57th Winter, 515AV
All strangeness aside, the past season had been a good one for Ayatah. She had met a wonderful man, Kuame had celebrated his sixth birthday, and work had been going well. The Winter Blaze at the start of the season was still on everyone’s lips as they excitedly compared their experiences and stories.
But the strangeness.
It was unavoidable, not to mention utterly puzzling. Though a statement had been made earlier about so called powers that were apparently now rife throughout the city, it had not exactly explained Ayatah’s situation. She now owned a collection of notes that had been left around her home in two distinct handwriting styles. The first, written crookedly and poorly, was in Myrian. These messages were hardly positive and usually referred to an unnamed Deyhan who the writer of the note seemed to dislike quite passionately. The second however was completely different. Written in a language Aya could not read, the letters were cursive and neat. The two were clearly written by two different people: but who were they?
The first time she had seen a note, Ayatah had been thrown into a flurry of panic. She had simply been snoozing in the living room, with Kuame tucked up in bed and a half-empty glass of wine sitting by her side. Then Ayatah had felt… a jolt. Something inside her had fallen back into place, like a joint popped back into its socket after being dislocated. But this sensation hadn’t been painful, just… strange. The first thing she saw was the glass of wine: now empty and the contents having been poured onto her chair (which, thankfully, had been leather). The note had placed beside the stain of wine, right on the armrest of the very chair she had been napping in.
Filthy little Deyhan drinking filthy little barbarian wine. Myri curse you, Myri shame you. Spit on your family and your tribe.
Clearly the note had been about her, but knowing who the letter had been for did not reveal who had written it, or indeed why. A robber? No: there had been no signs of a break-in, and a child of Myri would not steal from a fellow Myrian sibling. Aya had heard of people who drew odd pictures whilst half-asleep, or under hyponosis. Had this happened to her?
It wasn’t until the third letter that Ayatah had realised that there was not possible way for her to be writing it half-asleep. Sure, she was smart, but there was no way in Hai that she could write in a language she could barely say a word in. The second letter had been longer, filled with carefully written words and signed with an unfamiliar name at the bottom. That had been on the 33rd, Kuame’s birthday. The note had been left on the spare pillow of Ayatah’s bed, right beside her head. Whoever had written it could have killed her, but had instead left her a note and decorated her apartment for Kuame’s birthday. Thankfully, one of Kaume’s friend’s mother had spotted the note and accidently deciphered it:
“Oh, Aya. I almost spilt my wine on this note for Kuame. Where shall I put it?”
Why exactly Hannah Field, a housewife from Zeltiva, could read Arumenic, Aya hadn’t cared. But when asked, Hannah had kindly explained that the note briefly described the writer’s disappointment over what little effort had been made for Kuame’s birthday, and that they hoped he would like the shirt (who else knew that she had bought a white shirt for Kuame? Nobody, that’s who).
So something odd was going in in her life, but evernstranger, Ayatah was more intrigued than worried. Something instinctively told her that whoever was leaving her the notes was no foe, but a friend. A pair of bilingual ghosts, she suspected, who had an eye for decorations and a lack of appreciation for good wine.
Still, these thoughts typically left her mind when she was at work. Instead, Ayatah found herself strangely at peace among old things and bones. Every so often she would take on a student, either for a single meeting to guide them onto the righteous path of learning, or for an entire season to tutor them more closely. Today was one such day, though the Myrian was yet to learn whether the individual she would meet with today was a casual student or one dedicated to her teachings.
Either way, she was prepared for the lesson and had gathered a variety of objects to show him. Teaching was a passion second only to learning, and so Aya was eager to get going.
All strangeness aside, the past season had been a good one for Ayatah. She had met a wonderful man, Kuame had celebrated his sixth birthday, and work had been going well. The Winter Blaze at the start of the season was still on everyone’s lips as they excitedly compared their experiences and stories.
But the strangeness.
It was unavoidable, not to mention utterly puzzling. Though a statement had been made earlier about so called powers that were apparently now rife throughout the city, it had not exactly explained Ayatah’s situation. She now owned a collection of notes that had been left around her home in two distinct handwriting styles. The first, written crookedly and poorly, was in Myrian. These messages were hardly positive and usually referred to an unnamed Deyhan who the writer of the note seemed to dislike quite passionately. The second however was completely different. Written in a language Aya could not read, the letters were cursive and neat. The two were clearly written by two different people: but who were they?
The first time she had seen a note, Ayatah had been thrown into a flurry of panic. She had simply been snoozing in the living room, with Kuame tucked up in bed and a half-empty glass of wine sitting by her side. Then Ayatah had felt… a jolt. Something inside her had fallen back into place, like a joint popped back into its socket after being dislocated. But this sensation hadn’t been painful, just… strange. The first thing she saw was the glass of wine: now empty and the contents having been poured onto her chair (which, thankfully, had been leather). The note had placed beside the stain of wine, right on the armrest of the very chair she had been napping in.
Filthy little Deyhan drinking filthy little barbarian wine. Myri curse you, Myri shame you. Spit on your family and your tribe.
Clearly the note had been about her, but knowing who the letter had been for did not reveal who had written it, or indeed why. A robber? No: there had been no signs of a break-in, and a child of Myri would not steal from a fellow Myrian sibling. Aya had heard of people who drew odd pictures whilst half-asleep, or under hyponosis. Had this happened to her?
It wasn’t until the third letter that Ayatah had realised that there was not possible way for her to be writing it half-asleep. Sure, she was smart, but there was no way in Hai that she could write in a language she could barely say a word in. The second letter had been longer, filled with carefully written words and signed with an unfamiliar name at the bottom. That had been on the 33rd, Kuame’s birthday. The note had been left on the spare pillow of Ayatah’s bed, right beside her head. Whoever had written it could have killed her, but had instead left her a note and decorated her apartment for Kuame’s birthday. Thankfully, one of Kaume’s friend’s mother had spotted the note and accidently deciphered it:
“Oh, Aya. I almost spilt my wine on this note for Kuame. Where shall I put it?”
Why exactly Hannah Field, a housewife from Zeltiva, could read Arumenic, Aya hadn’t cared. But when asked, Hannah had kindly explained that the note briefly described the writer’s disappointment over what little effort had been made for Kuame’s birthday, and that they hoped he would like the shirt (who else knew that she had bought a white shirt for Kuame? Nobody, that’s who).
So something odd was going in in her life, but evernstranger, Ayatah was more intrigued than worried. Something instinctively told her that whoever was leaving her the notes was no foe, but a friend. A pair of bilingual ghosts, she suspected, who had an eye for decorations and a lack of appreciation for good wine.
Still, these thoughts typically left her mind when she was at work. Instead, Ayatah found herself strangely at peace among old things and bones. Every so often she would take on a student, either for a single meeting to guide them onto the righteous path of learning, or for an entire season to tutor them more closely. Today was one such day, though the Myrian was yet to learn whether the individual she would meet with today was a casual student or one dedicated to her teachings.
Either way, she was prepared for the lesson and had gathered a variety of objects to show him. Teaching was a passion second only to learning, and so Aya was eager to get going.