Solo Will o' the 'Whisps

[Aislyn Leavold]

“Will o' the 'Whisps”
55th of Fall, 516 AV
Three-Quarters past the Ninth Bell

There were many things Aislyn could have been doing. She could have been drawing, working on something productive to produce mizas to be exchanged for goods at the market. She could have been practicing her painting, utilizing the paints she’d spent so much time and money obtaining. She could be and probably should have been- sleeping, chasing after the bells she’d lost to the restless night. But she was not doing any such thing, instead sitting atop the roof of the Sheathewhisps, looking down at the passing crowds with a small cigar between her fingers.

She was early.
She almost always was.

Meetings every five days, at the tenth bell, on the dot. She went to most of them, though whether or not her mind was with her during said meetings varied. Oftentimes she found herself going through the motions more than anything else, for reasons she herself couldn’t discern. Patrols were better days than training. Patrols were not unlike her usual day; lots of walking, minimal interaction. All that changed was that she wore a different face and occasionally brandished a sword. Training, on the other hand, complicated matters. Training pitted her against someone else, if not with someone else, and it was more often than not that she lost. The faux battles weren’t like the real ones; she wasn’t forced to think outside the box or fight for her life, she wasn’t put in a position where her illusions were the best thing she had as a defense. Training was nowhere near a good enough excuse to out herself, and so she didn’t.
That left her down a secret weapon, and secret weapons were valuable treasures that came few and far between. So most days, she lost her battles.
Nearly all days, actually.

Aislyn was no good with a sword. That much she was well aware of. She didn’t pay nearly enough attention to what she was told during the sessions, and that cost her. Her training with Dexius had been just about the most she had cared about an instruction, and that was mostly due to the fact that she hated the Symenestra man. Him besting her in any way was a blow to her pride, and Thief had never taken well to wounded pride.
That was one thing Anjani held over her darker counterpart; she accepted her losses much more kindly. In the end, victory was an endgame not of defeating the opponent, but of surviving, and surviving was something Aislyn did well.

It was as Anjani that Aislyn lived now, waiting for her day to begin. Anjani, with the bright red hair and the golden skin, with the freckles that Aislyn took great pleasure in arranging every time the illusion was called upon. Anjani with the widow’s peak and the rounded face, who spoke with an accent more Alvad than even Aislyn herself. Anjani, who was so new she didn’t carry the same burdens as Maya or Thief, who didn’t have the same feeling of despair hanging from her shoulders, tied in ropes around her neck. Anjani, who gave Aislyn a chance to be less herself than ever before.

The end of the cigar glowed a dull gold, the smoke trailing off into the wind. Her hair followed a similar pattern, moving with the breeze and blowing wispy curls into her face. Long hair was hard to create, now that Aislyn’s own fell only to her shoulders and nothing more, but it created a distance from any of her other illusions that the illusionist felt was necessary. She still remembered the feeling of weight on her back and the annoyance of strands covering her line of sight, and with her second gnosis mark as long as she knew something well that something could easily come to life. It was the curls of the hair that were the hardest to create. Sometimes they fell flat, much more like Aislyn’s dead straight style than what she wanted Anjani to be, but no one ever noticed. No one ever noticed a lot of things about Anjani. Like how her hair didn’t move as much as it really should in the wind when she was concentrating on something else, or how the marks across her face and neck and arms never stayed in the same place from day to day. How she never spoke of a family to protect or a reason for fighting like the other members did. She knew the names of all the members as they came and went, but had never provided as much as a vague notice of a history in regard to herself.
She’d been thinking about a history, recently. It would help deflect questions more routinely, and it wasn’t as if she was entirely spared from the curiosity of others.

There had been an inquisitive man with a head full of dreams and brown ringlets of hair that had asked her questions she couldn’t answer one day they had been on patrol. She’d answered his questions in a manner discreet enough to ward him off without enticing more, and she hadn’t seen him since. Such an interaction had begged the question of who, exactly, the strange red-haired woman that was occasionally found on easily accessible rooftops was. Anjani was an infant in the terms of Aislyn’s life, three seasons old and thus lacking the memories the other illusions had. With no memories she had no background, and with no background she had no personality. She was entirely forged of her surroundings, and her surroundings happened to most often be the vigilante types of the Sheathewhisps.
After all, Anjani didn’t exactly exist anywhere else

[955]

Ledger :

3oz Calisye Cigar (3) - 18 SM

[Aislyn Leavold]

“Will o' the 'Whisps”
55th of Fall, 516 AV
Three-Quarters past the Ninth Bell

Exhaling, Aislyn ran her tongue over her teeth as she watched the smoke dissipate into the open air. She hadn’t smoked since her childhood, but Anjani seemed to have a taste for it. Not the spliced kind sold at the Unnayme- no, not even an Alvad blend- but a simple cigar with the taste of some bitter fruit.
Perhaps bitter wasn’t the right word to describe it. It wasn’t bitter because bitter was something that didn’t run in the same circles as sweet, and there was certainly a sweetness to it. It was strange to describe something that wasn’t edible in a way mostly reserved for food, but it seemed appropriate. Ultimately, food was a fairly bland thing when it came to flavor. Anything that tasted strongly of something was more often than not artificial, though that didn’t really matter in the long run.

In the distance, a bell tower began to chime. As the heat of the cigar’s fiery end grew closer to her fingers, she tapped the dusty ash off, allowing it to escape into the wind. As the bells rang out, she found herself counting them. There was no real reason to, but there was no adverse effects to doing so. The bells had often been something she’d ignored, but the fact that she had to ignore them at all was an indication of strangeness. Typically the only bells one would hear would be from the bell tower at Ionu’s Temple, of which the chimes were old and worn, not the spritely sing-song tune that she heard now. There had been rumors of a bell tower surfacing from Ionu’s imagination, but the sound was what really made the tall tale less of hearsay and more illusion. The pitches changed as the chime went on, Aislyn counting them as her mind wandered off. One, two, three, four.

Above her, clouds blew by. Whimsical shapes that could have been considered recognizable, clusters of images Aislyn almost recognized. The wind blew the shapes apart and together, creating another set of numbers to count without even moving her eyes. There were four, then five, then eight, then two.

Five, six.

The smoke of her cigar joined the smokey clouds above. The wind seemed to stem from a storm system coming off of the Suvan. It would rain soon, and it would rain hard. There were nine, then seven, then four, then eight. The clouds were a dull grey, growing darker as the horizon moved on. It was strange to think that there was blue above the clouds, when the sky seemed to be all one entity rather than a collection of water and air. The grey moved like an imposing army, capturing the colour until it was ready to downpour.

Seven, eight, nine.

Aislyn had always enjoyed the rain. When she was younger, she would run out her home and dance in it until she couldn’t feel her feet, or until her mother called her back inside. Sometimes, she didn’t listen, her hair matted to her body and her clothes soaked through without a care in the world. Now, however, rain was dangerous. She didn’t fear it, persay, but had trouble maintaining her illusions throughout the introduction of moisture. In the past it had slipped her mind, and she’d easily been picked out as being the only dry being in a crowd of people sopping wet. There were two, then four, then two, then five. Eventually, the clouds took over entirely, and there was only one.

Ten.

As soon as the last bell chimed, Aislyn dug her cigar into the rooftop, extinguishing the weak yellow glow. She’d never particularly cared for the distinctions of “early” and “late”- not many Alvads did- but it would help to establish herself before the rest of the members, if only to get first choice at the patrols. The roof of the Sanity Center, in fact, was not the most convenient to sit atop, and she didn’t particularly want to for longer than necessary. The roof was slanted, and the shingles would presumably be slick when the rain came down. She’d climbed up with the help of a much friendly building nearby, one that Aislyn helped herself to in order to reverse the motion. Below her, the murmur of voices accompanied the sound of a door, signifying that the meeting had begun.
Lowering herself onto the second rooftop, Aislyn began to make her way to the ground.

[754]

[Aislyn Leavold]

“Will o' the 'Whisps”
55th of Fall, 516 AV
Tenth Bell

Her descent was unceremonious, her boots threatening to slide uncontrollably until she made her way to the other, flatter rooftop. From there it was easy to jump down to the ground, bending her knees. She’d made a similar jump many times before- a low, unspectacular jump off buildings better labeled as huts than houses- and never particularly gracefully, granted, but on the brighter side she had yet to break her legs. Once she was on solid ground once again, Aislyn turned towards the entrance of the Sanity Center. The voices she had heard a few chimes before had come from the few members that had already arrived- two, to be exact- conversing with Ersal from the entranceway. She didn’t recognize either as veteran members, and the conversation appeared to be little more than introductions as the woman drew within earshot.

Names Aislyn didn’t catch were passed around, hands shaken. The illusionist stood somewhat to the side, waiting for her chance to greet Ersal as they continued. After a moment she was noticed, the postures of the circled changed as if to invite her into the conversation. For a moment she didn’t move. That was the strangest thing about Anjani; she was the one actively treated with an odd sort of respect. Maya was the closest to having been appreciated in that way, yet even she only ever spoke to others alone. Maya had many individual acquaintances, most of which were met once and never again. Anjani, however, was an illusion unfortunately known. There hadn’t been many of the Sheathewhisps that had actually defeated the ice cave monster; the grand majority had joined after the fact through a simple conversation with Ersal rather than a trial. Those that had undergone the trial-of-sorts had found their respect elevated just the slightest bit. Which, of course, meant that they were well known. Which meant Anjani was well known.
Which meant that Aislyn was well known.

Aislyn was not a terrible fan of being well known.

She knew the other members about as much as any other Sheathewhisp did, mostly by how much they stuck out of the group. There was the woman with six arms and a dagger for each but also had a laugh loud enough to travel the length of the city. There was the man that had held back, always looking behind him with a hand that was missing three fingers. There were the twins that had stuck around for a fortnight of meetings, both with a passion for the shortbow without either of them being anywhere near a good shot. Faces came and went, Aislyn never particularly grasping onto their names. She remembered the stories told by their appearance more than the stories told by their tongues; appearances were typically more trustworthy, anyways. The few people Aislyn did catch the names of were the ones that had stuck around for longer, the ones that had been around since the first spring. There was Nessva with the brightly coloured arm that had been one of the few that gained membership through the ice cave in the spring. There was Abigale with the white skin the same hue as her hair that barely spoke yet had a strange obsession with hitting her target from as far away as possible. Then there was Ersal.

Ersal had been the one to approach “Anjani” exactly a day after she’d left the ice cave. It had been the first time the illusion had been out and about, exploring the ice caves in hopes of finding the woman that had issued the challenge at the beginning of the season. In the end, the woman had been the one to find her. It was strange how Ersal seemed to simply know- as if she’d been there herself- but when the spring came and went with her election to a more powerful status as an Alvad Speaker, the occurrence made more sense. Aislyn wasn’t privy to the knowledge of how a Speaker became a Speaker, and it was quite possible the process took more than one season outside of public eye. Ersal could have been Speaker-elect before she’d even issued her challenge; before Aislyn had even entered the ice cave. She had to know somehow, after all.

After that point, “Anjani” had joined the Sheathewhisps as an observer, though she wasn’t often allowed her preferred place behind the scenes rather than in the midst of them. She wasn’t used to being invited into conversations, to being spoken to spontaneously. She wasn’t used to being treated as an ally.

“Anjani. ‘M glad to see you’re so eager to begin.”

The conversation between Ersal and the two newcomers had ended, her stance now facing Aislyn herself. A gust of cold wind pulled through a tear her shirt sleeve, chilling her arm. The air smelled like rain as well, now, whether it was going to pour or not.

“Of course.”

Anjani’s words seemed to speak themselves, rather than Aislyn making any sort of conscious effort on her part. Anjani was different in a way Maya or Thief was not. She was defined. Respectable.
A fraud. But at very least a worthy one.

[877]

[Aislyn Leavold]

“Will o' the 'Whisps”
55th of Fall, 516 AV
Tenth Bell

The other members arrived in droves, assembling outside the center with little fanfare. There were groups that huddled together, though by far the majority of the group stood alone. There weren’t many, ten or so at most, but as soon as Ersal seemed satisfied with their numbers she called out, beginning to lead them away from the mossy building. Then began the walking. The idea, Aislyn supposed, was that since the Sanity Center was perhaps the most grounded place in Alvadas, it would be the easiest to find. If it were easy to find, it would be easy to assemble at. If it were easy to assemble at, it made a good place to meet. The only issue that came of that plan was the fact that it then required a group of ragtag, armored civilians to walk through Alvad streets until they eventually came across the Sheathewhisp headquarters after an indiscernible amount of time. In the past it had taken mere chimes; the soonest turn had left them on the doorstep of the building they looked for. But others it had taken nearly a full bell, the blue door of Ersal’s dwelling elusively avoiding the group, no matter how hard they looked.

This time, it appeared to be somewhere in between. Aislyn lagged behind the group, making sure not to get separated but still keeping a decent space in between herself and the next person along. In the meantime, she listened. Listened to the Sheathewhisps, listened to the whistle of the wind, listened to the city and what it had to say. The city, of course, out of what she heard, had the least to say. There were snippets of conversations around her, mostly out of context things she couldn’t understand. Occasionally there were words thrown around in a language she didn’t know, something with a lot of sh sounds and slowly spoken. Then it was gone, and then it was on to the rest of the rabble. Someone was discussing the price of meat, while another was assuring the person beside them that no, Sara is safe. There were so many stories Aislyn would never know the full details of, no matter how hard she tried.

Moving to the side so as to get a better look at the street ahead, Aislyn found that the Sheathewhisp building had been located, Ersal at the head of the group quickening her pace towards it. Then they were being herded in, Aislyn the last to close the bright blue door behind them.

The inside of the Sheathewhisps headquarters was remarkably unremarkable. It was relatively untouched by Aislyn, though most certainly well loved by the majority of other members. Aislyn had never used the kitchen, never trusting it in a way she kept to herself. She was never particularly hungry, either. She'd never taken a weapon from the community rack, being lucky enough to own not only a sword hanging from a sheath on her side but a crossbow harnessed to her back. She'd never been upstairs, but of course no one but Ersal herself had. She’d never had the interest to, either. Privacy was privacy, after all.

The murmuring crowd filled the space around the large table at the center of the room. Ersal, of course, took the head, though she never sat down. She didn’t often make grand speeches, instead keeping the indoor part of the meetings short and the morale of the members high. She had a way with words, and was certainly good at swaying public opinion her way. Perhaps that was why she’d been chosen as a Speaker, or perhaps it was her becoming a Speaker that had given her a silver tongue. People respected her in an automatic way, occasionally before she even spoke. She was determined, she was certain, and most persuasively, she was in charge. She made her charge obvious with every direction and every order given, her motives never wavering from the protection of Alvadas and nothing more.

It seemed the idea of Sheathewhisps had caught flame from that.

It hadn't taken long for Aislyn to find out that the like-minded individuals she'd believed to be dedicated to Alvadas weren't like-minded in the traditional sense of the word. Aislyn had a quiet, devout dedication to Alvadas. She spoke words of praise in every breath she took, in every step she laid onto the ground Ionu has blessed as their city. In her illusions, she prayed, in all her moments- the best and worst. The Sheathewhisps spoke their praise aloud, in broad strokes and wide swings. In every reassurance to the public and celebration in private. In shouts for Alvadas! and in parades of undying devotion. Worn on their sleeve and their tongues alike, for all to know. And all, most certainly, did know.

Some days it seemed like the Sheathewhisps existed more for show than anything else, put on parade to sooth the nerves of those still afraid the shadows of the winter prior might return. They were a beacon of safety, a net for Alvadas to fall upon in times of dire need. Whether or not said net would hold, however, was a different question entirely. Aislyn herself had lived and learned that she wasn’t the greatest in a fight, but even she had more experience than some of the newcomers that joined the ranks every once in awhile. Mostly they were idealists, but when protecting a city of ideas, it seemed that was all that really mattered.
With any luck, it wouldn’t need to matter.

Aislyn listened to the murmur of the room, her eyes glancing over the different faces, known and unknown. She began to pay attention only when the division was made. As always, one group would stay behind while the other took to the streets to perform whatever was necessary of the day. Sometimes it was simply walking around, searching for danger- of which was rarely ever found- or investigating “threats to the city” that the Womiyu had deemed unimportant. Mostly tall tales of hallucinating youngsters or crazed old women swearing on their lives some shadowy beast was haunting them. Very few turned out to be anything more than just that- tall tales- but Ersal scolded anyone who said as much. Every lead is worth investigating, no matter how small.
It was unfortunate that most leads turned out to be small. But investigated, nonetheless.

The patrolling group filed out of the building once various weapons of all shapes and sizes were gathered, Ersal addressing the unit as a whole to assign what was to be chased after that day. It took a moment to recognize, but after a bit of context was given Aislyn quickly realized just what they were being sent after that day. A rumor, of course, and always unproven, but a rumor a tad bit more gruesome than the typical investigation. A series of murders in the underground, no leads, no names of victims, no nothing. Just rumors and Ersal's word to take for it. Someone had been killed, then another someone, then another. They died horribly; tragically; young. A truly terrible thing to happen.
That was, if it had happened at all.

But every lead was worth investigating, no matter how small.

[1,238]

[Aislyn Leavold]

“Will o' the 'Whisps”
55th of Fall, 516 AV
Tenth Bell, half-past

The group that led the patrol was small, about six people at most. The two figures Aislyn had seen speaking to Ersal were two such people, two women whose shoulders touched as they walked, in step with each other. One carried a crossbow similar to Aislyn’s, though granted quite a bit heftier than what she was used to. Yet the weapon matched the user, the woman wielding it a woman a good few inches above Aislyn. Which, in most given circumstance, wouldn’t have made her all that tall, but ‘Anjani’- with the addition of Aislyn’s second gnosis mark- was five inches taller than ‘Aislyn’. That meant the woman was nearly a full foot above what the illusionist’s regular height would have been. Which was, evidently, equal parts aggravating and impressive.

The other woman was shorter, and lithe with a short sword loosely swinging in her grasp as she moved. She wore a dress that failed to reach the ground, springing up and down with her steps. Her hair was short and black, contrasting the taller woman’s long blonde. They were the people closest to Aislyn actively, though not the only ones assigned to the patrol. Ahead of them walked the pale woman with some sort of bow stretched across her back, white-blonde hair covering the brown of the wood. Then there was a man with sun-browned skin and a mace with a shield to match. Ersal herself had walked with them for a little bit, but after someone near the front pointed out a seeming entrance to the underground, she seemed to disappear. Then they were left- five of them, exactly- to enter alone.

The entrance in question was a cellar door, in an alleyway just big enough for two people side-by-side. First the mace man, then Abigale, then the two women and finally Aislyn, who had the liberty of closing the door behind the group. There was immediate darkness, before the stairs leveled off and another alleyway was reached, this time on the streets below. It was strange to enter the underground as someone other than Thief. This was, of course, Anjani’s first excursion to the place, and Maya’s only visit had been her first and last. It was as Maya that Aislyn had been brought to the underground in the first place, sunken into the streets by an illusion that had turned the sidewalks to sinking sand. It had been Almos that had introduced her to the second world, the same man that had played an integral part in obtaining her second mark of illusionism. She hadn’t seem him since that day. Almos had dipped into the timeline of her life spontaneously, erratically. There had been no word of his visits, no pattern or particular trigger. It was quite possible Almos had been a puppet of Ionu themselves, perhaps even her deity’s chosen form. It was strange to think she had interacted with the god she revered so dearly so casually, to think she had been approached by the deity of illusions herself. To think that she was somehow important enough in the immortality of a god’s eyes to be worthy of their time.

It was something she still reeled at, even at present.

When light began to return to the group, it came not of lanterns or candles, but of the soft glow of something else, languidly floating along the street the alleyway came out of. Right in the midst of the streets below was an illusion no different from the ones of the streets above, a large moth hovering just above the ground with only the flutter of its wings to keep it up. It moved agonizingly slowly, gusts of wind channeled down the alley in which Aislyn stood, blocking her and the others from proceeding on. It was magnificent, a gentle giant with wings that glittered link dew on a spider’s webbing, a cloudy opaqueness in the skin yet a peculiar translucent sheen that appeared only occasionally as the being moved. It gave off a slight glow, illuminating all that it passed. Its body was covered in white silk that grew progressively more grey as her eyes trailed downwards. On its head were antennae, perhaps the fastest moving thing the moth had about it. They moved as if searching, flittering about above it as it rose and sunk. Considering its size and apparent weight, it seemed near impossible for the slow, almost futile movement of the wings to actually be the thing keeping it off the ground. The usual insect was fast, flighty, living shortly and quickly. But Ionu relished in the ability to make the impossible possible, in every possible way.

The man in the front muttered something Aislyn didn’t catch to the woman behind him, who only stood unmoved by his remarks. He then drew his weapon, extending it slowly to prod at the beast that entrapped them as if to encourage it along. The prodding, of course, did not encourage it along, instead sinking into the silk of the wing as if to envelop the weapon whole. There was a brief moment- a single breath- and then the moth exploded. There was, quite literally, no other way to describe the reaction of the beast. Like a soap bubble pierced by a needle, exploding. Yet the moth did not disappear; instead, it became more moths. Not one more, not splitting in two half its size, but simply becoming every bit as moth it was before, except at a hundredth the size. There was no precise moment to note at which the moth ‘exploded’, either. There was simply one moment when the moth was grand and whole, and a blink later it was a thousand miniatures, moving out in all directions.

Directions that, of course, included the alleyway in which Aislyn stood.

[980]

[Aislyn Leavold]

“Will o' the 'Whisps”
55th of Fall, 516 AV
Tenth Bell, half-past

There wasn’t much to be said about what happened next. Moths- not even of regular size, even smaller so- invading the space surrounding everything. Aislyn had the common sense not to immediately inhale, though the fallout didn’t turn out to be as bad as that. The moths moved onwards and upwards, escaping up towards the blood red moon in the starless underground sky. The light of the giant moth had not been extinguished, instead distributed to the many, many smaller insects the colossus had left behind each harboring the glow within their wings as their predecessor had. The shine cast dancing shadows upon the walls, of the five that stood below the illusions as their depictions were painted across the wall in light and dark. Strangely, the moths had no shadows of their own. It made sense, in a strange sort of way; the moths were the ones exuding the light, so how were they supposed to block it?
Or, more simply imagined, it could just be more proof of their illusionary nature.

When the swirling cloud had lifted, stragglers of the waves were left behind, one landing on the sleeve of Aislyn’s arm, fluttering softly as it crawled down towards her hand. It only just barely made the achievement of being larger than a miza, smaller than a playing card or the average butterfly. It paused on the cuff of her wrist, grooming its antennae before taking flight again, landing on the wall nearby. Rubbing its small moth legs together its attention flickered around, looking everywhere and nowhere at once. It was a peculiar thing, watching being so small. Of course, it more than likely didn’t particularly count as a ‘being’ at all, rather an illusion through and through. Still, as many of Ionu’s illusions did, it seemed positively alive.

The wings of the moth beat, the eyes moved, it crawled and skittered and flew like it were alive, as if it believed itself to be. Perhaps it truly was alive, in at least its own eyes. After all, if one was not aware of their illusionary status, wouldn’t they believe themselves to be as real as the next being along? There was no reason to believe otherwise, so it wasn’t a terribly unbelievable circumstance. Perhaps they were all like the moth- all small stories within Ionu’s imagination. Perhaps they were all Ionu, in some small bit. All unreal, just a trick of the mind of something greater, something more powerful than they could ever be. Something immortal, a bigger picture. A falsity. An illusion.
Sometimes it certainly felt like it.

”Damned buggers,” The man spoke, this time his words carrying over the faint sound of wings. ”Ionu certainly knows how to set up a surprise.”

There was no response from the group, though Aislyn wasn’t terribly surprised. Abigale was as talkative as Aislyn was, though the man might have had hope for conversation yet in the two women. Eventually, there was a reply, from the shorter woman as she brushed off the bosom of her dress.

”I hate moths.”

Unlike the man’s voice- who had clearly seen some sort of light in the situation from the glint in his eyes- the woman seemed entirely serious. She was the first to begin the conversation and the first to end it, the man so much so put off by her response that he conceded his attempts at interaction, instead turning to continue onwards down the streets. He, as the most social of the group, seemed to have taken an impromptu charge in deciding the direction in which they would follow. There was more walking, the group shifting ever so slightly so as the two women moved up, closer to the man, and Abigale moved back. Aislyn didn’t particularly mind the lack of conversation, nor the self-elected leadership. As long as she fulfilled what she’d set out to do- what they’d set out to do, she was satisfied. That, after all, was the most important thing they had on their agendas for the day. Unravel the mysteries of the rumors, eliminate the threat- should there be one- and return safe, revitalizing the vigor of the civilians.

One of the more regular members had spoken at length about what they had seen in the group; what they were meant to represent. A shining beacon of protection rising out of the ashes of conflict, protectors of Alvadas that were as much people as the average civilian, who spoke and listened and adapted to the people of the city. They did not just protect the city in an unspoken way, in a way that was impersonal and absolute. They were the civilians, for the civilians. They were the neighbors that stood up to fight, stood up to protect.
They were martyrs, before they had even died.

Aislyn didn’t share quite as lofty as a view, but she certainly respected the sentiment. The Sheathewhisps, more than anything, were a symbol of change. A change in the city, and a change in Aislyn. She had taken up arms for Alvadas, now she was taking up arms for herself. She would be able to do what she had degraded herself for being unable to in the past. To protect herself physically, as well as in any way she could. She could minimize her weaknesses in a way that she hadn’t before, in a way that she hadn’t believed she’d been capable of. If the battle came again to Alvadas, she’d be ready. If she had to use the Sheathewhisps to get that far, that would be what she would do. Besides, it was something to do with her time, and if she were busy as ‘Anjani’, there was no time to dwell on the mistakes of ‘Maya’ or ‘Thief’. She was a different person. A new person.
A person with an affinity for moths.

Ahead of her, a new conversation was sparked. The man had attempted again, this time with more ready success. Discussing the plan at hand seemed like a proficient conversation opener, and it had indeed started what could be called a deliberation. How to go about finding the victims, how to investigate the murders. How to find witnesses and locate suspects. How to catch the murderer and how to punish them. The man suggested they simply kept walking, trusting in Ionu to bring them where they needed. The bow woman disagreed, they should bide their time, split up and listen for what they needed. The sword woman was the last to speak, and speak she did indeed.

”Haven’t any of ‘a been in this place before?” The question was directed mostly towards the man, the plurality in her question apparently meant to include Aislyn and Abigale, rather than the woman she stood beside. ”Don’t jus’ sit an’ wait until something comes in and drops itself on ‘a head. The bellows of our city have their own eyes an’ ears, we jus’ need t’ ask them.”

[1,173]

[Chameleon]

Will o' the 'Whisps

"Jus' need t' ask them..." The words floated from the speaker, moving through the empty street like a wisp of smoke. All of a sudden, the Undergound seemed alive, a million eyes falling on the group and twitching with every movement from them. The feeling of being watched was almost oppressive, but it faded as quickly as it had come, replaced with the emptiness of before.

Then, all of a sudden, a child stood in front of them, blank white face and old tattered clothes that were faded in a way that only brought about the memory of colour. He was fairly tall, skinny to the bone, and hair that flattened sharply just above his ears, smoothed down with water. The boy sat just on the cusp of manhood, and if he had the money and someone to smooth out the creases of the Underground, no one would recognise him as a child. But with his childhood taken from his so young, his eyes still searched for youth and the lanky boy with clothes too short was not quite there yet.

He stood there motionless for a second, then shifted into a seated position at the side of their path, pulling out a strange flute-like instrument and humming a low note into it. Although it seemed that his attention was on the music he was playing - the disjointed notes, at the very least - his eyes refused to look away from the group of people, calling them to come closer. He knew, of course, he knew what they wanted to know. And he knew that they wanted to know it too.

All they had to do was ask.

And when Aislyn - or any of her companions - did, the boy would finish his strange tune before looking up silently, waiting a moment before nodding deeply, unsure whether it was the time and place to speak of the rumours that had been shifting through the city - and the Underground.

Finally deciding for it, he spoke softly, voice cracking between high and low as he did. "I can show you, if you'd like," were his words, cryptic and leaving much to for them to discover. There was something about the way he said it - about the way he twitched and grew unsteady when he spoke those words - that would worry an observant onlooker. He didn't want to show them, but his offer wasn't just empty. Clearly, he wanted something too, for helping the Sheathewhisps. In the Underground, nothing was for free.

It just depended on how much was offered for him to rise from where he sat and begin the winding trail into the darkness. Towards death and all things about it.

oocA little short and a little late, hope you can forgive me!

[Aislyn Leavold]

“Will o' the 'Whisps”
55th of Fall, 516 AV
Tenth Bell, half-past

The sword woman was more of a peculiarity than Aislyn had originally perceived. It wasn’t everyday a Alvad’s words sparked a crawling feeling of being watched in a place such as the Underground. Even more than that, following the feeling of eyes a small boy approached them. Immediately, Aislyn was suspicious; there was no reason for a child to abandon caution to approach a group of armed “protectors”, regardless of the circumstance. He was in a rather dilapidated state, as well, though that was what one would expect from a child of the Underground. Aislyn would place him as a teenager, if not for the look in his eyes that spoke more of a wish for youth than a wish for adulthood. But the boy did not speak.

Instead, in true Alvad fashion, he pulled out a strange instrument and began to play.

In a way, the illusionist felt almost insulted, though bemused, by the boy’s actions. They were practically mercenaries, if ragtag and untrained, and he was treating them like snakes to be charmed. But there was something peculiar about the boy. Though certainly peculiar in an Alvadas way, he seemed purposely peculiar, like his actions were planned. Looking to her companions, Aislyn found them enamored by the boy.
Perhaps they were simply snakes to be charmed after all.

Breaking the spell, Aislyn took half a step forward, past the mace man so she wouldn’t have to speak up to be audible to the boy. He was a child- not a mind reader- meaning he had either been listening to their conversations since they had arrived in the Underground, or Ionu themselves had told him of the group’s intentions.
"The murders." A moment after she’d spoken, Aislyn realized these were the first words Aislyn had spoken in front of the group for quite some time. Nevertheless, she persisted. "You know of them?"

At the conclusion of her question, the boy dragged on a long note, finishing his own little concert before her chose to answer. Then he spoke, with a voice reminiscent not of childhood nor maturity. He spoke in a way that seemed like he was trying to give nothing away. But observation was Aislyn’s forte, in a city like Alvadas. Something about the way he spoke didn’t sit right with her, the way his eyes shifted rapidly from person to person, twitching away from direct eye contact. The curl of his words when he asked if they’d be interested in his offer, as if there were any doubt.

"Go on then, boy. Lead on."

Despite the prodding, the boy didn’t rise from his seated position. He wanted an offer he couldn’t refuse. Unfortunately for him, Aislyn didn’t particularly wish to be the person that put forward the offer. So again she stepped back, having amply snapped at least one of her associates from their silence.
"What are ya waiting for? We don’t have all day."

The man was interrupted once again by the sword-wielding woman, who approached the boy in a rather off-puttingly friendly fashion. If he’d been any shorter, it seemed like she would have crouched to speak to him. "What’s y’name, lad?" There was a pause in her words, as if she was considering her words. Aislyn got the feeling she'd done this before, and knew exactly what it was that was holding the boy's tongue. "Mine’s Zeva, an’ I’m in need of knowing what it’s going t’ take t’ point us here in the right direction."

[Chameleon]

Will o' the 'Whisps

The sword-wielding woman spoke. Friendly. His empty blue eyes snapped to hers, before running down her possessions, taking the details in. A coyote staring down a corpse. In that moment, he was both scavenger and scavenged. A greedy look arose, his lips curling as he brought the instrument back up towards them. But he didn't play, or bring the flute fully to a position where he could. Instead, he balanced the thing lightly between two fingers, and pulled the other hand away from his body.

It lingered a breath away from the sword, refusing to touch it. His interest, however, seemed to be apparent.

Finally, he spoke, starting fairly high but cracking in the middle. "Nilo Sulli." He paused, pondering on his own name for a second, as if he was wondering whether he had said it correctly. Or if it had been wise to say it at all. Perhaps. It was impossible to tell, just by looking at him. Despite the nervous shifting, the constant eye flickering, the boy was a hard one to read.

"And it depends what you mean 'in the right direction'". He let that linger with them for a second, deciding to stare absent-mindedly at his instrument as he did. Then the sparkle of green came back, his eyes whipping up towards them. "Because I do know of the murders. And the direction I'd recommend would probably be the direction that you don't want to go."

With a laugh, he began to play again, as if he hadn't just tempted a group of armed mercenaries with the idea that he knew where they could find out more about a string of gruesome murders.

"No, wait!" The strange noises stopped suddenly, the boy's face glinting with some sort of... bloodthirst? Perhaps it was just interest, at how this collection of seemingly random people would react to his news. "I'll tell you. I'll tell you what you want to know, and then you will know what you're willing to give up for what I tell you. Solves all our problems, right?" His face curled, eyes flickering back down to the sword. They rested on it for a moment, before returning to the way they flickered left and right. "You don't need to go anywhere at all, to find your little murderer." His eyes fell on the group, knowingly. "Take a look around."

oocThese are so short, I'm sorry! please just go with it, i hope there's enough there for your post!