Closed Brightest Dusk (Alses)

[Dariel]

The Dusk Tower 9th Day of Winter, 512 AV Dariel liked snow. Dariel liked wind. But enough of both mingling and mixing made for an orgy he would gladly have passed up. But promises were promises and seeing as Dariel had promised his father to deliver a book ordered by one of the Dusk family. The boy himself was not fond of wooden covers, but Keper had fashioned the ebony mosaic with an amber inlay featuring the setting Syna at the very bottom of the cover. It looked sublime and gave the wood a reddish shade. It was a very harmonious image. Dariel occasionally considered his father simple and it was true in so far as his intellect was not as refined as the young mage's. But in his simplicity Keper Masute still had a sense of composition and beauty that crossed over into art. And dextrous hands that allowed him to make his visions come true. Even if he'd had someone else work over the wood and amber. He was a bookbinder after all. He'd had a small lunch with his parents, successfully deflected his mother's inquisitive probing about girls and grandchildren and defused her worries regarding his proclivities. Then he had to go outside, the book wrapped in a bag of oilcloth and he in a cloak the vague color of his eyes. In the snowstorm it looked a simple grey, a dark spectre bracing himself into the oncoming snowflakes, making his way towards the Shinyama with his bundle braced into his chest. Dariel crossed abandoned squares where whirling winds built twisting towers of white. He forced his way down narrow streets that channelled the winds to the point where he had to lean into them to not be knocked into the snow. He weathered the biting winds whipping across the bridge that led him off the Zintia even while he needed both hands to hold the weighty tome to him. When he set foot on the Shinyama, he felt as if he could sleep immediately. The bridge behind him was lovely in the right weather, with a clear view of the valleys and forests beneath, tiny white and blue ribbons cutting through them where little streams sprang from the mountainside. He had no idea what they had looked like today. Dariel was just glad to have made it in one piece. This delivery better was important to someone. It had seemed important to Keper, though Dariel's roving mind had found enough times when he was not crossing a bridge to wonder about that. Was it just a timely matter of delivering an order or was this his father's way of nudging him to acquaint himself with the Dusk Tower? After all, it amounted to being a local and open school for Auristics, and Auristics were the magics he excelled in. It also wouldn't have been the first nudge towards the Dusk Tower Dariel would have received. Crossing the last few steps to the Tower gate with not a guard or anything comparable in sight, Dariel wondered if he'd see the man from the tea house again. As he closed in he realized why the gate was abandoned. The winds swept in in such a way that they recoiled from the solid gate and swirdled snow all over in this very area. Finding the door in the larger gate was more an act of feeling for it than looking for it. Stepping through and slamming it shut behind him felt like one swift motion. At first, Dariel thought he had stepped into total darkness, going from white to black in a heartbeat. The lighting inside was soft. There were braziers for the pair of guards who had been forced to retreat inside, lanterns but just as the snow seemed to refract and reflect the light on the outside, it dulled what little light managed to ooze in from the street. Tossing back the hood of his cloak and otherwise patting the snow from it with one awkward hand while the other balanced the heavy book, he stated his business and was given directions to the proper office. This would have gone easier if Dariel had had a specific name to deliver the order to, but 'Dusk Tower' was all Keper had given him. And so he'd been sent on to meet with someone only called 'the Secretary'. Somehow the man at the door had made it sound ominous. He would have to see. What terror could a paper-pusher hold after all? His thoughts trailed off as he noticed people moving to and fro without taking much noticed of the outside beside nodded and murmured greetings. Then he remembered that he was dressed in what the merchant had called Shinyama colors, and so were they. Blue and black, the colors of night. For all they saw, he was one of them. In a way, Dariel was invisible. A thought that did much to raise his spirits as he came to a halt before the indicated door. His knuckles wrapped across the wood sharply thrice, then he opened the door without waiting for an answer. Stepping inside still dripping molten and melting remnants of what once had been snow, the rectangular bundle cradled like a child, Dariel called a clear , "Greetings and best regards from Keper Masute the bookbinder." into the room even while he still sized up the interior. Dariel's gaze glid across muted tones, dark wood and glazed blues. The color scheme continued, Dariel noted. More relevant to his intentions however were the two people by the fireplace he'd apparently just interrupted. The monocled man looked well kempt and dressed and very proper, but whatever else he looked paled when one saw the woman standing with him. Stood so close to the hearthfire that she seemed to run the risk of burning herself, he beheld an Ethaefal, a child of Syna by her coloring. To find a child of the sun in the house of dusk was a curious footnote but even as he approached, most likely unbidden though he couldn't really tell, Dariel drank in her features. Whatever the motivation behind the Ethaefal even being allowed to persist rather than being called to serve their Gods again, they certainly existed to fill the world with beauty. Even if it often took a distant, otherworldly shape. While this specimen did not lack in otherworldly beauty however, she did not seem that distant. For one she was shorter than the other ones he'd seen and quite an earthy beauty. Her hair was the shade of freshly dug earth, her horns tinted with the green of youthful growth and her features were firstly sensual and only secondarily ethereal. It was unsurprising then that the men spoke with awe of this Secretary. Ignoring her monocled clerk, Dariel strode up to the Ethaefal, delivered a smart bow in as far as the book in his arms allowed and moved to address her properly. "Once again, my greetings, Mistress. Dariel Masute. My father tasked me to deliver this tome to the Dusk Tower and since he neglected to give me the name of a recipient I have been sent on to your mercy." Straightening as he spoke, Dariel's eyes were still focussing on the Ethaefal. He didn't even notice the monocle dropping from the other man's features.

[Alses]

It was a decidedly bedraggled and rather windswept Alses that had struggled into the Dusk Tower that afternoon. Fat and heavily pregnant clouds, fluffy and bulgingly dense, had settled over the city in the night, herded and corralled between the taller mountain peaks by the continual winds of Kalea. Penned up with no escape from their stacked holding patterns over the celestial city, something had had to give – and it did, in the uncertain light of dawn. The milling cumulus split open en-masse, sending a maelstrom of billions of white flakes down onto Lhavit, buffeted hither and yon by the energetic winds. Frequent snowfalls were a feature of Lhavit in the winter; whenever the jaunty mantle of snow that the city wore for much of the season started to look a little dirty and bedraggled, a big new snowfall could generally be counted upon to fluff it up again, returning it to sparkling, pristine whiteness. This particular fall was rather a heavy one, and looked set in for the duration of the day. Alses had woken that morning, reluctantly, to the skirling whiteness pushing against the window of her room in the Towers Respite. Not even the near-tropical warmth of her chamber – a creature of heat and the sun, she always made sure her fire was piled high to burn through the night – made any appreciable dent in the flakes mounding up against the windowpane. Part of her, remembering the Tower secretary's admonishments the last time she'd forced her way through a storm to work, thought about just remaining abed, curled up under the blankets and lazily watching the leaping flames, but idleness did not sit well with her at all, infused with all the energy and spirit of the morning sun. It was only a bit of snow, after all – how dangerous could it be, with the heat of the skyglass and her own knowledge of Lhavit's streets to guide her steps? The rather hot and bothered unfortunate who had been directed to keep the Respite's entry hall clear of snow tracked in by visitors leaned on the doors with a tired smile and wished her good luck with her errands, standing ready with his broom to deal with the drifts that would rush in the instant she pushed her way out onto the snow-dusted streets. A deep breath of deliciously warm air filled her lungs before, in a single fluid movement, she forced open the Respite doors (against what felt like an almost solid wall of wind) and plunged out into the wintry whiteness of Lhavit. A She quickly came to regret the decision to struggle in, however; most of the other regular couriers had decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and had remained in their homes, leaving the Tower with only a skeleton messenger staff, mostly those who lived in the place for one reason or another. Making her way through the whiteness of Lhavit in full snowfall was a nightmare. Time and again, as she forged ahead through the drift-filled streets, she had blessed her knowledge of the city in all weathers, and of all the small, shadowed shortcuts that made the journey that bit easier; every little helped. Minaret navigation, that was how she thought of the process of finding her position from the soaring rooflines looming up out of the billows of swirling flakes; the particular placement of spires and towers had never led her wrong yet. She was most thankful, however, for the underbridge, an almost unknown feature of the impossibly-graceful skyglass bridges of Lhavit. Indeed, she'd not have known about it at all save for serendipity leading her to observe a small figure emerge from an almost invisible skyglass door set into one of the bridge supports. The underbridge, as she'd termed it, was a small tunnel-like structure that ran along the underbelly of the arcing ribbons than soared between peaks, allowing the Akka priesthood easy access – presumably for means of maintenance inspection, although what sort of maintenance might be needed was a mystery to Alses. Whatever was necessary, it was probably considerably more arcane than anything a normal engineer would be required or expected to do. Thus it was that after delivering the last package on her current run – here she thanked the Secretary for his consideration, since it had been the blacksmith's shop, Touch of Fire, and she'd been able to warm herself thoroughly by the forges – that Alses made her way back to the Dusk Tower. Through judicious use of shortcuts, alleyways that ran near-parallel to the prevailing winds rather than full in their face and said underbridge, Alses arrived at the normally-welcoming gates of the Dusk Tower slightly less caked in snow and certainly much less cold than would otherwise have been the case, just as they were hauling the great gates shut, with a prodigious amount of effort and shouting. They were almost never moved, which explained the difficulty the poor guardsmen drafted in for the job were having, the hinges squealing and shrieking in protest before the sound was whipped away by the wicked, snow-laden winds. Alses was very glad that that task, at least, was not her problem; she slipped in between the slowly closing gates, hurried to the Dusk Tower doors and vanished inside, thankful to be back in the warm; the braziers the guards had near the gates not really cutting it. Mr. Secretary's office was darkly cosy, made snug by the roaring fire he kept unfailingly blazing in the hearth. The scuttle was always full of tinder-dry wood, and he never minded – or at least had never voiced an objection to - a shivering Ethaefal tossing some extra fuel into the flames after coming in from the cold. “Chilly out there still, I take it?” he observed with wry understatement as she crossed the threshold. “Very,” she agreed, shortly, immediately moving over to what had become her accustomed spot in his office, right in front of the fire, drinking in its prodigious warmth with a smile of perfect, simple contentment on her face. After a discreet few minutes, the dapper man joined her. “It's appreciated, you know,” he said quietly. “We don't have many apprentices after – well, you know, you were there, if memory serves - and still fewer of those take their chores for the Tower as seriously as perhaps we'd like.” Alses half-smiled. “We don't have the means at present to pay our tuition otherwise, Mr. Secretary, magesmith or no,” she observed. “Besides, I know there's a great many more unpleasant tasks out there. We might complain when you load us down with boxes to take all over Lhavit, but we know we could be forced to...to...” she cast about for a worse fate “...I don't know, work in the paddy fields or something similar.” Was that a smile on his face? “Very true. Now-” Just then, they were interrupted by three brisk knocks on the door, and someone stepped through, almost blending with the dark skyglass for a moment. Then the lights shifted in the stone, and the figure became more visible, more so when the hood went back. She blinked in momentary surprise – had he been so blasted by the snow that it'd somehow stuck to his skin? She was on the verge of ushering him forwards to take her place by the fire when common sense told her he simply had pale skin, very much like her own mortal chain; the snow from outside was rapidly melting off his outer cloak in the snug heat of the room. He had a clear voice, precise and calm, and he was much more confident than she had been the first time she'd set foot in this office. Back then, it had seemed very grand and intimidating; now it was simply familiar. Unusually, rather than making a beeline for the secretary, he headed straight for her – a very puzzling occurrence indeed. Alses' mind raced: 'Have I ever ordered anything from this Keper Masute? More to the point, did we ever have anything sent here? Has there been a mix-up somewhere? Have we forgotten something?' All these thoughts and more flashed through her head in an instant, and her arms went out to receive the package almost on automatic. The genuflection was expected, but his next words were not; after a moment of silence she let out a rich and delighted ripple of laughter, catching out of the very corner of her eye Mr. Secretary's absolute astonishment; his monocle popped from its orbit and dangled on its ribbon, swinging dangerously close to the leaping flames. “Such manners, Dariel Masute – but we fear I'm not the one whose mercy can help you. We are but an apprentice at the Tower.” Alses tilted her head and gestured to the dapper man next to her. “Whilst we moonlight as a courier, I deal in exports, not imports. Your field, I think, sir?”

[Dariel]

For but a moment, Dariel's expression flashed over with dissatisfaction. How could he have erred so spectacularly? He bought himself more time to think by levelling the book, extending it halfways on open palms, head somewhat inclined to further obfuscate his features. The child of Syna was as gracious as she was graceful, but the human who had only just finished replacing his monocle might be differently inclined. Dariel had to hold on to hope that he was responsible for deliveries only and not, say, information. Or applications. In the wild and free to stretch his wings, Dariel's ability to see beyond sight had increased by leaps and bounds. Sooner or later he would require expert guidance. Of course, none of that concern served to instill true modesty in him. "Apologies, Mistress. I am obviously a stranger to the intricacies of the Dusk Tower. I should amend that. In the meantime, where should I put this then?" It was as much of an apology as he was capable of, and solely directed at the Ethaefal. Even if her skin and eyes had not been touched by divine radiance, even if her features graced a face that was merely human she'd have been strikingly beautiful. The fact that she was touched by the divine, even if it was merely Syna, made it nearly impossible to look away. Even if Dariel neglected to even regard the human secretary, he expected him to answer the question just posed. For the cherubical Synaborn, however, he had a different question: "You are in charge of outgoing deliveries then? Do you share this space with your colleague or did I interrupt some form of coordination effort? A social call?" In his mind it was unimaginable that a servant of the divine should take orders from any but the most highly placed of mortals. Dariel was not Ethaefal and he already had issues taking orders from about anyone who did not bring superior force to the table. As an afterthought and as an explanation, he added, "I am trying to analyze where I erred, mistress. I make a point to not offend divinities or their servants if I can avoid it at all." It made sense to him, and he did his best to keep a little smile on his face that he thought looked pleasant but did not even manage to look very natural.

[Alses]

“An honest mistake to make, wouldn't you agree?” Alses half-turned, enough to see both Dariel - book levelled and proffered - and the secretary whilst keeping as much of her body as possible close to the fire. A smile flashed fleetingly over the secretary's features before they schooled themselves to appropriately official blankness once more. “It wouldn't be the first time it's happened, no,” he agreed, after an appropriately magisterial pause. “Least said, soonest mended - but we'd take it as a service, young man, if you'd not make the mistake again.” Alses carefully took the book from Dariel's hands. It was a piece of art just as much as it was of literature, bound in darkly-intricate wood rather than the more usual leather and with amber embedded in a complex design across the front, depicting a sinking sun on the wane. Not entirely to her taste, perhaps, but fitting for the Dusk Tower nonetheless. “Mr. Secretary?” she proffered the package; his deft hands quickly took it, inspecting it. Carefully, almost reverentially – books were rare, after all – he opened it, flipping through a few pages before a satisfied 'Mmhm' signalled that his internal filing system had thrown up a card. “Ah, this'd be the new book your instructor-” he said, with a nod to Alses “-commissioned.” At this, Alses almost reflexively cast her eyes skyward. “Syna above, it'd better be perfectly to specification then. Our instructor has exacting standards,” she explained to Dariel. “Mr. Masute is, I'm sure, an excellent craftsman,” he replied, a touch reprovingly. “We have made use of his services before, and had no complaints.” His tone became slightly more lighthearted, but retained its formal diction. “Although...a prayer for luck before it goes under the discerning eye can never go amiss. Zintila bless this book, may it be appreciated.” He laid it carefully on his groaning desk, ready for later transport to the Family wing, and then seemed to change his mind. “I should probably see that to safekeeping,” he murmured, almost to himself, “And His Excellency will be waiting for the eightday report...” mind seemingly made up, the secretary turned. “Alses, allow young Master Masute to warm up before sending him on his way, would you? You might as well leave for the day too – what business as remains can wait until the weather clears.” With that, the secretary bowed to her, nodded briefly to Dariel and glided out of the room as though on rollers, carrying the precious book and a small stack of scrolls. The silence, broken only by the snap and crackle of logs in the fireplace, was very loud. “Poor fellow,” she said, with amusement still skipping through her words, and then became slightly more serious. “Now, do come and warm up by the fire...Dariel, wasn't it?” she urged. “It's a foul afternoon out there, after all.” She glanced at the window, more out of mortal habit than any real need to. “There are a few bells until dusk – not that you'd know it from looking outside.” She shivered, reflexively, turning slightly before the flames to expose as much of herself as possible to the heat, her fire-opal skin gleaming liquidly in the golden light. “To answer you; we're not in charge of anything. Mr. Secretary points me, and we go. Usually laden with message-boxes.” A wry smile. “He is the lynchpin on which this Tower turns. He commands the dedicated couriers, and Tower apprentices like myself who deliver messages, requests, orders, payments and presents to all who have business with the Tower or House Dusk, and he receives all communications in kind. He is the Tower's public face, if you will, its first line of defence.” A sudden grin. “The gates aren't usually closed, you see. A good man, from our limited experience, even if it does often seem as though he gets folded up in a cupboard somewhere when not manning this desk. He has always been kind to us, even more so after the djed storm in Spring.” She smiled at Dariel's next pronouncement. “As we've already discussed, it was an understandable error. No blame or insult attaches.” She paused, pensive. “I cannot speak for all, of course, but it's at once very easy and quite difficult to offend me. Blaspheme against Syna and we will merrily tear you to shreds. Aside from that...I know that in a few short decades you will be dust and bones and we will go on, unchanged and unchanging. What does an ocean care for a raindrop's ire? What does the sun care for a fire's spite?” She shook herself. “Forgive me; I have a tendency to...wander...during the day. Alses will do, by the way, not Mistress – we have too many titles already. Mortals seem to have this irrepressible urge to stick something in front of or after or sometimes even instead of my name.”

[Dariel]

Dariel had awaited his fate as stoically as if hewn from marble, though the book's weight on outstretched hands soon began to ask for a toll. Gritted teeth hidden behind thin lips pressed into a straight line he would never have asked for quater. The Ethaefal's helping hand still came as a relief. Letting go of the book, the young man's hands slid behind his back where he locked his left around his right wrist while he assured the secretary, "I aim to make no mistakes at all. Certainly never exactly the same twice." Stood like this, he calmly let the following exchange wash over him, expecting an imminent dismissal which never came. Instead he was at leisure to pick out the raisins from the conversation, vague as some of the points were for lack of a context. The Daughter of Syna was a student at the tower, her teacher was stern and discerning. Two adjectives that endeared the lady to Dariel in absentia, but seemingly not so much to her pupil. And if Alses was a student here, then she was... The burning woodn in the fireplace had its own sharp scent which overlayed much of what other ambient aromas. It would take a while longer until he was used well enough to it before he would smell much of anything else. Not that he really needed to. This Ethaefal was apprenticed to what appeared to be a high-ranking member of the Dusk Tower. A female possessed of an exquitite taste and a vile disposition. The Towers taught magic. The Dusk Tower taught his breed of magic, Auristics. Had she already looked him over? Found his secrets, laid him bare? Had she noticed? It was curious to be on the other side of his own talents. But unlike most people Dariel examined, he was at least aware of the possibility. While these thoughts rushed through Dariel's head, the secretary and Alses had finished their exchange and the human moved to leave. Hands still locked behind his back, Dariel offered a swift bow to the man. Had he missed being excused? That would not do. Apparently not, as the Ethaefal even bade him come closer to the flames. Contrary to her assumption, Dariel was more worried about burning himself than freezing. Though not necessarily on the flames. "If one were to be philosophical, there is an argument that foul weather makes us appreciate the amenities of the hearth. Of course that does not detract from it being wretched." He allowed for a little smile as he took a half-step towards the flames, sliding his shoulders out from under the cloak. He let Alses explain everything and introduce herself past polite nods and the occasional indredulous look, especially when she affirmed her station at the Dusk Tower. Was it because this pliable creature was merely a servant of Syna? Would those belonging to her darkling lover be more imperious? Lhavit would most certainly allow him to find out in time. In her defense, Alses was pleasant and open, In a world full of Dariels, few things would ever be freely given. There was a balance here. "I maintain that it is odd to see a servant of the divine subservient to a mere human, even if you certainly make him out to be a paragon of his people and I have no inclination to doubt your words. That being said, I shall not argue with facts; things are as they are and I am certain you have your reasons. Do all apprentices at the Tower fulfill menial tasks or did you simply choose to carry your share of the burden?" For his part, Dariel had no interest in being someone's, anyone's errand boy or other form of cheap help. He had had enough of that in this past life. Maybe, he thought, maybe he was better off refining his abilities on his own. Dariel hung onto that thought for the time being. He would have ample time to consider it while the fire's heat drove the wetness from his garb. He might need new boots before the winter was over. Ones with tight, waxed seams. Right now, his feet seemed to float in private little lakes, though he would never let on. "That was a lovely perspective on human existence there however. You are of course right. My kind amounts to little. What is a single tear in an ocean of water?" Delivered in good cheer, he was uncertain whether he wanted to pat the Ethaefal on the head or slap her across the face. Not that he would have acted on either thought, but he was tempted to do both. At least Alses was capable of some level of proper decorum for a divine creature, fallen or not. On the other hand he had no intention of being belittled. Humans had built the wonders of the world, not Ethaefal. The Gods and their servants often helped, granted. But they wrought at least as much destruction as they helped to create things, and since the Valterrian the tally was far in the negative. Everything humans had built they had created despite the Gods in the long run. For a moment, he bared his teeth in an unconscious animal gesture. Maybe she would not make the connection. Right now he had things to talk about and he could not have the Ethaefal distracted by an argument that was none. "I do however not mind you wandering at all." Had he just implied he minded something else? Did he need to curb his language? Overthinking matters is one of the first mistakes too many liars made. Dariel was more seasoned than that. He just moved on. "I am told I do it myself, you see? Maybe it simply comes with the territory as well. By your calling yourself an apprentice of the Dusk Tower I take it you are an Aurist?" As soon as he had said the word, Dariel's instincts had told him to see who else had listened, but this was Lhavit where nobody minded magic as long as it did not burn down entire city quarters. And Auristics was eternally and woefully under-rated by most everyone who failed to grasp its intricacies. "Maybe seeing and knowing all these additional bits of information simply requires one to maintain more thoughts, use more words, work harder? I have some passing talent in that area as well. Though I obviously did not learn it here. Well, truth be told, half of what I know is self-taught for better or worse. My old master had an... odd philosophy. See? Now it is me who is wandering." And he had. It was not a terrible thing. It neatly kept him from divulging too much on the subject for one.

[Alses]

Alses didn't reply straight away, head resting on the marbled fireplace and eyes a million miles away, gazing unblinking into the white-hot heart of the blaze.“A sensible attitude,” she murmured after a chime or two, “Learning from mistakes. Everyone makes them, although some-” her eyes returned to immediate focus and flicked skywards “-are more loath to admit it than others. Myself included there, I grant you.” Her gaze turned again, almost magnetically drawn to the leaping flames. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth at Dariel's flippant comment; it amused her inordinately, for some reason. “An interesting thought in principle, but nonetheless a poorly reasoned argument, to our mind. Each to their own interpretation of the world, of course, but we find fire endlessly fascinating, whether we need its presence and comfort or not. A beacon of warmth and light in the darkness, the mortals' emulation of Syna, in all Her moods. Of course, we can hardly be without bias.” She became pensive, thoughtful even, as Dariel mentioned his own incredulity at her relatively menial position. It was a complex answer, and so required some time for her to slot the appropriate reply together, a silver row of shining blocks inside her head, each one created by consensus with the multitudes. As was her wont, too, she'd begun to calm herself, drawing herself little by little into the preternatural state that was at the heart of auristic endeavours, still as a marble statue with only her mind racing and leaping. “Life is expensive, Master Masute.” In addressing Dariel, Alses had picked up on the secretary's formal address as the most appropriate to use, at least until informed differently. Her voice was soft and measured, a rippling cadence that was a fusion of the steadier Lhavitian pronunciation and the elongated, almost drawling versions of Common found amongst Zeltiva's glitterati. “I don't know if you've noticed that yet.” It wasn't said with any particular malice; Alses wasn't what one might call au courant with ages and frequently got them wrong; as far as she was concerned at this point, Dariel was a bookbinder's son sent out on an errand, nothing more. Indulging him to some extent cost her nothing, though, and indeed might curry some favour with his father, always a useful thing. It also meant, more crucially, that she could stay by the fire for longer before having to brave the elements. “You should understand that we don't eat or drink – save for out of extreme necessity – and yet still I require a myriad of things that were never a factor for me before. Clothing, shelter, the occasional treat to experience...you understand us, I'm sure. I fell back to this ball of mud with nothing beyond tattered memories and a language-” the words stuck in her throat for a moment “-a language I can't even pronounce any more. We had to relearn everything. To my knowledge, every Ethaefal suffers the same indignity.” She shrugged, a lifting of the shoulders that sent bright reflections dancing across the skyglass in front of her for a moment. “On balance, I suppose, we were extremely lucky; fishermen found me, and a fairly kind wizard took care of us. There are worse fates than a wizard's pet, and then later an apprentice. We would be there still, were it not for unfortunate mortality.” A slight shake of the head, a twisting of the light caught in her crown-of-horns, then she stilled. It was becoming easier and easier to attain that state of exalted calm; either that, or she didn't need to be quite so absolutely at peace and harmony with herself and the world in general. Dariel Masute possessed an unusually vibrant aura to her augmented senses, a shimmering and pulsing kaleidoscope of tumbling shade and chameleon hue extending some distance from his flesh even in her own rather rudimentary, passive sight. This was an intriguing development, now she had the peace and quiet to notice it, in an otherwise-unremarkable bookbinder's boy, and so bore examination. The trick and talent of it was to do so subtly and without attracting undue attention. An absent-minded, wandering Ethaefal was, however, perfect for that sort of thing - any inattention could so easily be waved off or explained away. The Dusk Tower's aura, the embodiment of generations of Dusks down the ages and all that they stood for, was an old friend, the first thing that her own personal artist unseen went to work on whenever she truly exercised her powers, his brush threaded with djed and cargoed with a million shades of purple. She could still only manage touch the very edges of that aura, seeing it as a wavering, shifting - although no longer insubstantial - melange of blue and purple that maddeningly defied precise and exacting definition, always just at the very edge of vision, blurring and slightly confusing everything else. She knew, thanks to experiments with glyphs (conducted far away from the disapproving eye of her teacher) that, with enough skill and enough djed, those mountainous blocks of colour, those ravines of saturation and coruscating, spiking rivers of deeper shade and hue would resolve themselves into ever-more intricate webworks that could speak to her on the very deepest of levels. There was conviction there, sunk into the very skyglass, along with pride, stability and safety, and the ubiquitous sense of blood, par for the course in any building so ancient. Perceiving any one of those imprinted feelings? virtues? standards? was difficult, but compensation for the aura itself was easy by now, purely by dint of long, long practice and immersion within its environs, the inversion of synchronicity serving to obliterate that particular aura from her sight, at least as long as she maintained her concentration. With that aura gone, banished from her perceptions, Dariel's particular signature sang out loud and clear – mostly bringing the sense of chilled, soaking feet to her own, which were completely dry and toasty warm. With the djed-driven synchrony between her perceptions and Dariel's aura, though, it was suddenly as though they'd been dipped in icy snowmelt – which probably wasn't far off the mark. She fought to keep her face from registering a wince, and hurriedly pulled away from the shining filigrees that were bringing her the disagreeable feeling, the proxy senses that rayed out from her body. “Once again, we drift from your question and our answer both.” She coughed, in a curiously academic sort of way, as though giving a lecture. Unconsciously, she was adopting the style of her instructor, relaying knowledge and reasoning in much the same manner. “To return: very little on Mizahar is free, we've found. The Dusk Tower requires its students to live close at hand; the Towers Respite, located equidistant from all the Towers and linked to each by private bridges. We believe tuition for each apprentice is paid out of the residency bills there, although I took the job as a courier at first to simply find my way around Lhavit rather than pay our way; it was a confusing place to me back then.” She grinned, voice slipping from its more formal speech. “We now know all the hidden ways around the city; the underbridges, the shortcuts and forgotten streets, how to get from one side of Surya Plaza to the other on a festival day without being seen by anyone...Valuable, when you-” she bit down, hard, on the mention of her mortal chain. A bookbinder's boy didn't need to know of such things; no-one did. “-when you don't wish to be the centre of attention. We spend considerable time talking to apprentices and journeymen whilst their masters deliberate over a reply to a Dusk Tower missive, too. The apprentices of today will become the masters of tomorrow, and having a good acquaintance with them will only help us in the future.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “We think in the long-term, you see. Couriering gives us some coin to pay for life's little necessities, but the main asset it brings us is connections. Thanks to our ferrying messages all across Lhavit, we are known, now, all through the city. We can walk through the Azure Market and know almost every trader's face and name, for example. 'Putting down roots' is the expression, I believe.” Her voice became much less serious, and that golden note of wry amusement skipped through her words once more. “As I said, we don't do it for the money, which really is a pittance. Indeed, I rely on my skills at magecraft – that makes us highly valuable, and is probably at least part of the reason we were accepted here.” Her eyes blazed with something more than reflected firelight as she continued, expressing her passion for the magic she was currently denied. “Provide me with a laboratory and some ingredients – and time, of course - and I can make wonders to last the ages and delight even the most jaded of men.” A sigh. “Of course, artifacts and the means to craft them are expensive. We executed a commission for His Excellency the Patriarch in Autumn, though, and a handsome payment for our labours will be forthcoming soon enough. Perhaps even enough for our own facility. It's very much the harder road to wealth and fame in Lhavit; there are those, as we've been told on many occasions, who would pay hundreds, if not thousands of kina to experience a day with us.” She sniffed, disdainful. “I understand it's the oldest mortal profession, but it's not one that holds any attraction for me – although I seem to hold a considerable amount of attraction for it. Madame Belladonna – mistress in all senses of the word of the Red Lantern – has spoken to me about this several times. In any case, quite besides my own personal preferences for menial work over opening my thighs – forgive the vulgarity - I'm sure that at least one of the Tower's Powers that Be considers menial work to be character-building for a wizard. My instructor certainly considers it a useful tool of humility.” It doesn't work, was the unspoken rider, clear as day. “I prefer to think of it all – couriering, gardening and so forth - as developing a foundation of rock on which to build my castles in the air. Too many wizards down the ages lost their grip on normal reality and its rules and ended up turned themselves into drooling abominations. We certainly don't intend for that to happen to us. Mind you,” she added, in the spirit of fairness “I doubt they intended to become that sort of thing either.” She smiled at Dariel's attempt at comparison between his own wandering and hers. There was probably quite a bit of overlap, in reality, but it was generally best for her to establish the white lie, the half-truth, as the whole of it early on. It saved bother down the line. “I think our two causes of wandering are somewhat different,” she demurred politely. “I shan't comment on your own, but Ethaefal have the blessing and burden of all our past lives clamouring in our heads – and I know myself to be a very old soul. My chorus and choir is...quite deafening, when it wants to be. Memory can strike us at any moment, and often does, some event or happening that was significant for our...” she cast around for the right word, and eventually plumped for: “...development. Perhaps the most obvious result is the difficulty with the personal pronoun.” Actively focusing on her speech now, the mashup of pronouns smoothed out into the correct form, rather than randomly switching. “I don't feel like any one person at all for much of the time; I'm a compound creature of a thousand lives, all stitched together. 'I' just doesn't sit well, much to m'lady's annoyance.” That was one of the few things she had no control at all over, and it drove her to distraction on occasion. “As for what sort of magus we would class ourself as...An Aurist?” Alses echoed. “In truth we would rather prefer to be known as a magesmith if we must be specific, but yes, we have some talent in auristics. The two complement one another quite well, and whatever else I might say about the Dusks' methods, they're effective, at least.” She tipped her head sideways to regard Dariel, the leaping firelight glittering in her eyes. “I must ask, if you are indeed a wizard, which side of the Debate do you favour? The purist school of thought, or the generalist? It's something often bandied about the Tower; a fresh perspective would be interesting. We presume you'll be applying to the Tower soon enough?” A mischievous chuckle. “Don't worry about my skills - as a fellow aurist; your secrets are reasonably safe - so long as I see no advantage in exploiting them, anyway.” She paused, mostly for effect if she was honest with herself. “Pour the water in your boots over one of the pot-plants, would you? Then give them to me. The greenery can make better use of the liquid than you, the grumbling in your mind is giving me a headache and cold feet are never pleasant – or healthy.”

[Dariel]

"Dariel, please. Dariel suffices. I am master of nothing." There was a fine line between well-deserved arrogance born of moral superirority and the unbecoming arrogance of assuming honors Dariel had yet to attain. To the young mage it was a matter of propriety and exactness, not humility. Surrendering an untested boy's address was just that: appropriate. It was the only resistance he offered the meandering flood. Dariel was more than willing to indulge the Synaborn, nodding acceptance and agreement and understanding, eyes widening ever so subtly when Alses laid out the reasons and reasoning behind her running messages. He even managed a quaint little chuckle when she spoke of how mortals lusted after her. The notion was too ridiculous to Dariel's mind to maintain the placid facade. What was far from ridicuous however were the shapely Ethaefal's remarks about her magecrafting pursuits. It was not something he lusted after, but something he knew to be infinitely useful. Even if using it as a source of income felt banal and profane, Alses had been correct in that life was expensive. A smile danced across the pale thin lips as a part of his mind ran off with the idea and worked it over. But for now, the daughter of Syna had more things to say. And he was young and she eternal and neither of them going anywhere before the Spring thaw. Past matters of her passions and the lusts of others came a retortthat managed to stir Dariel again however. While meandering speech was not exactly a worthy topic per se, the way Alses had laid out things touched on the philosophical, certainly the abstract, which put the instrument of play straight back in his court. Even if he had not even an idea why he would hang on to the topic while letting more pertinent things slip through his grasp. "While there is certainly a difference of magnitude, of quality here, I believe most thinking beings are like that in some regard. Well, obviously I speak primarily for myself." "But everything and anything we experience triggers varied reactions. One of them or a combination thereof is often perceived as primary, more important or even right. But we still associate and relate on varying levels. Thought processes follow these various reactions, fray, fray at every junction where there are alternate interpretations and reach often shockingly different conclusions. I am certain I am making it out to be more complicated than it is. I just daresay that while we do not all have a slew of past lives, we all carry our own chorus within. Voices of reason, voices of the heart. Fearful voices and brave ones, romantic ones and pragmatic ones and so on and so on." "I do however also believe that for most people, certain voices are so loud, so dominant in the choir that the others are nigh irrelevant. But that is a shame to bemoan another day. In short, while I doubt that such is the reasoning for my own meandering, I would not think of it as highly unusual. Unless you would prefer such." The heart shaped mouth moved again but Dariel needed the moment to reflect on his motivations. Again. He had harbored quite the interest in the city's many Ethaefal but he had also kept his distance because they were unknown to him. On the one hand, this chat afforded him unique insights but on the other hand it kept him at a constant disadvantage because he could only plan so many moves ahead. Most often that translated to improvising entirely. So what did he seek to achieve here? Was he extending an olive branch, trying to find common ground? Ridiculous. And even if, then to what end? At best he could say, he was playing her game. Setting up a foundation. They had enough overlap to be able to complement each other. Or compete. Instead, he settled on the reasoning that he was trying, in his own way, to assure his conversation partner that his brain was functioning beyond platitudes. Even if all he might manage was to assert that he excelled at pointlessness. The scent of burning wood was the first thing to rouse him from his thoughts, followed by her voice, gearing up to ask a question. A good question at that. On topic, not too personal but still informative. And quite easy to answer. "The obvious answer is 'neither'. I could add that I am on my own side but that would be overly theatralic. There are arguments for either school but the most efficient approach is to focus on complementing disciplines. A Shielder who likes to get up close with people can benefit from Flux. Projection might help an Alchemist deal with hazardous materials. Limiting oneself to any single discipline is like limiting oneself to only using a single limb in lieu of all others..." "...a shame that image does not work as well with the opposite approach. Suffice to say that a decided lack of focus is the sign of a weak mind which its owner cannot make up. Life is a series of decisions. Deciding for one thing often excludes another. Learning to make those decisions is integral to being able to lead a successful life." A shrug twitched across his shoulders while his gaze glid across the Ethaefal's eyes. Was that what she was looking for? An answer that favored common sense often seemed like the easy way out of a badly phrased question. On the other hand, she very much made the point for him before. "You obviously are of the same opinion." Did he need to say more? Had Alses not just pointed out how her Auristics complemented her Magecraft? "In a sensible world, people would apply a finer measure. Sift out those combinations that align themselves to the same tasks and ends and if they must form groups, form them along those denominations. This is one thing I do not envy my brethren. They have a desire to sort everything, but are unimaginably lax in assigning and labelling the categories thereof." "Would you agree to that as well? Or do you see things from an even more individualist perspective? I should presume your nature equips you with a predilection for the latter." Dariel managed to straighten in spite of having given off the impression that he stood up straight before. At least it served to once again assert that he was a living being as he stood there stoically despite his predicament. A predicament Alses took great pleasure in laying out for him. At least it served to dispose of the last vestiges of the image of the demure Ethaefal who runs messages about town for a living. She had already proven that she had a sharp mind. And now... was that hubris? Playfulness? The same curiosity that gripped him, paired with less restraint? It was certainly something he could work with. This day was becoming better and better. He did not bother hiding the fact that he was perturbed at how easily she had pirated his senses. In fact he gladly gave her the little victory as he trudged off to empty his boots. "Did you want the plant? Or my boots?" Yes. That sounded pathetic enough. A little joke to overplay his presumed awkwardness. Dariel was ever so curious what she'd do next. And looking to return the favor.

[Alses]

Alses chuckled gently, eyes not leaving Dariel's face. The sight of it, gilded with firelight, acted as a ground, keeping her anchored. For the moment. “I know the feeling. Dariel it is, then. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, we're sure.” Her eyes were bright with thought as she considered Dariel's words. “An interesting point well made,” she murmured, turning the shape of it over and over in her head. “Now that you've made the observation...we have seen shoppers in the Azure Market suddenly stop and dart across the street to make a purchase, as though possessed by some great and unstoppable urge to buy whatever it was that caught their attention. Examples of your chorus dominance theory in action, perhaps, one part of the...the human committee – would that be a good expression? shouting down the others, at least for a little while. We hadn't thought of it in those terms before; something worth further study, I think, when I have the leisure to conduct such a project, at least.” Gracefully, she dropped into a chair, its plush upholstery warmed by the fire. Comfort wasn't exactly everywhere in evidence in the Dusk Tower, but when it did put in an appearance, it was at least unstinting. Whomsoever the Tower had procured its fireside armchairs from – and there were lots of them throughout the place – had been a master of their trade. “I am glad to hear the voice of reason coming from another mouth,” she murmured. “Though that's not to say we are the only reasonable people in the Tower. Likening the disciplines of magic to limbs is a good metaphor, I think. I like it. We shall use that the next time it's debated with our instructor.” A smile, as though an amusing thought had just come to her. “The Eypharians regard themselves as superior for – oh, too many reasons to list – and they pity us for only being able to do half as much with our hands as they. Thus compare the intelligent generalist and the specialist.” Mischief glittered in her eyes for a moment. “Of course, the response would probably be 'intelligent.' Still, no matter; it provides a springboard for further debate, at least.” She raised a finger. “We would add a caveat to your argument concerning focus, though, for the longer-lived races, you understand; the Konti, the Nuit and so on. An abundance of time, spent productively, surely breeds breadth as well as depth of knowledge. I shouldn't like to call a Nuit archmage lacking in focus or will – nor, I suspect, would you.” Her grin was lopsided, sharply sardonic, before her features smoothed to pensive consideration once more. “Personally we try not to group magic, in point of fact. The intelligent wizard can find synergies everywhere, after all. I haven't tested it yet, but I do have to wonder whether every discipline of magic can work beneficially with every other.” Alses sighed, heavily. “This is the main part of our...issue...with my instructor, in truth. The teaching mage, you see, often considers that practice should be pure and perfect, unsullied by any discipline other than the one under improvement. I disagree – for instance, we hold the view that sometimes – although not always, we readily admit – knowing the answer is a great aid in working out the whys and wherefores of a question. If you'll indulge us – we so rarely get to air our opinion – I shall explain further.” She grinned, suddenly. “Really, we should do this in the Basilika, but it's snowing foully outside, it's freezing to boot and I'm currently enjoying the warmth of a blazing hearth far too much to want to move. So, operating on the assumption that you're a sane human being and think the same way...Let us consider, for the sake of argument, a rock such as you might pick off any mountainside in Kalea. It's not a shiny gem or a mineral-bearing ore of great value, just a lump of black stone. Your task is to find out everything possible about that rock, and in so doing, increase the scope of your understanding of auristics. All very fine and good and commendable; an excellent practical lesson, but for one thing, to my mind. You've experienced shadows and ghosts, I take it? False readings, voids, impressions in an aura that aren't actually there, that sort of thing? We saw them all the time when we first started to practice, the physical manifestation of an imperfect synchronisation, among other things. How do you tell the true impression from the false, especially with a completely new aura?” She leaned back in her appropriated chair, well into the meat of her explanation now. Bookbinder's son or no, Dariel was apparently intelligent, given his quick responses to her abstract meandering and a wizard too – that made him a good arguing partner, if nothing else. “You're aware of Glyphing, I take it? The art of using runic inscriptions to achieve all sorts of effects that would normally be impossible? Invaluable support discipline. Paint the correct runes in the correct places, and you can bolster your skills considerably, without any extra djed drain. Going back to our rock example – assuming it's volcanic, since most of the rocks around here are - if you looked at it whilst augmented with sufficient skill, even a novice aurist would be able to see the ghost of heat at its very heart, the impression of when it was very first formed. You'd be able to see the pressure lines, faulting and breaking and shearing in the aura, the true shape of its auristic signature laid bare before you. Then take away the glyphs, and you at least have something to aim for, rather than just...shooting in the dark." Once again, her eyes were bright, intense with the desire to convince and with the enjoyment of their developing conversation. "With that experience in hand, you know that if you align your auristic talent just so, if you burn enough djed and synchronise yourself deeply enough, that squiggle will resolve itself into a touch of fire on your skin, that fuzzy patch over there is a complex tangle of pressure lines where the rock was nearly snapped in two as it was forming, and that odd bit you've been focusing on for the last five bells is just a ghost, an interaction from a stray bit of djed your mind's picked up on. Knowing the answer – what the aura should look like – is invaluable for knowing if you're going in the right direction, practice-wise. Personally, we think it's making intelligent use of the resources at our disposal – my instructor, however, sees Glyphing as a crutch.” She grinned. “And you're very much hearing my side of a very old argument that's been burning away merrily between us for a long time. As you point out, too, the world simply isn't sensible, much to its detriment.” Her eyes tracked his figure as he left the circle of firelight and splashed towards one of the pot plants the secretary kept around the place. There was a little mischievous thrill deep inside; hadn't that been gratifying, seeing his expression when she'd casually sent him to empty his boots? A simple skimming of his aura, just the edges of it, with her talent acting as a proxy for her senses...she was beginning to understand why so many of the more accomplished aurists generally wore an expression of gentle, absent-minded condescension; whilst she wasn't so sure of her ability to skim abstract concepts, feelings, emotions, those better-versed in the intricacies of the art seemed to regard it as natural and as easy as breathing. Having to wait whilst someone stumbled through inefficient verbal communication must be so...cumbersome, when so much of what was pertinent could be read – or inferred – from an aura in a far shorter time. Dariel's next words brought an involuntary chuckle to her lips – he had to have known exactly what she meant, and turning it into a joke – even if it was a fairly weak one – lightened the atmosphere a little, letting her relax. “The boots, Dariel,” she replied, amusement evident in her voice. “Socks, too, now that I come to think of it. They'll be wet through too, no?”

[Elysium]

Dariel

Running	+1
Observation	+2
Rhetoric	+4
Philosophy	+2

How to Defer to an Ethaefal

“Mr. Secretary” of Dusk Tower

Philosophical Principles of Magic and its Use

Alses

Auristics	+2
Rhetoric	+4
Observation	+2
Philosophy	+2

Dariel Masute, the Bookbinder’s Son

How to Engage a Stranger

Metaphor: The Generalist vs. the Specialist

Approaches to Magic and its Complimentary Disciplines

Seasonal XP Award

Alses - +5 Running

Notes: Again, wonderful! I would have loved to see this complete. Your philosophical considerations of magic have inspired me. It's impressive how cohesive Mizahar seems in your writing. Good job overall and if you have any questions or concerns, feel free to speak up.