Summer 36, 512 AV
Three bells to midnight.
The mural was exactly as they left it.
Seven’s fingers splayed across the span of blue that was to be Lake Ravok, long since dried but as vibrant as the morning it had been painted, having been left to sit in darkness for an entire year. His palms pressed further up the wall, through narrow valleys and up the length of a peak whose summit nearly escaped his reach. Crude Okomo played among the stars, and further down, a Trickster’s city lay in wait—he’d been excited to follow a man to that place, once.
He stepped away from the wall to appreciate the spread again, reaching absently for the small lantern he brought along. The short walk through the winding corridors of the Bittern District could have been done with his eyes closed, so fresh were the memories; he was surprised to find it so empty, and further still to find his old apartment unlocked and vacant. Whatever storm had washed up on the shores of Alvadas in the spring had done its duty across the sea as well.
“Widow!”
The shriek yanked Seven from whatever vapid-eyed reflection he’d occupied himself with and he reeled around, face blanched, at the source. A woman stood in the doorway, the world’s confusion and rage plastered over her mousey features. “N-no, you—” he stammered, “I’m not even—this was my—”
“Get out, Widow! Get OUT!” She lunged for him, then stopped short: a terrible feint if he’d ever seen one, but then she bolted. For a knight, no doubt; Seven took a few apprehensive steps toward the door, before slipping out in the opposite direction, hurried feet taking him away from the commotion and further into the belly of the Bittern District.
Three bells to midnight.
The mural was exactly as they left it.
Seven’s fingers splayed across the span of blue that was to be Lake Ravok, long since dried but as vibrant as the morning it had been painted, having been left to sit in darkness for an entire year. His palms pressed further up the wall, through narrow valleys and up the length of a peak whose summit nearly escaped his reach. Crude Okomo played among the stars, and further down, a Trickster’s city lay in wait—he’d been excited to follow a man to that place, once.
He stepped away from the wall to appreciate the spread again, reaching absently for the small lantern he brought along. The short walk through the winding corridors of the Bittern District could have been done with his eyes closed, so fresh were the memories; he was surprised to find it so empty, and further still to find his old apartment unlocked and vacant. Whatever storm had washed up on the shores of Alvadas in the spring had done its duty across the sea as well.
“Widow!”
The shriek yanked Seven from whatever vapid-eyed reflection he’d occupied himself with and he reeled around, face blanched, at the source. A woman stood in the doorway, the world’s confusion and rage plastered over her mousey features. “N-no, you—” he stammered, “I’m not even—this was my—”
“Get out, Widow! Get OUT!” She lunged for him, then stopped short: a terrible feint if he’d ever seen one, but then she bolted. For a knight, no doubt; Seven took a few apprehensive steps toward the door, before slipping out in the opposite direction, hurried feet taking him away from the commotion and further into the belly of the Bittern District.
