Winter 4th, 512 A little after twentieth bell. With another presence in the flat, Laszlo's home had grown much less desolate. Fia and her movements throughout the place helped to banish the melancholy quiet that settled in after Abalia and Duvalyon had gone. It was a great relief to be able to call and have someone answer. Naturally, it was not the same it was before, but perhaps that was better. There were no looming deaths or tragedies waiting to happen. The foreboding air around Duvalyon's room had been all but vanquished—a mixed blessing. Laszlo never thought he would miss it. Still, he had to wonder at how temporary this was. It was too difficult to see what the future held for either of them, but some elements about the arrangement felt precarious. Not least of all Fia's apprehension around Symenestra. It had diminished very little, if at all, and she could not muster a great deal of tolerance for Laszlo's evening shape. Usually one or both of them found a preemptive reason to be out of the flat by nightfall. It really did bother him, but he didn't resent her for it. Like Abalia, Fia had been a victim of the Symenestra, and she'd be dead if she had not escaped "Mikendril". Laszlo could hardly force her to be at peace with what happened to her. Still… sometimes he wished she would see him as an exception. Until he remembered that he wasn't. Lately, Laszlo grew easily frustrated with the polite excuses to go out at night. She had every right to feel comfortable and safe in this place, but he knew that would not happen if he was there. However, tonight he had nowhere to be, and had no inclination to aimlessly wander a city that feared him as much as she did. Surrendering his home to her, he informed Fia that he would be on the rooftop for the entire evening, reading tomes from the library. Satisfying some innate Symenestra desire to climb, Laszlo deposited himself on the gentle incline of the rooftop above his flat. It was not the highest point in the Solar Wind Apartments, and he was able to lean back against a wall that rose higher still. But it was elevated and comfortable, he was out of view of the street, and despite the onset of Winter, it was relatively warm that night. He grew bored of reading surprisingly quickly, so Laszlo's agenda had changed. A quill, held delicately in a set of black claws, scribbled over a sheet of wadj, leaving occasionally to wet itself in black ink. He was an odd looking scribe, donned in his usual gray cloak but with the hood tossed back. His silvery hair caught the moonlight well, and played lightly with the passing breezes. On his face was a glowering expression. In order to write on the topic of Alvadas, he had to recall the memories often banished to the back of his mind. The hope was that once it was all put to paper, it could finally leave his head a bit more permanently. |