Waiting for the Night to End

(Fia) Memories are stubborn things.

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The Diamond of Kalea is located on Kalea's extreme west coast and called as such because its completely made of a crystalline substance called Skyglass. Home of the Alvina of the Stars, cultural mecca of knowledge seekers, and rife with Ethaefal, this remote city shimmers with its own unique light.

Waiting for the Night to End

Postby Laszlo on December 1st, 2012, 8:22 pm

Winter 4th, 512
A little after twentieth bell.


With another presence in the flat, Laszlo's home had grown much less desolate. Fia and her movements throughout the place helped to banish the melancholy quiet that settled in after Abalia and Duvalyon had gone. It was a great relief to be able to call and have someone answer. Naturally, it was not the same it was before, but perhaps that was better. There were no looming deaths or tragedies waiting to happen. The foreboding air around Duvalyon's room had been all but vanquished—a mixed blessing. Laszlo never thought he would miss it.

Still, he had to wonder at how temporary this was. It was too difficult to see what the future held for either of them, but some elements about the arrangement felt precarious. Not least of all Fia's apprehension around Symenestra. It had diminished very little, if at all, and she could not muster a great deal of tolerance for Laszlo's evening shape. Usually one or both of them found a preemptive reason to be out of the flat by nightfall.

It really did bother him, but he didn't resent her for it. Like Abalia, Fia had been a victim of the Symenestra, and she'd be dead if she had not escaped "Mikendril". Laszlo could hardly force her to be at peace with what happened to her. Still… sometimes he wished she would see him as an exception.

Until he remembered that he wasn't.

Lately, Laszlo grew easily frustrated with the polite excuses to go out at night. She had every right to feel comfortable and safe in this place, but he knew that would not happen if he was there. However, tonight he had nowhere to be, and had no inclination to aimlessly wander a city that feared him as much as she did. Surrendering his home to her, he informed Fia that he would be on the rooftop for the entire evening, reading tomes from the library.

Satisfying some innate Symenestra desire to climb, Laszlo deposited himself on the gentle incline of the rooftop above his flat. It was not the highest point in the Solar Wind Apartments, and he was able to lean back against a wall that rose higher still. But it was elevated and comfortable, he was out of view of the street, and despite the onset of Winter, it was relatively warm that night.

He grew bored of reading surprisingly quickly, so Laszlo's agenda had changed. A quill, held delicately in a set of black claws, scribbled over a sheet of wadj, leaving occasionally to wet itself in black ink. He was an odd looking scribe, donned in his usual gray cloak but with the hood tossed back. His silvery hair caught the moonlight well, and played lightly with the passing breezes.

On his face was a glowering expression. In order to write on the topic of Alvadas, he had to recall the memories often banished to the back of his mind. The hope was that once it was all put to paper, it could finally leave his head a bit more permanently.
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Waiting for the Night to End

Postby Fia Eaven on December 2nd, 2012, 3:54 am


Who of us dreads the dark more?
Tonight the house was still and the fire high. It had been cold cinders when she returned from her first evening gone. A single candle inhabited the silent front room then. She had stared at the light for a weary span, a gracious symbol of the ghostly widow. Only a room away she heard the thump of a heavy book as it found the table. It was for her comfort: the light, his early withdrawal from his own home, the way he spoke from a distance when they passed in evening.
Hush my heart, hush my fear, hush, hush. She made a prayer over the light. It trembled and so did she. Pressed by winter wind, the house creaked loudly. Fia snatched the candle up in a panic, the spilling wax burning her hand. No, she would not be sewn together that night.
Fia now coiled in front of the fire, seeking the comforting temperature of her childhood hearth. She had not looked away from the snapping flames when Laszlo explained where he was going, only nodded and descended further into the blanket she had pulled about her. He was going to sit outside in winter, so he didn't have to divide the air between her fears and his fatigue.
Half a bell passed. The panes rattled and a light tap like rain and gravel sounded near the door. She was a cur. Fia had overtaken the apartment and driven its owner to the roof. She pressed her palms over her eyes. When they shut she saw a different widow who had made that fine scratching sound. It was never the full creature, that would paint him more a man. He came in pieces like a chopped cadaver. Bloodless parts wed to moods and punishments she had learnt to fear.
Her eyes opened eagerly. Only the light could make them clean. But it was not enough to let the fire scour her thoughts. Fia showed her hands to the fire, like a child assuring its mother it had washed. Traitors, they trembled still.
"Do what you may," she said to them, "And so will I."

The ladder's end landed with a clack against the eaves. It jigged briefly before being pressed to stillness. A bucket onerously pushed by a bare hand was the second to appear over the roof's edge. It was stuffed with a wool scarf Laszlo had never seen before, a rolled blanket and a bottle. It scooted toward him, a tentative offering.
When the tribute was not rejected, Fia's bowed head slowly came into view. She was watching her feet and hems on the rungs. The tiered roof's slight incline was eyed nervously. One hand patted the roof, feeling fruitlessly for purchase.
"Wouldja mind dreadful much…?" she asked the Symenestra, knowing it was more that she minded and he awaited permission. Though it was precarious to do so, her eyes occasionally sought sanctuary by straying from the hand she stretched toward him. Fear had not diminished, but desire wakened enough to challenge it.
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Waiting for the Night to End

Postby Laszlo on December 5th, 2012, 8:50 am

"Gods divine—" The quill drew a straight line across the page, impaling the last few lines of written text. The Ethaefal lurched backward, narrowly avoiding knocking over his inkpot, and only a moment later spotted the end of a ladder peering over the edge of the rooftop. While his heart rate began to slow back to normal, he watched the ladder rattle in place as it supported someone's weight.

Knowing it could only be one person, unless the Shinya were enforcing some law against loitering on rooftops, Laszlo set aside his materials in confusion. He expected a head of red hair to appear over the edge, but instead a wooden pail made it over first. Laszlo gave a cursory glance to its contents, but his mild curiosity was swallowed in deeper confusion. What was she doing?

"Fia?"

The human did appear then, at least parts of her did. Laszlo had risen to his feet, but hovered there in uncertainty, only moved to action when Fia directly requested his help. A pale, clawed hand gently took hers, while another held her shoulder and guided her the rest of the way onto the rooftop.

"Be careful." Laszlo slowly released her, personally aware of how precarious surfaces could seem at an incline (he was not a Symenestra at all hours). He then turned and knelt, testing the ladder's sturdiness and ensuring the wind would not be able to blow it over.

When he was satisfied, Laszlo picked up the bucket by its handle and straightened. His eyes held a reflective shine as they regarded Fia, distracting from the warm confusion in his smile. "This is unexpected. What are you doing up here?" Attempting to answer his own question, Laszlo inspected the contents of Fia's parcel. His claws tapped against the glass of the bottle as he examined it. Was all this for him?

"What is all this?" Not sure whether Fia intended to leave as soon as she came, Laszlo was cautiously avoiding jumping to conclusions.
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Waiting for the Night to End

Postby Fia Eaven on December 8th, 2012, 4:26 am

If Fia didn't look at the hand that lifted her, it was like any other. Laszlo was careful with the claws that would prick away the illusion. And so she murmured pretty thanks with her eyes on her wide set feet.
"Aye, aye," she said a little breathlessly to his caution. While Laszlo easily walked about inspecting the ladder and the bucket she brought, Fia was trying to wedge herself in a sticking place, her back pressed to a wall and her knees bent in front of her.
"Just a few things," she managed between her throat's nervous constrictions. "For me, for you. Up here." Fia wasn't an elocutionist on any day, but even she could manage better measures to her cadence than what she was parsing now. "I meant to give you the scarf when your horns changed entire, but it's gotten chilled fast."
In the wan light, Laszlo could see the correlation more than she. The scarf was a deep evergreen at its center radiating outward in paler shades until the tassel trim resembled hoarfrost. He could easily imagine the woman seizing on it with innocent delight, thinking of how it reminded her of someone.
Against the daub wall and the mossy color of her cloak Fia's red hair seemed a living thing. The only part of her that still thrived despite the apprehensions tied against her chest. If her presence was easy, it had no weight. Red strands fell loose to touch her leucous cheeks bringing false color. She pulled her knees toward her, covering her mouth and nose. The pose could have been a defense to soothe fear or cold.
She picked up her chin a moment to ask, "Might I sit? I won't be riled if'n you meant to have time to yourself. " Surrounded by his tools of learning, she realized perhaps Laszlo preferred the quiet height. Up here he stretched ever nearer things too high for her. Perhaps she had done wrong. "I'll leave in chimes. Promise." She looked down at the paper and scattered books wistfully. The Ethaefal was written across them, but she couldn't see his face no matter how she wrung the page with her eyes.
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Waiting for the Night to End

Postby Laszlo on December 8th, 2012, 6:12 am

The hypnotist in Laszlo was aware of Fia's apprehension. It made him uneasy that he so quickly recognized her vulnerability. Not for the first time, Laszlo wondered if this feeling came from remnant memories of his past life, or if this was his own personal corruption.

He swallowed, managing a polite smile as she told him she was staying. Fia was making an effort to tolerate his mortal half.

At the mention of the scarf, Laszlo set the bottle back into the pail and hooked his clawed fingers in the fabric and lifted. "It's a gift?" The glib courtesy fell from Laszlo's face, overpowered by sudden astonishment. He nearly looked frightened of the thing. It was colorful, contrasting much of Laszlo's usually achromatic and earthy-hued attire, but evidently Fia had taken notice of his preference for colorful scarves.

"Fia, this is…" He smiled candidly, a little too broad only for a moment. Fortunately it was dark, and she might have missed the flash of fangs. "It's fantastic. No one has ever… ever gotten me anything before." Nothing material and lovingly trivial, anyway. Violet eyes angled upward. "Thank you."

Laszlo tossed the garment over his shoulder for the moment, then slowly began extracting the blanket, careful not knock anything else out of the bucket. Difficult to do with one hand, but the Ethaefal could evidently employ grace where it was needed. Again, it might have also been his shape. His smile broadened again when Fia asked if she should leave, but this time he was careful to keep it subdued. "Ah, no. I honestly wouldn't mind a little company. It's cold, though."

Approaching Fia at a slow, distracted pace, he eventually set the pail down and unfurled the blanket between two hands. Making eye contact, he gestured with the blanket to make his intentions clear, with an underlying motive of asking her permission to approach. Once he'd given fair warning, he knelt and wrapped the article around her shoulders, covering her knees and hands. When he was finished, Laszlo slid a curtain of his graphite hair behind one ear, then moved back to sit next to her. The bucket was lifted and set between them.

Something occurred to Laszlo as he was wrapping the scarf around his neck, and he sagged. "You… probably meant that as something to sit on." Awkward. Laszlo's mouth hung open uncertainly as he glanced away, scratching his cheek (opposite Fia) in chagrin. "I spent my last winter in Alvadas, by the sea. The wind was killing there, I… old habits." He'd taken care of Abalia then. Avalyon was his charge for a brief period while he traveled through the Unforgiving. It was instinct to see to someone else's comfort, particularly someone more frail than him. "Sorry."

Laszlo tipped the bucket toward himself. "Oh, you brought food as well." His eyes glittered briefly before he glanced at her sidelong. "This is very thoughtful of you."
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Waiting for the Night to End

Postby Fia Eaven on December 10th, 2012, 4:35 am

Fia's stomach was disintegrating into fine bits of paper, delicate as moth wings. It fluttered with disparate winds. She couldn't divine the root of the anticipation that blew her nerves about. Was it fear of the past, his macabre shape, of whether she had done right?
When Laszlo smiled and showed familiar fangs, Fia felt sick to her core. The opposing feelings of fright and affection stirred and twined in the same deep places as shame and pity. But shame and pity never felt so cutting or cold.
He liked her present and could not help himself. There was no better, nor worse reaction, and she knew it.
Fia kept her face smothered in her knees with only her silver tinged eyes visible. It gave her merciful moments to plead with her features before she spoke.
"I'm so pleased you like it." Her voice harbored a struggling ray of delight. It weakened as she wondered at the strange absence in Laszlo's life. "As much as I like the place in your memory, I'm sad it's your first. You deserved more." Without knowing a speck of his past, she was so certain that it ought to have been kinder than it seemed.
With infinite patience, Laszlo made wordless petitions to approach. Even broken, she knew the small ritual was a cruel thing to ask of him. When he knelt in front of her, she closed her eyes.
"Thank you, Laszlo," his name was handled tenderly in the murmur. Even then, her eyes were shut. They opened when the bucket made a sound between them.
The Ethaefal's passing chagrin over the blanket's role was batted away with a laugh. "Mayhaps, but I'm quite cozy, now, and not liable to change." She nodded slowly with his observations, a bit unsure as to the appropriateness of her food choices. "Bread for me, apples for either. It's cider, by the by. Though I think I forgot the cups... Not very refined. But it is in a bucket on the roof."
Fia's scarred hand slipped out from her cocoon and touched one of the open journals. It was a gesture of longing, easily misinterpreted as a desire for the simple ability to read.
"Would you tell me what it says?" Fia smiled, still looking at the writing she assumed was Laszlo's. "If'n it's too personal, you can make something else up and I'll never know the difference." A grin found her despite expectation. "It's mighty nice sharing space with a simpleton sometimes. Save I can't take a list to market. Tynan used to draw pictures for me, if'n he wanted something while visiting." Her laughter was drawn from a dim place where memory lay, "We ate a lot of round things."
Last edited by Fia Eaven on December 15th, 2012, 10:01 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Waiting for the Night to End

Postby Laszlo on December 10th, 2012, 7:08 am

Apples? The idea of eating an apple settled in Laszlo's mind with a unique sort of horror. There was nothing charming about watching a Symenestra eat. His features briefly expressed his opinion of the idea.

"I don't really eat, but thank you." Laszlo rubbed his mouth, feeling a sudden pressure in his teeth. His mortal hunger knew he was lying. Moving right along onto happier things… "I certainly don't mind drinking, though." Again, he picked up the bottle, testing the cork with two black claws. "I've never had cider before, either. It's a night of milestones."

He glanced at her sidelong, smirking.

It was hard to smile at her at all, watching her try to overrule her fear with meek bravery. She reminded him of a small, terrified animal, paralyzed by its helplessness. Although it was disheartening that she was so afraid of him, when he had never done anything to threaten her, he also knew her fears of Symenestra were completely justified. So did she. It took a great deal of courage and good will to weather his company the way she was. He was honestly touched by the gesture.

"I hope I've never given you the impression that I'm refined," Laszlo continued with a mild laugh. The best way to encourage her tolerance for him was to not draw attention to it. "I'm far more oafish. Anyway, it's more expedient straight from the bottle, isn't it?" The cork was removed with little effort, and the sweet smell of cider immediately polluted the air. He handed it to her.

Laszlo looked down at his writing, raising his eyebrows. "Oh, no it's—it's just, uh…" He picked up the journal, setting it in his lap. Quickly his eyes skimmed over what he'd written, searching for shreds of sensitive information he didn't want to share. He was writing it for the Bharani Library, so he doubted there were any.

The idea of Tynan's poor artistry eventually drew a small laugh out of him, but he immediately felt guilty for it. "You're not a simpleton, Fia," Laszlo said, catching his thoughts. He glanced at her again. "Don't call yourself that, for my sake?" His smile reappeared even as his eyes slid away. For a moment, he swam through nostalgia and stale thoughts. "I was writing about Alvadas. It's a bit rambling, but I don't mind sharing it."

Turning his eyes to his handwriting, he cleared his throat before starting at the beginning.

I have found many things in this world possess a dual or a multi-faceted nature, not just Ethaefal. Through the people I've met and places I've been, I've come to learn just how appearances can be deceiving. This is especially true for Alvadas, the City of Illusions, where deception is the central theme. No road leads to the same place twice, and no building or structure remains exactly where one left it. The quaint stories of the Trickster's domain are traded across Kalea and told with a certain charm, but the true nature of Alvadas is never well understood. No light can be more blinding than a lie, and no shadow can be darker than the fearsome unknown.


He paused to sip at Fia's offered cider, comparing the flavor and texture to light, sweetened beers. He remarked as much, then leaned back against the wall and continued. The rest of the text was generally the same tone as its introduction: mostly unfavorable, bitter, and with a touch of remembered fear.

Once, he stopped to glance at Fia, assuring that she was still listening, and then continued.

Laszlo wrote to explain the slippery mechanics of the shifting city, how to cooperate with its antics—upside down rain, glass streets, sinking cities, thick jungles—carefully avoiding referring to specific anecdotes. One, brief sentence alluded that the city seemed to incubate madness in people, but the thought seemed unfinished.

"That's as far as I wrote." He shrugged away his timidity, feeling suddenly vulnerable to criticism. Though he'd donated his ramblings to the library, he'd never known anyone to read (or hear) his writing before. "It may be a tad rubbish, but it's honest. I don't have any fondness for the place. I wish I'd never gone. I'm rather hoping this text will discourage travelers."
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Waiting for the Night to End

Postby Fia Eaven on December 17th, 2012, 7:30 am



Laszlo's glance to Fia consoled his doubt. She was sitting with her chin perched on her knees. It was a child's pose but a woman's concentration. Her eyes were sweetly shut again, so nothing came to her but his words. When rue welled through the story, she frowned on the Ethaefal's behalf. More artful renderings were noted with hums and half-sighs. The human had a gentle music to her, even at rest.
When Laszlo broke the oratory tone, Fia's eyes fluttered. They turned to him on instinct, before dashing away with regret.
"It has made you who you are. I would not wish away anything that has done that." Realizing the unplanned boldness in her answer, Fia fidgeted with her blanket and stretched toward something less forward. "Your voice is different… but not the shapes it makes. Like how kin makes the same huffs and pulls words the same way." She might have smiled, "I'd call it a perfect mimic, but that's not right." Plucking up a forgotten thought, she consoled Laszlo's artistic nervousness. "You sound like those travel journals me Aunt read. All proper and art like. Me Aunt would think the story perfectly scandalous." Her thoughts recited back portions that struck her mind and made peals. "A bit grimmer than I thought it would be, Laszlo." She was hesitating on a question, but wondered at the wisdom of it. The knot was set aside and another taken hold of.
"So, prepare your ears. I want to say something afore I get fluttered out of me words. I think you know, as you've been more than good on me account. But it bears being said." She dared turn her head a little to look at Laszlo, but could not present all her focus. "It's not you." Words plainly presented, encompassing much. "You're a mercy." Her eyes warmed but could not keep hold of him long. "It's how you provoke old thoughts. I see something I've seen hundreds times over…" The number seemed more a true estimation than a generality. Her hand had wandered up to bear her brow, "… it's like when a dog sees you take out its bowl. It expects food. I expect something else. And it's in me gut, me bones and all the places venom crept in." She was ashamed and the words had burrs that caught on her tongue, but she dropped them like heavy ore between them, grateful to be free of the strain of holding them. "There's no sense in it. Part of why I hate meself for it." She breathed in courage and her exhale shivered. "So, I'm asking more pardon for the times to come. The weight is still on his end of the scale." Fia's half laugh had the first dose of scorn Laszlo had ever heard from her. It was gathered and pinned to her heart alone. "I ask a lot of things right quick, don't I?" An arm was extended toward him. "Like another pinch of that cider."
Trying to shepherd the conversation elsewhere, she said, "This is lovely, soft stuff. Denval has-- had degtine, which is neither."

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Waiting for the Night to End

Postby Laszlo on December 17th, 2012, 10:17 am

Fia took her turn to speak of something personal, reciprocating the moment when Laszlo's voice had filled the air. He was grateful for the trade, glad that she wanted his company as much as he liked hers. Her words, not written or rehearsed, were more difficult to get out. Laszlo watched her wrestle with her tongue, forging scattered thoughts into spoken, permanent words. This was her cadence, he was beginning to realize. It was how she spoke when she meant something. He imagined her thoughts were like leaves caught in a breeze, skittering across a cold, open street, and she kept having to run to catch them.

As she continued, Laszlo's expression fell. His eyes slid away from her gradually, settling on the textured skyglass roofing, unusually warm beneath his fingers and glittering mildly in the moonlight. He remained quiet and occasionally nodded, allowing her to unburden herself uninterrupted. The almost angry note she ended on surprised him. She hadn't seemed capable of spite thus far.

It was an apology, mostly. And a warning. There would be more of this to come.

She softened the moment with a light touch of self-deprecation. Laszlo smirked at her, taking a drink before handing her the bottle.

His lips were parted, mouth open as if he intended to speak, but he couldn't manage his voice. The words were balled up and wedged in the pit of his chest, where his nails picked at his shirt. Strings of phrases passed through his mind, but he couldn't decide which to pick from the pile and give her. Something needed to be said, but what does a person to say to a deeply seated fear?

The sympathy he felt for her reached a point of pain—of course it wasn't him she was afraid of. And in no way could he begin to blame her for her apprehension. It only frustrated him that there was little he could do ease her mind about it. It felt as though a glass barrier was constructed between them. The very fact that she was this close to him, he knew, was a courageous feat. It more than earned his respect.

She was a conundrum to Laszlo. A reminder that the victims of the harvest had faces and dimensions. An unnervingly perfect polar opposite to Duvalyon. While his efforts sustained the race, Fia was the byproduct. Worse, the harvest was something Laszlo consciously condoned. Duvalyon would do this and worse to other innocent woman and there would be no love lost between the two of them. Laszlo felt as though he existed on both sides of a bitter war.

With a long, final sigh, he disintegrated all of his thoughts and surrendered. There weren't any words. "It's alright," was all he managed, the corners of his mouth pulling into a dim, understanding smile. "Really." It wasn't much, but he meant it. What else could he say without the conversation becoming weighted and unwieldy? The night and Lhavit were too lovely for that.

It wasn't Laszlo Fia feared, yet he also knew that a lifetime ago, this shape had once been deadly.

Mercifully, the Denvali offered a piece of a new conversation. Laszlo snatched it readily and without subtlety. "Degtine," he echoed fondly, recalling the last time he had any of the strong, spiced liquor. It was a difficult night. Abalia was still alive then. "My tavern used to serve that. Until recently I still had a flask of it, but I shared it with a friend. It was last summer. Denval must have already been…" Another chipper topic. Well done, Laszlo.

"I'm sorry." He smiled sheepishly at his own lack of grace. "Though I do know a bit of what it is to be unable to return home. We're both marooned, you and I." It must have been different, he thought, for a mortal. Or perhaps it wasn't. Laszlo was never very sure where the line was drawn between him and them. "I can't remember mine. There are colors and feelings but… nothing else. A name I can barely fathom. Heh. I haven't even thought of my name in…" He was rambling.

Laszlo looked at Fia. Perhaps it could be a comfort for her to be reminded that she sat next to an Ethaefal, not a Widow. "I apologize if this seems rude but would you… tell me a little about Denval? Beyond getting smashed on a drink a few times, I really know very little about the place."
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Waiting for the Night to End

Postby Elysium on December 17th, 2012, 5:08 pm

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This night sky was of ink, its darkness making no pretense toward the typical navy hue. The black expanse above was clustered with stars; they were as radiant little pinholes in a dark satin sheet. In the wide firmament above, one could see their formation perfectly. There were no rolling clouds concealing the heavens on that night. Leth lent his kiss to the skyglass roof-tops and all was graced by a wash of moonlight.

The silver beams caught an airborne shape, illuminating just the wingtips. For afar it could be presumed a bird, though the darkness allowed no other observation to be made. Its flapping was ponderous, carried on the dead air by long pinions which bent at the wrist. It flew in a direct line above the seated pair. Within a few yards, the avian became visible. It's plumage was mottled black and white save for its breast and underside. The sea-faring bird was rather out of place given the late hour.

It was safe to assume the Osprey had just come from the Amarathine River as a wriggling, scaled morsel struggled against its grasp. It was a wonder where it might be headed. One had to ask in such a mysterious city as Lhavit - was it a morpher, kelvic or some otherworldy shape? Whatever its true form, the shadow swept overhead and something fell with dull thud, rolling lazily toward Fia's reclining form. It looked as a gift almost, the light paper wrapping nearly soaked through. For the bird to have carried it, the shape was almost impossibly large. There was no doubt it was dropped simply by necessity.

When torn into, the contents would reveal to be a journal. The object is surprisingly untouched by water damage excepting the cover. It seems almost as a gift from the heavens, responding to the topic at hand. Maybe a hint or a guide to show the two individuals a new way. It smells of salt and oddly, jasmine. The bizarre combination of scents add to the mystery.

OOCHappy holidays, you crazy kids. :D
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Elysium
Never venture, never win.
 
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