50th of Summer, 516 AV
Which was the best direction to walk in?
It was a question any Alvad faced on a daily basis. There was no real point in trying to seek somewhere out, considering the nature of the streets, so it was often up to personal preference which way someone walked. Aislyn liked the left. Every morning, regardless of her destination, she left her abode and walked to the left. If it were to be night, she walked to the right. Thief liked the right. It was a preference, just like everything else in life. People had preferences, just as the city did. And prefer it did- for the moment, Alvadas appeared to prefer dead ends. Which was entertaining, for all of ten ticks. Then it grew rather problematic.
Aislyn could never truthfully say she hated her city, but after a night of wrong turns, she could say with a small bit of truth that she had just the slightest distaste for the current layout of Alvadas. Not that she could really complain- she didn’t have a destination, after all. All she had was a crossbow, and a determination not to stand still. After all, the only reason she was out at all was the fact that she couldn’t do anything else. The whole season, she’d had trouble sleeping. If she were truthful, it wasn’t just this season, either. Spring had been troublesome, as well, but with the sudden political turmoil of the summer, everything seemed to have gotten… Worse. She couldn’t sleep. Her dreams were full of visions of the winter. When she awoke, she couldn’t always tell whether or not she was still dreaming. Under her eyes, dark circles sat. ‘Maya’ never wore them, of course- being an illusionist was wondrous for the skin- and to be tired would be rather un-Maya-like. But ‘Thief’ could be tired. ‘Thief’ was always tired.
It was as Thief that Aislyn patrolled the streets; her only solution to her inability to sleep. The nighttime was relaxing, a “good enough” alternative to slumber itself, even if it didn’t really help the exhaustion that would then weigh on Maya’s shoulders the next morning. Thief didn’t care. Thief didn’t care about many things. What she did care about was the quiet, and how peaceful the nighttime was. In the twilight hours, there were less people, which was a rarity with the post-immigration rush Alvadas. It was rare to see another soul on the streets, and certainly no soul out that late at night wanted any sort of conversation. That was the beauty of the night.
The beauty of Thief.
The only downside to walking alone at night was the danger that came with it. Nothing bad had happened to Aislyn personally, but one night she had become witness to what could be a mugging, or could have just been an argument gone awry. Either way, Aislyn hadn’t stuck around, and hadn’t dismissed the possibility that she could be next. She, of course, had said nothing of the incident. She was more of a listening kind of person, and listen she did. In the end, when one rarely spoke, one was privy to hear many things. Such things often included rumors of what was going wrong in Alvadas that day.
There are attacks every night.
People are going missing again.
The pilgrims are to blame.
The Speakers are to blame.
Enough to cause a good amount of paranoia, but nothing too serious. But yet, there had been one conversation Aislyn was not happy to hear.
The undead are returning.
A rumor. Nothing more, nothing less. But Aislyn knew as well as any Alvad that rumors were dangerous things, and sometimes in Alvadas all it took was spoken word to will an illusion into existence. Fear was running rampent in the city of illusions, and there was little anyone could do to stop it. For once, however, Aislyn didn’t feel disconnected from the panic. After the officiation of the Sheathewhisps’ authority, it became obvious that not a single Alvad was exempt from fear. Not even the Speakers.
As she walked, Aislyn fiddled with a crossbow bolt, fresh from her quiver that swung side to side on her back. Even with the Sheathewhisps doing what they could, not much had changed. The death of the man- by crossbow, of all things- had made as much obvious. Aislyn had heard plenty of rumors about that event, too. One such rumor had even blamed a certain blonde archer that might have gone by the name ‘Maya’ for the killing.
Aislyn’s knuckles grew white with how hard she gripped the bolt between her hands. She had a good idea where that rumor had originated.
Nonetheless, Aislyn had not stopped her walks. Almost every night- or whatever nights she could not find sleep, at least- she patrolled the streets she had walked along all her life. There was not much she brought with her- crossbow, quiver, notebook, some charcoal pieces, and perhaps some food, if she were so inclined. The notebook and charcoals were, of course, for drawing, should she find herself plagued by dead ends or otherwise unable to walk anymore. It was in such a dead end she found herself at the moment. Sighing, she slipped the bolt she carried back into her quiver. It was a drawing day, then. Petch it. She had commissions to finish, didn’t she? This was good. It didn’t matter.
Taking a seat in the shadows of the alley, Aislyn drew out her sketchbook. She held the charcoal in her left hand. Thief was not an artist. What would Thief draw?
From somewhere outside the alley, conversation drifted. Aislyn ignored it for the moment, and the sound eventually passed. On the page before her, a drafted sketch of assorted topics came to life. Faces. Walls. A pair of boots. Quite a few commissions nowadays asked for nothing in particular, as long as it looked nice. She was a well-enough established artist to have a positive reputation, resulting in quite a few return patrons that knew her work was pleasing. Thus, she was given more artistic freedom, and thus, art block was all so much more deadly. She just needed something- anything- to draw. Tapping the charcoal piece on the paper, Aislyn let her mind wander until a rather unwelcome sound drew her attention elsewhere. Footsteps, but not just outside the dead end. Coming her way.
Setting down the notebook, Aislyn exchanged it for her crossbow, keeping her breath steady as she notched a bolt on the string of the bow. At best, it was some lost soul that would eventually petch off elsewhere.
At worse, the rumors about the undead were true.
It was a question any Alvad faced on a daily basis. There was no real point in trying to seek somewhere out, considering the nature of the streets, so it was often up to personal preference which way someone walked. Aislyn liked the left. Every morning, regardless of her destination, she left her abode and walked to the left. If it were to be night, she walked to the right. Thief liked the right. It was a preference, just like everything else in life. People had preferences, just as the city did. And prefer it did- for the moment, Alvadas appeared to prefer dead ends. Which was entertaining, for all of ten ticks. Then it grew rather problematic.
Aislyn could never truthfully say she hated her city, but after a night of wrong turns, she could say with a small bit of truth that she had just the slightest distaste for the current layout of Alvadas. Not that she could really complain- she didn’t have a destination, after all. All she had was a crossbow, and a determination not to stand still. After all, the only reason she was out at all was the fact that she couldn’t do anything else. The whole season, she’d had trouble sleeping. If she were truthful, it wasn’t just this season, either. Spring had been troublesome, as well, but with the sudden political turmoil of the summer, everything seemed to have gotten… Worse. She couldn’t sleep. Her dreams were full of visions of the winter. When she awoke, she couldn’t always tell whether or not she was still dreaming. Under her eyes, dark circles sat. ‘Maya’ never wore them, of course- being an illusionist was wondrous for the skin- and to be tired would be rather un-Maya-like. But ‘Thief’ could be tired. ‘Thief’ was always tired.
It was as Thief that Aislyn patrolled the streets; her only solution to her inability to sleep. The nighttime was relaxing, a “good enough” alternative to slumber itself, even if it didn’t really help the exhaustion that would then weigh on Maya’s shoulders the next morning. Thief didn’t care. Thief didn’t care about many things. What she did care about was the quiet, and how peaceful the nighttime was. In the twilight hours, there were less people, which was a rarity with the post-immigration rush Alvadas. It was rare to see another soul on the streets, and certainly no soul out that late at night wanted any sort of conversation. That was the beauty of the night.
The beauty of Thief.
The only downside to walking alone at night was the danger that came with it. Nothing bad had happened to Aislyn personally, but one night she had become witness to what could be a mugging, or could have just been an argument gone awry. Either way, Aislyn hadn’t stuck around, and hadn’t dismissed the possibility that she could be next. She, of course, had said nothing of the incident. She was more of a listening kind of person, and listen she did. In the end, when one rarely spoke, one was privy to hear many things. Such things often included rumors of what was going wrong in Alvadas that day.
There are attacks every night.
People are going missing again.
The pilgrims are to blame.
The Speakers are to blame.
Enough to cause a good amount of paranoia, but nothing too serious. But yet, there had been one conversation Aislyn was not happy to hear.
The undead are returning.
A rumor. Nothing more, nothing less. But Aislyn knew as well as any Alvad that rumors were dangerous things, and sometimes in Alvadas all it took was spoken word to will an illusion into existence. Fear was running rampent in the city of illusions, and there was little anyone could do to stop it. For once, however, Aislyn didn’t feel disconnected from the panic. After the officiation of the Sheathewhisps’ authority, it became obvious that not a single Alvad was exempt from fear. Not even the Speakers.
As she walked, Aislyn fiddled with a crossbow bolt, fresh from her quiver that swung side to side on her back. Even with the Sheathewhisps doing what they could, not much had changed. The death of the man- by crossbow, of all things- had made as much obvious. Aislyn had heard plenty of rumors about that event, too. One such rumor had even blamed a certain blonde archer that might have gone by the name ‘Maya’ for the killing.
Aislyn’s knuckles grew white with how hard she gripped the bolt between her hands. She had a good idea where that rumor had originated.
Nonetheless, Aislyn had not stopped her walks. Almost every night- or whatever nights she could not find sleep, at least- she patrolled the streets she had walked along all her life. There was not much she brought with her- crossbow, quiver, notebook, some charcoal pieces, and perhaps some food, if she were so inclined. The notebook and charcoals were, of course, for drawing, should she find herself plagued by dead ends or otherwise unable to walk anymore. It was in such a dead end she found herself at the moment. Sighing, she slipped the bolt she carried back into her quiver. It was a drawing day, then. Petch it. She had commissions to finish, didn’t she? This was good. It didn’t matter.
Taking a seat in the shadows of the alley, Aislyn drew out her sketchbook. She held the charcoal in her left hand. Thief was not an artist. What would Thief draw?
From somewhere outside the alley, conversation drifted. Aislyn ignored it for the moment, and the sound eventually passed. On the page before her, a drafted sketch of assorted topics came to life. Faces. Walls. A pair of boots. Quite a few commissions nowadays asked for nothing in particular, as long as it looked nice. She was a well-enough established artist to have a positive reputation, resulting in quite a few return patrons that knew her work was pleasing. Thus, she was given more artistic freedom, and thus, art block was all so much more deadly. She just needed something- anything- to draw. Tapping the charcoal piece on the paper, Aislyn let her mind wander until a rather unwelcome sound drew her attention elsewhere. Footsteps, but not just outside the dead end. Coming her way.
Setting down the notebook, Aislyn exchanged it for her crossbow, keeping her breath steady as she notched a bolt on the string of the bow. At best, it was some lost soul that would eventually petch off elsewhere.
At worse, the rumors about the undead were true.
"Speech" - Thought
