Flashback A Book's Cover

[Mara]

Mara took to fidgeting round the expertly carved tumults of buffed wood. The compulsive need for organization in the eroding pandemonium of hurtling wells of social anxiety and torment piloted him toward, lining quills in straightened rows so the apices ascended by height, heaping slips of loose leaf in rigid bordered parallels, ink wells primed by the symmetry of content mass, and arranging a few inches of spare space between each item. The taciturnity in the analysis of his toil pulled him just before the crumpled appearance of his elder, and similar to an apprehensive pupil, he panicked “A-Ahh that’s just a draft.” He spluttered out, infinitesimal to a penitent gulp of air. Cramping appendages obtained the need to nearly reach out and snatch the rendition away in one foul sweep. Hastily he rectified his path, a redirection that landed his balled fist before pursing lips, watching the diaphanous lines of the man’s brow even from its disturbance and simultaneous brighten with zeal.

Vylindel’s praise promptly followed easing his undulating stance slanting from heel to heel against the grain of scrubbed floors. “Thank you. I do intend to go over them again nonetheless. I only sought to furnish myself a fit enough reference while the reading was still clear in my mind. If you have any suggestions, please permit me your contribution.”

His mother, her face spindled its own web in his memories, collecting dust and becoming hazier under years of falling snow. It was her eyes he was sure of. They were now his own inane and bloodied quarries scrutinizing him where he could pluck out the dull glimpse of them in scrap of polished silver or waxed glass. “It is possible I suppose that my mother had some aptitude for freehand, though I cannot say that I could attest to it.” It was doubtful, all that he had flipped through of Senesea’s journal gave little and she hardly puttered in even so much as a scribble along the corners of her crisp pages. Even so, the nothingness meant the possibility was inestimable and to deny any likelihood would be seeking to foster the idea that he held any suspicion at all.

“My father’s sketch work was basic. It was habitually by my own repetition in untangling his notes and promoting my curiosity in comparable artistry that I molded an assiduously novice understanding.” The dye-permeated scars pierced cell by cell in perpetual homage writhed and itched. A slender vine hugging the meat of his hand mapping sensual strokes of a familiar touch, stroking aching tendons, and tucking itself into his fist where it soaked in the generous warmth of an empty grasp. “If I was asked to deviate from the well set parameters of medical instruction, I am afraid I would be less than unserviceable.”

A Skyglow would have balked at the statement. ‘All effort was art if it came from a place of emotion.’ He could imagine the lecture beginning something like that. Though it was never with emotion that the half-blood did much of anything, and that was surely a method by which would not have been approved in the color laden hold. No, his place was undoubtedly within the name of Whitevine. A proud smile nearly drew upon his orifice. The healer may have actually thrived in the hold after many more winters, and perhaps attained some position of leadership, held onto a wisp of his home, a family. The ice that now filled his veins and pricked gooseflesh along the length of his concealed arms had nothing to with the icy wind of Avanthal or Morwen who all but darted past the den of Kalinor. He extemporaneously knew nausea in the spigot of his craw.

“I should probably get back to it, I only have a couple more to piece through and then I can refine what I have done. Unless there is something else you would like to me to get to?”

[Vyxaaron Yew]

With a scholar’s oblivion to all else as he peruses some fascinating work, Vylindel was completely ignorant of the healer’s anxiety, and the compulsive ordering of the work space. Mara’s polite words, too, were largely unheeded, for Vylindel was a man of fierce opinion, and regardless of the half blood’s modesty, he liked what he saw. Mother, Father, what did it matter, really? The boy had some talent and Vylindel would reap the profit therefrom – not that such was limited to monetary remuneration, in the scholar’s mind. No, the glory that would be associated with his name as the editor of what he could easily see now would be a monumentally important work, danced before his eyes as he considered what they could produce if they all three of them put their hearts and souls into it. With a dismissive wave of his hand, Vylindel dispersed such nonsense, saying, “You’re a talented sketch artist, Dra-Marvasa, however you came by the skill. I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to improve it – I haven’t an artistic bone in my body.” Insensate, too, to any emotions that might have been seen washing across the healer’s features, the Sym looked at the pile of notebooks that remained on the table top, apparently untouched, and he nodded briskly. “Yes, I have some things I need to see to, then we will eat, then we will sit down and go over your notes, and mine. The first order is to create some coherence and continuity amongst all the volumes, so that a reader will be able to…” The flow of words was interrupted by first a noteable knock on the front door and the sounds of Vyxaaron rising from his desk to go to open it. Vylindel cocked his head, listening to see who it might be. A quick flash of a smile indicated it was a voice known to him and one he welcomed to his home, and he amended his previous speech of instruction. “Ah, you must forgive me, Dra-Marvasa. We can expect a certain number of well wishers to be dropping by today. You see, my brother’s only daughter has just given birth – a girl…” Once again, he was interrupted, but this time by the appearance at the doorway into the kitchen area of Vyxaaron and another Sym – a male and from his looks, perhaps a contemporary in age to Vylindel. Indeed, the scholar’s face lit up appreciatively and he moved forward to greet his friend, the young healer momentarily forgoteen in the excited exchange of words between the two. Vyxaaron, for his part, did not retreat back into the sanctity of the living area, but lounged against the door frame, glaring at the mongrel within, embarrassed that his family should be caught out in harboring such a freak in the very bowels of their home. Happy words of congratulations and such like passed back and forth between the two older men, and then Vylindel was turning back to Mara, with a quick, “Yes, please continue on with your work for now, Dra-Marvasa. Excellent work, really. We’ll talk after lunch.” With a long, spindly arm cast about his comrade’s shoulders, Vylindel and the other were gone, retreating into some other part of the house – his study, no doubt – to continue the celebratory talk. And still, Vyx did not similarly remove himself. He only stared at Mara, golden eyes hard and fixed with some underlying anger. In a quiet but seething voice, he finally said in syllibant tones, “Yes, a new cousin. Her mother died, of course. She chose to do her duty – to preserve what purity is left of our race. Unlike some…”

[Mara]

Vylindel’s exodus in such alacrity allowed little time to sanction his statements well rest with him. A nod that proceeded unnoticed by the pair of old friends that whisked away into the living space by reminiscent conversation was his only reply. He found himself only too agreeable to returning to his labor and finding refuge once again as nothing more than a horded garnish shoved out of sight in this project. His effort was received well and that was all that mattered. He was circumnavigating the desk when Vyxaaron's words were tossed like a venomous spray in his direction.

Mara's crown rose up, vexed brows pinching together as he regarded the effortlessly lounging figure along the frame of the entrance. His thoughts brewed over this, and though he was well aware the intention had indeed run its course to insult him as to the rights of his own birth, the half-blood only felt empathy for their family, pity even, though he would not insult them with saying so. They had both lost and acquired family this night. It was the domestic state of affairs he imprecisely recollected being informed of as he crossed the threshold of the estate.

He looked back down to his work and swept through a few pages before choosing his spoken verses. "I am sorry for the loss of your cousin." he stilled staring stiffly at no tangible object before him. "Even in the midst of duty, for preservation or otherwise, I am sure it does not sufficiently mute the grief."

The Purging was an abode for many births, none less heavy than the last even in the face of the few triumphs they attained. It was life slipping easily through reaches sticky with blood and moaning cries, the scent of the metallic gunge wafting into the air and a doctor’s unsteady hand scraping against his sweltering temple and painting it red: another ordinary day.

His palms gripped the edge of the desk and he looked in Vyxaaron's path daringly. Surely this boy could see in the face of his own lived tragedy why others elected not to continue as unpolluted as his own family did. Though even Mara, perhaps especially Mara, fathomed the traditionalist motives as well, he could see the logic behind both no matter how wretched and diluted the reasons. Their race was pending, balancing on the brittle string of web, and preservation was impossible without casualty. It was the same for the perpetuation of any race, but it was especially so for theirs. For Marvasa it was no simpler to comprehend or to be ignorant, each bared their own encumbrance.

"Perhaps there will be a time when modern medicine may help to save the lives of Symenestra mothers. Conservancy. Purity. Maybe the time will come when there will not have to be a preference between the two." his eyes dragged from the cold brew of gold and collapsed across the books. "Maybe this is another step towards that." His slim shoulders shrugged forward and slid a quill with the tips of his finger into his eager hand. "Who knows?"

[Vyxaaron Yew]

Vyxaaron sneered. “The grief comes in knowing that some choose their own precious lives over the needs of our people, Dra – Marvasa.” The emphasis on the one syllable that set the healer apart from, separate from and peripheral to the majority of the citizens of Kalinor wasn’t needed – but it was meant, and Vyx let it roll with especial venom from his tongue. “I’ll pass your words of sympathy along to my uncle and daughter’s husband – I’m sure they will appreciate the irony.” As crimson orbs rose to survey those of frozen honey, Vyx felt another shudder – one indiscernible to those penetrating Vantha inspired eyes – run down his spine. In response to the healer’s hopeful and ridiculous speculations, his handsome features only took on an expression of further disdain. “Yes, I’m sure Viratas would choose you of all types to be the savior of our race. Trust me, if that should prove to be the case, then I must switch my devotion to Ionu, for that above all things would be the greatest trickery of all.” He lounged a moment longer, watching Mara as the healer had already turned back to his work. Then with a slight huff, Vyx pushed himself away from the door frame and left the mongrel on his own once more.

[Poison]

THREAD AWARD!

Mara:
Skills: Observation 3, Organization 1, Reading 2, Writing 2
Lores: Acquaintance: Vyx, Dealing with Racism

Vyx:
Skills: Writing 1, Observation 3, Leadership 2, Reading 1
Lores: Working for Father, the Correct Posture while Sitting, Acquaintance: Mara, the Not-So-Worthless Dra

Notes: I loved this thread. It’s refreshing to read about a Symenestra having prejudices against a Dra! You are both very good writers.

I just had a problem with your post template, Vyx. I sometimes had to scroll left and right which made reading your posts a little hard.

If there are any issues with the way I graded this thread, send me a PM!