she teased.
“I’m Enzo. Enzo Santini.” His aura churned with deceit as the words left his mouth, sending out a subtle flutter.
It wasn’t lost on Sybilla. She cocked her head slightly, contemplating the sensation sent her way, then asked, “Are you sure we haven’t met? Your name sounds familiar.”
“Perhaps you’ve heard it in idle gossip.”
“Oh, really? Are you a troublemaker, Mr. Santini?”
“No, a troublekeeper, Sister,” he corrected. “I keep my troubles to myself.”
“And what sort of trouble is kept with a name like Enzo Santini?”
“The kind I keep to myself, Sister. I’m sorry.”
“A man of mysteries, then?” Sybilla conceded. “Well, we all have our burdens to bear but you needn’t be alone; you may find some comfort in this evening’s service. Would you care to join us, Mr. Santini?”
The envelope in Enzo’s pocket grew heavy. He looked past Sybilla towards the post office’s direction. “I can’t. I lost my faith a long time ago.”
“Your faith in the Lord may have been lost, but that doesn’t mean the Lord has lost faith in you. Remember, your worth as a child of God remains unchanged. It’s your journey towards faith that matters. If you seek God, He will welcome you, regardless of what came before.”
Enzo wanted to tell her it wasn’t so. He wanted to say that there was no faith to be rekindled because there was no God, and that there was a Hell because he’d seen it himself and it’d haunted him ever since. Something to that effect had perched itself on his tongue, but when his mouth opened on its own nothing came out. He’d swallowed their bitterness down and now the words were too choked up in his throat to find their way out.
“I’ll… think about it,” he uttered. “I should be going, I’ve a letter to send before the office closes. Thank you, Sister. And my apologies again.”
Sybilla nodded. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Santini.”
Enzo left with those words trailing behind him. The thought crossed his mind to peer over his shoulder, see if the Sister was still there or if she had moved on, but he discarded it and moved on with haste. She was blind and had places to be, it wasn’t like she was going to follow him. It was difficult though to clear his mind as he continued onward, with the interaction playing back on repeat. He didn’t want anyone’s pity, but now he was known to her and it crossed his mind that she might seek him out again.
No, she won’t, he told himself, it’s really not a big deal. I’m nobody special.
But what if she did? And let’s not forget, maybe somebody saw you knock her down. Tomorrow’s paper could read, “Ruthless Jean Assaults Nun.”
That’s ridiculous. It was clearly an accident.
You’re unfavorable as is, doubly-so with your associates’ reputation. Who’s to say it wouldn’t get twisted? You were told to stay out of trouble…
Enzo grimaced. Whatever. It’s fine, it’ll be fine, he assured himself, I’m overthinking again.

---

The post office’s doorway was a threshold, literally and figuratively. As Enzo entered, the heavy weight of the envelope became that of a bundle of feathers. There was a small line formed in front of the clerk, but there was no rush now; he had all the time in the world here. He waited patiently until it was his turn, then stepped up to the counter. The exchange with the clerk was wordless, just a couple nods and that was that: the letter was out of Enzo’s hand.
Now what? he pondered to himself upon leaving. A growling stomach soon answered. It wasn’t terribly close to dinner time, nor did he consider it late enough to go to the Leon and fill himself with drink. Unlike the locals, he typically went for the sole purpose of drinking rather than enjoying a meal alongside it, but it occurred to him that if he really so chose he could enjoy a meal there and then drink. It wouldn’t be as cheap as making food at home but…
To hell with it, Enzo thought as he strolled away on the sidewalk. He knew that if he went back home he’d probably just lock himself in for the rest of the day. It was better to stay out and avoid the temptation.
The nun said to take care of yourself, remember? chimed a thought. Treating yourself once in a while counts.
To what? Good booze or warm food?
Both, it answered. But mainly the warm, not sad food. You’re not the best cook.
Enzo sighed. It was an enticing idea, but the healthier thing to do would be to eat a filling meal and not drink himself to oblivion, which is what the nun would probably want. He shook his head. Why do I even care? Then, his stomach growled a stern reminder of its earlier request; he was thinking too far ahead and it wanted something now.
Fine. I’ll get a snack at Ambrosia for now, he relented.

Interaction: Printer

Code by Serobliss

 

[Laraes]

Matia

collab with.

Headphones as Bistra D'Ambrogio(purple text)

image credits.

bg art: Dubrovnik
Bistra art:Morry

coded by.

uxie!

Bistra

written by.

Headphones as Bistra D'Ambrogio (purple text)

Take Five --- Dave Brubeck

𝟷𝟾𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚊𝚢, 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗

Having heard the excitement in her dear friend’s voice as she had explained the curious circumstances surrounding the man known as Ranieri, it took a mere heartbeat for Bistra to make her decision. She put a hand on Matia’s shoulder and uttered with a smile the same words which the other woman had heard more than a few times in her lifetime.

“Girl, let’s tail him.”

Matia grinned at her friend, who, as so often, had become her accomplice without batting an eyelid. Bistra’s enthusiastic show of support felt like the tailwind her sails had been missing lately.
“'You betcha.”
Eyes shining at the prospect of finally having a new lead, she jumped up and whirled around to grab her broom. Before she could take a seat on its back, she had already dived off the roof.
“Ajò! Last one there gets bitten by a janas!"
Unimpressed by the blonde witch's shenanigans, the lady in black beckoned her broom into flight with a sway of the hand and sat atop it sideways. Not forgetting to adjust her hat first, the two embarked on a little adventure quite reminiscent of their university years. They made sure to stay close to the rooftops, using chimneys, pillars and any protrusions available to mask their movements and hide their shadows. With a sway of the hand the lady in black beckoned her broom into flight and sat atop it sideways, not forgetting to adjust her hat first before the two embarked on a little adventure quite reminiscent of their university years. They made sure to stay close to the rooftops, using chimneys, pillars and any protrusions available to mask their movements and hide their shadows.

“It seems the little one isn’t a witch.” Bistra whispered when they stopped mid-flight by the windowless side of a tall building. Her brief observation of the two had yielded no distinct witch essence, but whether or not the girl was human or seafolk remained to be seen. “I have to say, this Ranieri is quite shameless.” she snickered. “Going about town with such a lovely freshly bloomed flower when he himself is like a looming reedmace.”

“Shameless…” Matia's eyes were glued to the impressive stature of Ranieri and his comparatively tiny blue-haired companion. Indeed, the two were a most unlikely pair, seeming to stick out like a buoy from the sea of passers-by. Not really out of place, but still striking.
“…or careless. Either way — not a good look. Though I doubt he has ill intentions, judging from what you hear about him.” She shrugged, eyes glued to Ranieris back.
“It's good for us, though. We’re bound to learn something new.”

Matia's sleuthing instincts, which warned her to keep a low profile, clashed with the urge to fly closer to the two, in order to hear more, to see more — so as not to miss something.
“I don't understand a thing...” she grumbled. With a snap, she coaxed her trusty notebook out of her pocket, which looked oddly befuddled, as if woken from a nap. Clipped to which was the magical object, that obediently did her bidding and which she never left the house without: Her magical fountain pen.
“Off you go, il piccolo. And don't you forget a word.” Matia ordered. As if another Matia was repeating after her from inside her body, her voice echoed and reverbed subtly, as it usually did when witches casted spells. With a metallic buzz, the pen and notebook came to life and rose into the air. The two witches flinched, as the two almost bumped into each other as they scurried eagerly towards their mistress's targets. Matia pulled a face.
“Well, fingers crossed.”

The roofs of the alleyway drew together like an increasingly dense canopy of leaves, with washing lines spanning the street and flower boxes increasingly blocking the view. Matia sighed, "It's no use. We have to get down.’" She beckoned Bistra to follow her.
The freckled witch trailed after her friend with a smirk.
"Those two little ones..." , she pointed with her chin at Matia's magical companions, "...you'll have to teach them some manners, eh?"
The two witches had descended slowly and landed skillfully on the cobblestones, a few clusters of passers-by behind Ranieri and the girl. Matia grimaced.
"You say that like they weren’t a gift from you." Bistra shrugged playfully.
"Hey, hexing objects is one thing, using them is quite another."
Her gaze followed the pen and notebook, which were hiding more or less skillfully behind lampposts and old ladies' wigs, eavesdropping on Ranieri's conversation with the girl. Then she added with a self-satisfied look of contentment:
"Well, they seem to be doing their job well enough."
The two women continued to weave their way through the scattered pedestrians, careful not to attract attention as they made their way within earshot of their targets. Not many people were out and about, so the two witches had a rather hard time getting within earshot without attracting attention. The blonde was glad that she had sent her attentive companions ahead, who hopefully would be able to understand more.

Meanwhile, their unusual targets had stopped and Ranieri had taken a seat on one of the benches that dotted the alleyways of Tubero, making their difference in size less jarring.
In response, Matia looked around hastily. She quickly grabbed Bistra's hand, pulling her to the alley wall opposite the bench. A small watchmaker was displaying his creations in a narrow shop window. She and Bistra approached the window with feigned interest, pretending to admire the finely crafted pocket watches, gold wristwatches and decoratively draped components of clockworks. In reality, however, the two witches found the reflection in the stained glass of the shop window much more interesting - with a little effort, they could just make out Ranieri, who was carefully examining an object. It was hard to make out in the textured window, but the two witches could make out the way it shone in the midday sun and it's pointed shape.
"A dagger?" whispered Bistra. Just then, Ranieri handed the object back to the girl, who tucked it away as if it were a matter of course.
"Seems it belongs to her," Matia whispered back. She frowned. "What does a girl her age want with a dagger?"

Soon, filtered through the riotous squawks of seagulls above the roofs, snatches of the pair's muffled conversation began to reach them. First, Matia heard the girl's soft voice. She sounded as if she was on the verge of tears.
“...kind to me…and I like them so much.” The girl sniffled, a sound that made Matia's heart tighten, as well as her ears prick up further. The girl continued after a short pause.
“Yeah, I know them! Do you know them too, sir?” Who could she be talking about? Whoever it was, they must mean a lot to her.
A deeper, but no less gentle voice wafted over to them. Ranieri.
“I didn’t have the pleasure, sadly. But I’d like to pay my respects one day.”
Ranieri's reflection rose from the bench and leaned down towards the blue-haired girl.
“I must supply you with money for lunch. And, as you decide where you’ll be eating, I am going to seek out a Photographer.”
A group of older women went past, fussing about this and that, drowning out the voices of the two for a few moments. Ranieri’s voice reached them once more, once the bunch had moved further up the street.
“...Speaking of. I hear it’s customary to leave an Azure current member with a personal belonging as a sign of respect. In the Amaranth Current we craft something together.” This was the first time that Matia had heard of this seafolk custom, and her heart leapt. She made a mental note, for the next time someone from the Amaranth current would cross her path. Bistra could see the curious sparkle in her friend's eyes without looking. She smirked and gave Matia a playful, chiding tap on the back of the head.
"Stay on task, Mati."

♡coded by uxie♡