Flashback [Flashback] Birds of a Feather (Boo)

[Aislyn Leavold]

CHILD OF ALVADAS

1st of Summer, 509 AV

It had been rather cold lately.
Perhaps it was her imagination, but considering the coming summer months, the chillier weather didn’t seem to fit the theme. When Aislyn had first left the house, she had taken about ten steps out the door before turning back around and grabbing herself a cloak. Partially because she was cold, and partially because the cloak had a hood. She’d never liked hoods before recently; they were too small, too confining. But now, they seemed… comforting, almost. They hid her identity, and made her feel a lot more safe. A lot more free.
And after all, freedom was what Aislyn really needed right now.

She hadn’t left the house since it happened.
It; the simple name she used to call her marking, and the death of one, possibly two people by her hand. It, in which her god had rescued her from a situation she hadn’t, quite frankly, believe she’d get out unscathed. It, that had ended a long night with a mark from the gods, granting her abilities she’d never believed herself privileged enough to bear.
Pushing her fingers through the neck of the shirt to feel where her gnosis sat, she felt almost lightheaded thinking about it. Forty-six days. It had been forty-six days, and she still couldn’t believe it had happened at all. Every single moment that had transpired that night was permanently etched into her being, both mentally and physically. In her dreams, in her nightmares, even in brief moments of panic during the day. Everywhere, she saw Ionu, the glassy eyes of the father, and most of all, Markis. Every hooded figure could be him, every unidentified face. Every waking moment she’d been terrified of the boy- the man- coming back to finish what he’d started.

So she’d hidden herself.
Hidden, away from the unknown of outside. She’d hidden herself, and she thought.
During those forty-six days, she had done a lot of thinking.

The only time Aislyn had left her abode was to purchase an empty journal, if only to write down her thoughts. She’d always liked writing, but this was more important than that. She needed to have everything written down, in case her memory faltered. Not only about the events of the forty-fifth of spring, but the events that happened since then.
Other than thinking, Aislyn had done a lot of experimenting as well. From the moment the beak of the iridescent crow had bitten into her skin, she’d known exactly what to do. It was a strange feeling, almost like remembering something you couldn’t remember before. Like the knowledge had always been there. Except, of course, it hadn’t; it couldn’t have.

But she hadn’t known everything.
Aislyn had to learn the hard way the confines of what her new abilities allowed her to create, and how long it took for such creations to expire. That was the experiment. She was only any good at affecting sight, it seemed, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t affect more than one sense at once. The girl had, of course, tried more. Trying to make plain oatmeal look and taste like a hearty soup was harder than it seemed, apparently. The look was easy enough, but the taste didn’t work out as well. Another observation she made- it was unfortunately easy to see through her own illusions. Unless she concentrated on not thinking about it, the oatmeal would never taste like soup.
She’d skipped that particular meal, in the end.

But now it was summer, from the calculations of the calendar she had kept in her new book. The previous night she had stayed up late- like always- in an attempt to see the flash of a watchtower from some far-off land. And- like always- nothing had been there to be seen. But it was still worth trying.
Once she was sure the day was done and the new season had emerged, Aislyn was left with a choice. Spring had ended. She was sick of hiding. She was scared, yes, and she was ashamed, but she was hopeful, too. She couldn’t hide forever, and the girl knew that very well. Ionu’s grace or not, she had to go out eventually, and it was on the eve of her fifteenth birthday she decided it was time to change something. It seemed fitting- like a resolution for the new year- to change some aspect of her life on her date of birth. Maybe she’d do that every year, make something better to make herself better.
But that was getting a bit ahead of herself.

After a long night of tossing and turning, Aislyn had awoken again and landed herself where she was now, walking down an ever-changing street in an ever-changing city wearing a cloak hiding everything it possibly could, wondering why it was so cold. No matter what she did, the chill didn’t go away. If she were entirely honest, it wasn’t even all that cold out. She was near the docks, warranting a cold breeze coming inland, but other than that there was no reason she should have felt so… wrong.
Maybe she shouldn’t have come out that day after all.

Playing a good old fashioned game of find-the-illusion, Aislyn tried to take her mind off the growing pit in her stomach. Overhead, a group of plain old seagulls flew, a chorus of caws falling down from the skies above. What would it be like to fly? What a good question. Surely, it must have been nice. To be able to soar far above the land, above the houses, above the city, above the people; there was a certain kind of freedom birds had in that. A certain kind of freedom no human could understand.
In a moment of irony, Aislyn remembered the stubs of wings that so prominently stuck out from her shoulder blades.
A certain kind of freedom no humanoid could understand, then.

Lowering her eyes again, a different kind of bird call caught Aislyn’s attention next, a clucking from somewhere behind her. As she turned, the hood of her cloak momentarily blocked her vision, and it wasn’t until something hit her leg that she finally got a good look. An entire flock of chickens, in a plethora of colours. The one at her feet was a bright, vermillion red, while the next closest was a chartreuse that boldly opposed the red. Smiling at the illusions, Aislyn watched them curiously until they all at once took off running down the street. Delighted at the opportunity to have something to do, the young illusionist took off running after them. Pacing her breath, she soon enough found that, to her great surprise, these particular illusions ran much faster than any chicken reasonable should. And even more intriguing, none of them seemed to be the same colour. Each was a separate shade, in reds, oranges, yellows, greens, purples and pinks of every hue. The only thing missing was- strangely enough- blue.

Distracted by her new hobby of scrutinizing the colour of illusionary birds, Aislyn didn’t realize that another non-chicken had been caught in the path of the flock until she slamming right into them. Unfortunately enough, the figure she hit was a fair bit more solid than the teenager, resulting in the girl being the one to lose the fight. Ending up on the ground, Aislyn momentarily panicked as her hood fell back. An internal voice- feeling, whatever you wanted to call it, just kept repeating the mantra of not safe, not safe as long as her face was exposed. In half a tick, a nimble hand had pulled the cowl back to the perch it was meant to stand upon. Her hand stayed in place once it was returned, stretching the fabric down as far as it could go to hide her features. The pit in her stomach returned. She really didn’t want to be seen.

”I’m- I’m sorry?” Her voice inadvertently tilted into a question, confusing her words. She’d practically hit the person face-first, and judging from the uncomfortable itching sensation, her nose might possibly have been bleeding.

”I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m sorry.”

little secrets grow up to be big lies

[Boo Beckett]

Boo sat perched on the rickety wooden chair that despite an appearance to the contrary, had seemed to grow in both strength and durability over the years. Aside from the occasional creak from its exertions, it was showing no signs of betraying its current occupant now. The interior of the room was gloomy and foreboding, evoking a pensive atmosphere while shadows danced and scurried against the ill-lit walls. A solitary candle was working overtime to cast a weak illuminating gaze across the room, but its flame was tired and weary, while the room corners remained hidden and refused to give up their secrets.

Uncle Varin paced up and down in almost military fashion, stopping every once in a while with one arm crossed, holding up the other arm that held his chin securely. His look was one of quiet contemplation, the man having always so well hidden his true feelings. But if Boo was to take a guess at it, he would wager Varin was currently feeling frustrated. How long had it been? It felt like time itself chose not to exist in this room. In fact, the only sign of time's passage was the ever decreasing length of the candle; and even that had seemed to drag out its existence, like a stubborn and grizzled pirate from some age old story who had proved more than adept at staying alive.

"Better get some sleep," Varin said in just a fraction louder than a whisper. Boo looked up questioningly, which his Uncle seemed to pick up on with little more than a glance his way. "She's not coming tonight. It's way past time. Get some sleep and we'll try again tomorrow." There really was not much else to say to mask their disappointment. Having come this far had proved challenging enough, but until now she had always been exactly where she was supposed to be, at the exact same time. That she should break from that habit now, on the eve of her deliverance was... a little disconcerting.

Of course she would not be the first ghost to have a change of heart. For all their efforts - or rather Varin's efforts, as Boo continued in earnest in his role as studious nephew - there was never such a thing as certainty when it came to spiritism. Denizens of the afterlife simply did not play by the same rules as mere mortals. They could be bargained and reasoned with of course, but more often than not it was a matter of helping them to understand matters on their own terms. Boo felt they had achieved that up until now. Perhaps Varin believed so too, since he was willing to try again the following day. Perhaps their efforts were not yet in vain.

The following morning Boo woke to find himself alone. Varin was always up early and it was not uncommon for the man to leave without a mention. No doubt he was off stocking up on some last minute supplies. Varin was very meticulous about staying prepared at all times. "One mistake is all it takes," he would say. True enough. Their work had the potential of offering volatile odds of safety. Occupational hazard and all that. Still, Boo was experienced enough at this point that he felt he had a good read on ghosts. Based on his dealings with spirits thus far, he had categorized their current ghost as amicable, at least where they were concerned. So it was that he felt confident the ghost had good reason for last night's absence.

Boo stretched long and hard, his back relishing being uncoiled with a series of approving cracks. The bed had been ungracious in its hospitality, instead sagging on the job so much that the lad might as well have slept on a plank of wood. He rubbed his eyes, scanning the room as the last remnants of sleep departed. He noted the candle from the night before, now spent and sorry looking, its waxy body having drooped and dripped down the sides of the rusted looking holder. No matter though. The morning light was pouring through the clear glass window aggressively, as if to remind the building's inhabitants that no candle was a match for the real thing.

It was not Boo's first visit to Alvadas. In fact so numerous were his and Varin's expeditions here that he had lost count. Be that as it may, he still could not shake the feeling that caressed his spine whenever his eyes came to rest on something... unnatural looking. City of Illusions indeed, but no amount of time spent here could ease his discomfort at anything that did not feel real, or was out of place. Indeed, descending the staircase that seemed to have been built by the same person who had made last night's chair - both rickety yet deceivingly robust - he noted with a grimace that the stools situated at the tavern's bar were now tree stumps, complete with sinewy branches that came to an end with actual human hands. Furthermore, the hands were performing all manner of customs or pastimes, including varying forms of handshake, or children's games like slapsies or thumb war. Thankfully the hands were keeping to themselves or each other, since there was undoubtedly the opportunity to meddle with anyone who sat upon them, should they be so inclined.

In Boo's experience, while the illusions in Alvadas were often outlandish and eye-opening, they had never really seemed to be designed to cause any harm. Certainly they had inspired a nightmare or two among sweeter hearted children, but otherwise their motive appeared to be mischief more than anything else. At least he had never heard of anyone ever being maliciously injured or indeed killed by them. That offered little comfort now though as he handily sidestepped the tree stumps on his way to the door.

There was a brisk hint to the air as the outside greeted him. It was officially summer according to the calendars and watchtowers, but obviously the weather itself had not received that message just yet. Boo pulled his coat a little tighter about him, silently cursing the missing button at the very top that would have done well to keep his neck warm right about now. Holding his coat together, he pressed on in that manner that cold people all seemed to share, with the shortening of the neck and a hunch to their posture. He moved sullenly down the street, his chosen direction made completely at random, while his eyes were more focused on the cracks in the stone street than on his surroundings.

A blur of motion drew his gaze to his right, as a rather agile and speedy chicken darted past. It had been as yellow as a lemon, perhaps a little darker towards the neck and head. Before he had barely registered the incident, a second chicken zipped into view, this one an olive, dark-brownish, peridot green. Like the first, it was moving with great pace, as though it was being pursued by something worthy of sprinting away from. Before more than a few moments had passed, Boo found himself flanked by a sea of myriad colors, chicken after chicken of unique and exquisite hues flanking him like he was some great boulder right in the middle of a fast flowing stream. He did not know if the chickens were mere illusions, conjured from thin air, or if they were something else entirely, masquerading as chickens.

He turned to see the source of the flood of poultry, just in time to see a much larger image careen into him. Definitely not a chicken, as he found himself floundering backwards a few steps. The impact had seen him stagger, but fortuitously he was to remain on his feet. No such luck for his attacker who met the ground with an unflattering thud. There was a flurry of movement, the figure wrestling to place their hood back up, while a handful more chickens scurried by, apparently oblivious to the collision before them. Boo had not seen the figure's face, such was his current muddled state at the events unfolding before him. But with the chicken marathon having seemed to finish passing them by, he now turned his full attention to the other person.

She spoke first, issuing an awkward apology while still taking efforts to keep her hood from falling back. A hooded cloak was a grand idea, given the current temperature. But Boo could not help but feel the girl was being a little elusive, as though she dared not meet the eye of the man she had almost sent reeling. Of course he had no notion of her real reasons for wanting to remain hidden, instead putting her behavior down to embarrassment. Taking but a moment to compose himself, his mind quickly filled the given information of the current event into his thought processes and memories. Those in turn undertook a grand research project, drawing up past occurrences or recollections of similar types that might help to draw a final conclusion. With the evidence, theories, and assumptions all collected, they were melded together to form one concise thought, which in an instance was beamed back to Boo's consciousness. So it was then, in that tiny instance, (at least as far as mortals were concerned), Boo settled on the conclusion that he should attempt to put the young lady's mind at ease.

"Please, it's fine. No harm done, see?" He held up his hands momentarily in a motion similar to a shrug, as if presenting her with the evidence necessary to agree with him. "What about you? Are you okay? It seemed like you were, um, chasing after those chickens. At least, I think they were chickens. They certainly looked like chickens. At least, not like any chickens I ever saw." Boo stopped talking. He was immediately aware that he was saying too much at once, convinced that he was actually spouting nonsense. Which he was. It might have been misconstrued for nerves or shyness, but both were wide of the mark. In truth, Boo did not talk to people a great deal. Ghosts? Sure, for hours at a time sometimes. But Varin and Boo were almost always on the move. They did not stop to make friends and strike up conversations with strangers; and as far as Varin was concerned, the old man was hardly the most chatty person.

No, the simple truth of the matter was that Boo, when it came to talking to ordinary, everyday people, was a little out of practice. Of course, little did he know that Aislyn Leavold was anything but ordinary, everyday people.

[Aislyn Leavold]

CHILD OF ALVADAS

There was a very long tick of silence.
A very long tick, in which Aislyn risked removing her hands from the ground and her hood to wipe the shards of stone that stuck to her hands. They were grazed, but not bleeding.
Her nose, on the other hand…
Abruptly pushing herself off the ground, Aislyn intended to move as far away as possible as quickly as possible. She had no business staying here. Wiping at her face, she hid the bloodied hand behind her back before the man spoke. No harm done. That was good. She had done no harm to him then, at least.

The man spoke kindly, despite the rude introduction. With the hood in front of her eyes, she still couldn’t see his face, but she could certainly make out the rest of him. He had a good foot on her, considering the fact that staring straight forwards with her height got her only to chest-level. A chest that she fiercely stared at, refusing to lift her eyes any higher. A chest that was covered by several layers of leather and coat, of which the coat appeared to be missing the top button. That was a good enough subject to stare at. She didn’t need to see anything else.
She didn’t want him to see her face, and she didn’t want to see his.

When asked of herself, Aislyn reluctantly felt obliged to stick around. This was not the first occasion in which the girl had found herself facing a stranger in the streets, but it was rather rare she was regarded with much more than curiosity at best- if she were regarded at all. The wholesome concern was an oddity. It was not rare for her to be assumed homeless- or worse- when she had been out walking before, considering her lack of parental supervision. It was insulting, almost. So maybe she didn’t look like the most royally-dressed, respectable child. It wasn’t like she was dressed badly, just simply. She spent the majority of her time climbing something or other to achieve a higher vantage point, what was she supposed to wear? Frocks?

Alvadas was kind, but unfortunately, people were not. It wasn’t even the denizens of the city, either. Mainly foreigners, made obvious by the accent and often bewildered look. Not used to surprises, and with no sense of humour. Oh, and fond of name-calling. Street rat, thief, runt, scrounger…

”Fine. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

People were not kind. People were not trustworthy.

Focusing on the hole where the two sides of the man’s coat would have met, Aislyn tried to create a story for him. He held no hint of Alvadas in his voice like she did, so surely he couldn’t have been born and raised Alvad. That meant he was from elsewhere. A traveller, maybe. Or an immigrant.
Keeping her sentences short, Aislyn held her words close to her chest. No use trusting someone that wasn’t going to stick around. Her shoulders tensed up to her ears while she tried to decide whether caution or politeness was more of a risk in the situation.

”They were chickens.” Not like any chickens I ever saw. Definitely a novice to the city, then. Anyone in Alvadas for more than a season either adapted to what they saw, or went insane from it. No use trying to apply the logic of the outside world to a place where no such rules held water; that was the main mistake every newcomer made. From what Aislyn had heard of the the world outside of Alvadas, it seemed very big, and very boring. There were no illusions, though what else differed from her patron city was a bit more unclear. No one understood Alvadas, except for Alvads. Except for Aislyn.
After thinking for a moment, the girl opted to correct her words. ”They were illusions.”

The majority of the chickens hadn’t blinked at the loss of the non-chicken to their flock, though one had lagged behind. Idly it stood behind the stranger, and Aislyn found a comforting presence in it. Illusions were so much nicer than people.
Sliding past the man, Aislyn knelt down beside the remainder, her hand finally leaving the hood hiding her face in order to reach towards the illusionary bird. Just before her fingers touched down, however, an idea occurred to her.

Newcomers to the city were Aislyn’s favourite kind of people to run into- when they weren’t being rude, at least- mainly because of how easy it was to mess with them, and how easy it was to play ‘spot the outsider’ in the streets of Alvadas. They were frantically searching for street signs, eyes constantly turned upwards, gaping at the strangeness of the buildings that never stayed the same. It was amazing to think even those who thought themselves so smart, so above everyone else, were baffled at the slightest hint of strangeness. Aislyn had often spent days by the Sanity Center, or the Maw, just to watch the never ending train of confusion go by.

Now, though, something was different. She could be more than just an observer; she could be a participator. A weaver of illusions, just as her deity was. Do you want an edge, little girl?
She had the edge, now. Maybe it was time to put such an edge to use.

Wiping at her nose again, the side of her palm ended up a stained red before she finally made contact with the animal in front of her. There were quite a few colours to experience, now. There was the red on her hands, still bright but quickly drying. There was a pastel yellow within the chicken, not as outrageous as green or purple, but far too strange for a normal chicken nonetheless. Where her fingers touched the plume of the bird, however, something more contrasting spilled into the feathers. A vibrant blue, of which Aislyn willed to spread. Like ink dripping into water, the muted gold morphed into an azure; deeper than the sky, yet lighter than the sea. This was surprisingly easier than what Aislyn had attempted on her own, like the difference between colouring something in and drawing something from scratch. She didn’t have to concentrate on how the chicken moved, or what the chicken looked like, just what colour the chicken would be. The chicken made no attempt to move away from her touch, flicking its head back and forth until she conceded to stoke the bird. The movement appeared to appease it, and Aislyn patted her newfound friend gently before speaking again.

”It’s lovely, isn’t it?

little secrets grow up to be big lies

[Boo Beckett]

Of course, since the girl's face was obscured by her hooded cloak, Boo had no notion that she was in fact injured. Just a bleeding nose perhaps, with the opportunity of an unsightly bruise beneath the eyes as could sometimes be the case, she instead informed the foreigner that all was well. Fair enough, he thought, relieved by the information while having no reason to question it.

She stood in front of him now, a whole foot lower while the hood continued to shroud her in secrecy. Some people were the curious sort, enough that they might have stooped low to get a glance of her face. They were those annoying types, who commanded women to 'smile', without ever pausing for thought that perhaps said woman was having a bad day. They liked to stick their nose in where it was not wanted, gossiped among themselves like chattering birds, and worst still had very little, if any, inclination that they were frightfully annoying. Lucky enough, whether it was from the teachings of his Uncle that had shaped him, or if his character would have developed in this manner of its own accord, Boo was not one to pry.

In truth, it was a byproduct of his teachings; at least, his teachings when it came to ghosts and spirits. Uncle Varin had been sure to school Boo from the start, that any engagement with a ghost must always be on their terms. Sure, their conversational techniques and delicately probing questions were designed to cajole ghosts into opening up, but there was undoubtedly a finesse to it, that went hand in hand with respect. Ultimately their purpose was to help ghosts, not bully them.

This was no spirit before him now, but he still might apply the same teachings regardless. So then, there was no attempt to stick his nose in, command her to smile, or even get a glimpse of the face held within that mysterious hood. Why? Because there was no part of him that aspired to be... frightfully annoying. "Well, I'm just glad you're okay then," he settled to say, before taking just a small step back, designed to give her that little extra bit of space and dispel any notion of feeling crowded. It was subconscious on his part; more a reflex now than a predetermined course of action.

Regarding Boo's accent, the girl was of course right to assume he was non-Alvad. Still, it would be hard to pinpoint exactly where he was from, leading to the accurate conclusion that he was indeed a traveler. What she might not have deduced though was that he visited Alvadas frequently. Or at least as frequently as ship travel allowed. The truth of it was that he had been born and raised in Syliras. Fifteen years had passed before Uncle Varin was charged with the boy's care, courtesy of his own parents departing the world. Today he was aged 26, eleven years passed since he had last called Syliras home. But those eleven years had worked in earnest to undo what had been done. Everything he knew and thought was questioned and analyzed, before being overhauled and renewed. If he was honest, despite the occasional thought spared his parents as fond memories were oft to do, he could not claim to hold onto anything from those first fifteen years.

Varin had shaped him into something quite different, while certainly there were traits and small details that would have evolved the same. In any case, regarding his accent, he had more or less ditched that Syliras tone and replaced it with a hodgepodge of other origins. Mostly he was shaped on Varin of course, since he had spent every day with the man for the last eleven years. But even Varin's accent was an unruly beast, having carved his time traveling to and from Alvadas, Riverfall and Black Rock. Indeed, anyone with an ear for such things might have picked out a word here or a sentence there that sounded like it had its roots grounded in a particular place, but otherwise the assumption met by most was that yes, these were traveling folk.

The girl had confirmed that it was indeed chickens that had passed them by, while after a short pause adding that they were born of illusion. Well he had figured that much at least. She might well have considered that visitors could only fill one of two categories when coming to Alvadas; those that accepted their surroundings and those that did not. The latter ended up going crazy of course, their minds unable to process what they saw. But Boo felt he was a little different. True, he had not spent one particularly long and consistent spell in the city - Boo and Varin would visit for however many days their current project took, sometimes a handful, sometimes ten or more - but he had been frequently enough to get a handle on things.

He still found those first few days of adjusting a little strange, maybe even difficult. He would shudder at the obviously out of place illusions that seemed to twist logic before his very eyes. But despite the initial unsettling feeling, it never developed on a trajectory that could lead to insanity. Perhaps staying in Alvadas and being a spiritist were a good match. After all, he was learning to commune with the dead, to understand forces beyond their own realm of existence. Perhaps in some way that had helped prepare his mind for the wonders of Alvadas.

The girl had moved beyond him now to approach one last straggling chicken. She knelt down before it so that his line of sight was obscured. With her back to him he still had no incline to what she looked like, but he had guessed the girl was in fact a girl, and not a woman, judging from her voice. She then asked him about the chicken, presumably, causing him to take a step forward so that the creature came into view. He was certain it had been a pastel yellow before, but now it was an almost shimmering blue, a remarkable azure hue that was unashamed and adamant in its glory.

Boo had to concede, it was a fine looking chicken indeed. He also wondered, had it changed of its own accord, or was there perhaps another agent at work here. After all, had she not moved purposefully between him and the chicken so as to hide her machinations? As far as he was concerned, since he had never inquired on the topic, illusions were a naturally occurring thing in Alvadas. But he wondered, could they be interacted with, or somehow manipulated by something or someone else? Of course he was merely speculating, though he had to admit that the very idea was quite intriguing. So then, he decided to try his luck and pushed the matter further.

"Alright. Alright," he said nodding his head, clearly impressed, while a look of approval enveloped his face. Not that she could see it of course, unless she chose to break from habit and turn her head to see. He took another step forwards, a more playful tone surrounding his words as he continued. "But I have a miza in my pocket says you can't turn him red."

[Aislyn Leavold]

CHILD OF ALVADAS

Maybe coming out that day hadn’t been a mistake after all. She’d been so worried, so plagued by the sense of being watched, so paranoid and overwrought. Like every single corner she turned around would turn out to be a trap, set cleverly by the only person Aislyn could manage to call both a friend and an enemy at the same time. It had taken her ages to get to even that point, ages that she’d spent sitting on her bunk in her home weighing all the possible risks in her mind. Whether or not it was really worth it, whether or not she truthfully wanted to risk it. Whether another confrontation was worth the price of freedom. Whether anything could actually turn out to be different.

Aislyn had never been a very cautious child. She had her fair share of run-ins with danger, but nothing had ever stopped her in her tracks like what had happened the season prior. Suddenly, the world didn’t seem all that safe anymore. Her city was her friend, whilst her friends were not. Suddenly, in a matter of days, she wasn’t a child anymore. She was an Alvad, forced to grow up before she grew old. But her city was hers, and the illusions were the same. Illusions that were not malicious, but not kind either. Illusions that were beautiful.
A beauty best admired from a distance.
But of course, distance was no fun. Distance didn’t get you the experience of standing in the eye of a hurricane of colour, a flock of flying fish. Tiny dancing lights that whispered carols in your ears. Animals of the likes no one had ever seen, all within one big city; one big illusion. She’d been raised twofold, once by the illusions, twice by the people. The illusions that spoke wonders, and the people that spoke dangers. How dangerous strangers were. How dangerous illusions were.
Neither were ever true.

Aislyn was an Alvad, born and raised, and now she was an illusionist. Such a strange title, now hers to keep. Living proof of how wrong people had been, how the illusions didn’t have to be feared, how they didn’t have to be dangerous. How the only dangerous thing were the people. The people that told Alvads how dangerous their illusions were, how foolish their ideals may be. The people that took Ionu’s name in vain, the people that were given their just desserts and cursed the city for it. They just didn’t understand.

Illusions made the best friends.

Aislyn had never been a big fan of friends. It seemed rather confining, to learn just one person inside and out, instead of a host of different people that could provide so many more stories. Now, she had proven herself right in the friendship aspect, and decided that to align oneself with someone else was the quickest way to self-destruction. Because, in the end, you never really could learn someone inside out. There would always be secrets.

Snapped out of her thoughts by the voice of the man once again, Aislyn felt his words dance across her mind, igniting a smile on her face. A challenge. One that was very easily won, it seemed. The best kind of challenge, that was. Underestimation was always a powerful tool.

Looking back down at the chicken in front of her, the slight smile broadened. Aislyn hadn’t smiled in forever. It was a nice feeling, if nothing else. She’d felt so jittery and anxious all the time, but a simple smile seemed to soften all that out. Maybe she didn’t have anything better to do. Maybe she didn’t have to leave so soon. Maybe this wouldn’t turn out badly. Maybe this man wasn’t like the people Aislyn would so often see. Maybe he was different. Maybe today was different.
Though, she shouldn’t be too hasty. After all, different was a given; plenty of ‘different’ had already happened that day. Her birthday was the first factor of being different, and this man was the second. Fourteen-turned-fifteen and she was facing down a man twice her age.
That, and a chicken.

Wiping at her nose again, Aislyn briefly contemplated the idea that maybe she should do something about that issue. After a few ticks, she eventually decided she didn't care all that much. After all, apart from her left hand being a bit of a red mess, she wasn't really being hindered in any way. And the alternative would be getting blood all over her clothes, which was a bit less of an appetizing option. And the stranger didn’t seem to mind either- whether he had noticed or not- so in the end it was a non issue. It wasn’t bleeding too badly, after all. And it would stop eventually, anyways. Besides, the red was a good reference. Illusions were like drawings; little art pieces she created with her mind. Always better with a reference.

Turning her palm to stroke the chicken, the young illusionist concentrated on the colour of the bird once again. A ruby red, mirroring the colour that stained her hand, that spread from the head of the poultry through the feathers until it reached the feet, which were tinted a slightly more crimson shade instead of turning into an entirely different colour outright, as the feathers had done. Like the difference between dyeing something white and dyeing something a darker colour; the colour didn’t show up as well. But still red. Very, very red.
Within a chime of the man’s request, the chicken bore a bright scarlet, clucking cluelessly as it paced back and forth in front of the girl’s kneeling form. It appreciated the petting, it seemed, and didn’t seem particularly bothered by the fact that a stranger was turning it assorted colours on a whim. What a good bird.

After a few ticks of staring at her creation, Aislyn sat back, her smile now a wide grin. After a moment, she put out her hand again, extended expectantly towards the man. He had promised a miza, after all. She didn’t plan on forgetting.

little secrets grow up to be big lies

[Boo Beckett]

Had Aislyn gone public with her views on friendship, Boo would most likely have disagreed with them. That in itself was a curious thing of course, since he could not say within the realms of honesty that he even had any true friends. Varin did not count of course. He was family. That they were friends went without saying. But even then, Varin was essentially a father to the lad, and with that came the more traditional confines of a father-son relationship that did not apply to regular friends. As to childhood friends before Boo left Syliras, they were just that, children whom while he could recall their names and faces, were nothing more now than people he had once known.

There had been some acquaintances along the way of course, though owing to the nature of Varin and Boo's work, the pair never really remained in one place for very long. Sure, there were familiar faces they would be greeted by on their return, but such was the shortness of each trip that these acquaintances never really expanded far. With that said, Boo was no idiot. He understood the concept and inner workings of friendship. He could fathom that it was an entity that had different layers, or levels perhaps. Some people were better friends than others. Some were more trustworthy than others, less reliable, willing to sacrifice, selfish, honest, loyal, superficial, and so on. It was a many headed beast, this friendship.

But what about knowing someone inside out, from head to toe, every scratch, dent, or imperfection? Aislyn had seemed to be of the opinion that it was all or nothing. But Boo's thoughts on the matter? He likely would have found himself in disagreement. Certainly, there was plentiful advantages for knowing someone really well, including their quirks, opinions and expectations. Those were the finer friendships of course, where the usual rules of conduct and behavior made way for a different set of guidelines, each unique of themselves while forming the same, unquestioned foundations on which true friendship could be built.

But Boo much preferred the idea that getting to know someone was an ongoing affair. Knowing everything just seemed so, well, boring. Was it not better to have friends who could still surprise you, catch you off guard, or present some new facet to their personality on any given day? Certainly, keeping secrets could lead to trouble. But laying it all out just seemed too easy. At least that was his opinion, had he been asked. Which of course he had not.

The chicken had proven to be a most cooperative subject, seemingly unaffected by the talents of Aislyn as she shifted the bird's color once again. Boo was understandably impressed. It was one thing to see all these illusions popping up around the city, but to see someone actually manipulate them. Impressed indeed. The girl in question was quite the mystery, tenfold with the hood that continued to keep her face hidden. He watched with a grin as a solitary hand rose up, palm open and expectant. He had almost forgot about the promised coin.

Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved not one but two. Since the girl had shown willingness to go along with him this far, he decided to try one last request. "I'm impressed. And as promised, here is your reward. But here's another coin if you care to earn it. This time, can you change him back to blue? But maybe with a flurry of color on his person. Oh, and black tail feathers. Or whatever you call those." He dared to assume this was much more a challenge, since it involved more color and more detail. He held onto the second coin expectantly, waiting to see if the little girl was up to the task.

[Aislyn Leavold]

CHILD OF ALVADAS

A real challenge, now.
Aislyn took in the man’s instructions at her own pace. Blue, with a flurry of colour. Maybe red would look nice, or perhaps a darker blue. Aqua, perhaps. Or why choose? Black tail feathers. Easy-peasy. A very specific request, though granted there was no reason to be vague. A true challenge had details that had to be matched exactly, or very closely so. People commissioned artists for things they drew, why not illusionists? Create art from nothing, not just from paints and parchment. From the mind to existence, instead of stopping by charcoal in order to get so far. A faster mode of art, in every sense of the word. Created fast, admired fast, gone fast, repeated fast. Illusions only lasted so long, after all. And Aislyn could do that.
It was still rather amazing.

Looking down at the chicken once again, the girl concentrated on the red. She knew what colour she had created before; a rich, but moderate blue. Not too light, not too dark, just a simple, sweet blue. The colour spread quickly, though a shade different from what she had created before. It was difficult to get colours exactly right, especially if she had no reference to work off of. But it was close, and it was certainly blue. Now came the complicated part.
For a moment, Aislyn just sat there on her knees, stroking the chicken with one hand as she absently drummed the ground with the other. Choosing the colours was the hardest part. There were an infinite amount of choices to choose from, infinite combinations. Reds and yellows and greens, with any pattern she wished.
Sometimes, too many choices was just as difficult as none at all.

Continuing her silence, Aislyn weaved her image slowly. Reds and yellows and greens. Reds and yellows and greens and aquamarine. Maroon red and zinnwaldite brown. In theory, she could colour each feather individually, but that was too random. Spots and stripes were too organized, though. There was a balance, a certain quality that gave it an aesthetic appeal. She was good with colours. Organizing cloth scraps by what they would look good with. Reds and greens and aquamarines. She had two choices. Clumps of coloured feathers, matching each other but nothing else, or allowing the colour to move freely from feather to feather. Drops of ink in a wide ocean of colour. Moving as the host moved, doing as the host did. Organization, or freedom. A majestic stature, or a flowing river.
The fluidity was the most appealing aspect. Blue, with anomalies. Before she knew it, she had come to a decision.

Refocusing her eyes, Aislyn looked proudly at her work. It might not last forever, but it was beautiful for the moment, and that was all that mattered. For a moment, all that existed was the chicken and kind man, a world of illusions. A much more Alvadas world. A better world. Turning back towards the stranger, such thoughts of illusion and grandeur distracted her for just long enough to forget she wasn’t supposed to be seen. Just a moment, just a glance. A raise of the eyes just a bit too high. Then she remembered, and everything was brought back down again.

On the upside, she’d seen the man’s face.

On the downside, that meant he could have seen her as well.

There was a very personal aspect to a face. A single appearance to represent everything you were, everything you lived and breathed for every day of your life. People were confining. Attachment was confining. Stay with these people, stay with this face, stay this person, for now and always. One story you could read to the entirety, with just a few glimpses at the tales of others. A person told a story. A face told a story. In just a glimpse, she’d seen a little bit of that story. Dark brown eyes and dark brown hair.
Umber, wood, walnut. There were lots of shades of brown, too. But these shades were specific, just as the man’s request had been. In a way, he reminded her of Taji. He didn’t look the same, but the voice was similar. The stranger was younger, and his skin lighter, but the face was the similarity, past physicality. The same eye colour, and the same gaze. Amused and encouraging, with just the slightest hint of amazement. He was so nice, so strangely, strangely nice. The man probably had a family. Maybe children? He seemed old enough. Taji had children- that much Aislyn knew for certain- but he didn’t speak about them often. It was even stranger to think he had a daughter her age. After all, she had never seen her around, and pretty much all she knew about her was her name. That, and that Aislyn kind of looked like her. Except her hair was curlier and her skin was darker, but their faces. That was the important part. Their faces were the same. Just like this man had the same face, on a different person.
The same cover, a different story.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to her. She’d showed her ability to this man- this stranger- but even Taji didn’t know. She hadn’t thought about it before; she hadn’t seen him since she’d gone into hiding, so she’d never had the opportunity to tell him what had happened. He must have wondered where she’d gone, worried, even. He was practically a father to her, and she had just up and left him. Silently to herself, Aislyn swore she’d seek out the man as soon as the stranger left her sight. But later. She’d do that later. For now, she had a prize to gather.

Putting out her hand again, Aislyn kept her eyes on the chicken this time. The bird tilted its head, bemused and none the wiser to what was going on around it. The blue seemed more fitted to the bird than the red had been. Less vibrant, a subtler blue.

”I like the blue better, Cocking her head the same way the bird did, Aislyn tried to play off her mistake. Maybe he hadn’t seen anything at all. It was okay. She was fine.
Probably. ”Don’t you?”

little secrets grow up to be big lies

[Boo Beckett]

Boo kept his silence, watching avidly as the young girl prepared to tackle his challenge. She had already proved her worth as a decorator of birds, having transformed the seemingly oblivious chicken into a sheer red tone. A tone that sometimes on late summer evenings, just as the sun hung lazily in the sky above the horizon, while clouds puffed their cheeks at one another, could be seen in dazzling partnership with a myriad of oranges and purples.

But as majestic and pleasing as that red had proved to be, young Aislyn demonstrated to good effect that things could always be improved. Thus, before his very eyes, Boo witnessed the remarkable transformation as reds gave way to blues, heralding from the expanse of the sky, and the oceans below, forming as one to create this mirage effect that rippled across feathers like waves. The chicken seemed neither pleased nor agitated at the whole affair, instead opting for indifference as it pecked its head around aimlessly.

For the briefest of moments, Aislyn turned her head towards Boo, stood over as he was like a victim of a basilisk, eyes only for the wonderment that was the colorful chicken. She had paused in her endeavors to remain hidden but for a second, though she knew even that might have been long enough to leave her attempts in ruins. Thankfully for her, the chicken had proved a capable and effective ally, having made good its efforts to keep the man's attention on itself. By the time Boo had elected to speak once more, having given the chicken all the analysis that any good, upstanding citizen could possibly give an unnaturally colored bird, Aislyn had renewed her position incognito and the lapse in concentration went unpunished.

"Yes indeed," Boo nodded in agreement to the girl's opinion and question. "It certainly is quite striking. But you know, a chicken as splendid as this one surely needs a name." There was a playful tone to the man's voice, Boo clearly enjoying the whole encounter for the welcome distraction it was. There was a moment's silence, as though the two were in silent agreement to ponder on a suitable moniker for the chicken. "I have it! How does...Harold...sound to you?"

If the chicken itself had any opinion on the matter, it chose not to show it. Meanwhile Boo was eager to hear what Aislyn though of his suggestion, apparently quite pleased with it himself. If pressed, he could not say why he had settled on that name. In fact, he could not summon to his thoughts even knowing a Harold from somewhere, or anywhere. It had simply popped into his mind, and he was quite decided that he liked the sound of it. After waiting to hear Aislyn's own thoughts on the matter, Boo had realized he did not know the girl's name, nor had his own been given to her.

This was a matter that required resolution of course. The words of Uncle Varin descended into his thoughts then. "Ceremonies are different in every town, but true politeness is everywhere the same." But before Boo could rectify the situation, that very Uncle marched into view, heading straight for him. Varin was a serious man at first impression, walking with similar intent to a marching army, his face solemn and cold, all attributes that effectively shielded the compassion, charity, and kind-heartedness that could be found lurking within.

His eyes fixed on Boo in such a way that they seemed to hold the young lad stricken in his gaze. But Boo's face illustrated not fear or anxiety, but perhaps respect. He seemed to stand a little straighter, the corners of his mouth teasing at a possible grin before reigning themselves in. Boo's eyes flickered to the chicken and back, as if they themselves wanted to lay out to Varin all the colorful details of what had transpired. But in reality the young lad merely stood his ground in silence as Varin approached. "Work to do lad. Let's be at it." Simple and to the point, Boo's Uncle did not even break stride as he marched past. He had however flashed a look at Aislyn, their eyes meeting for the briefest of moments. Her faltering had almost cost her earlier. That error had come to be realized after all, though by the much meaner and serious looking fellow, rather than Boo who had already turned to follow his Uncle.

After a step, he quickly turned back to Aislyn as though having just remembered something. "Almost forgot," he said with a genuine smile, as the sound of a single spinning coin fluttered across the divide between them. A final glance at Harold and Boo was on his way, picking up the pace to catch his Uncle who had almost already marched out of view.

[Aislyn Leavold]

CHILD OF ALVADAS

”Harold!”
Delighted by the newest development, Aislyn felt something shift. Hope, in a way. Not everything was bad. Not everyone. Or at least, this man wasn’t. He was nice enough, and he seemed interesting, too. At the minimum, he was interesting enough to stick around for a bit. A traveller, but one that actually had time for Alvadas. A rarity, and something that could most definitely be exploited. Learned from. Questioned. Explored.

Just as Aislyn was about to delve into a fraction of what questions she had, another man emerged. This man didn’t seem the same. He didn’t seem all that nice, or interesting, or like he had much time for Alvadas. Or time for anything, really. He seemed to be in quite a rush.
He also carried himself in a way that was off-putting in such a way that Aislyn felt an instinctive pull backwards, retreating behind the chicken man. At his range, the girl could make out the face of the man, but as he drew closer the features soon became obscured by her hood. His feet, however, spoke just as loudly. Attentive and straight as a pole, in a way that seemed to spread to Aislyn’s new acquaintance as well. His voice stood to match, a monotonous and authoritative tone. A voice that, in barely the span of half a chime, had collected all the excitement Aislyn had felt and squashed it flat. Then he set off again, like he had never been there at all.

For a moment, Aislyn caught another glimpse at his face. Except this time, he was looking at her too, and she caught his gaze.

Beside her, the illusion she had placed on the chicken flickered.

Despite her stature in comparison to him, the man was the one to break the gaze, turning back to the street ahead like she was nothing to be thought of. A look very well known to Aislyn. And, unfortunately, a look that had the frustrating quality of having won this particular argument. Chicken man, to the girl’s dismay, followed suit behind the other figure, all the interesting features of before suddenly washed dry like the now-faded colours of the chicken he had inspired. For a moment, he turned back, a smile playing across his features. A smile that in the briefest of moments brought back the excitement before, like he was going to change his mind. But he didn’t.
Impassively, she caught the coin. Two gold. She had achieved two gold, like she was some street performer looking for tips. Like her existence was a commodity, like she could be bought by coins and an interesting face. Like he was buying her speech, her interest, her illusions. Angrily, she threw the small token at the wall, where it bounced with a small clink and rattled onto the floor. For a few more moments, she simply sat.

Suddenly, the meeting didn’t seem so wholesome anymore. Suddenly, the man didn’t seem so different anymore.

Silently, Aislyn chastised herself for being so foolish. She was just a child to him. She was an amusement. She was nothing.
Turning back to her feathered friend with a look that could sour milk, the girl was surprised to find a rather peculiar sight before her. Awkwardly, the bird bobbed its head out, the ignorance of before still very prominent. Like it had no idea what it was doing, but it did it anyways. The special part was the once-again blue of its plume, and the small, golden miza within its mouth.

Slowly, Aislyn’s scowl morphed into a small smile, and the young illusionist moved her fingers from the feathers of the animal to her shoulder blade, where her mark was located.
Ionu never failed to amaze her.
Plucking the coin from the beak of her new friend, she stuffed her earnings into her boot. It was very obvious what she needed to do, now. There was nothing she enjoyed more than an adventure, and she was certainly not going to let this particular adventure slip from her grasp. She’d keep her distance, just far away to avoid being seen, but she wouldn’t let him disappear again.

Taking off at a run, Aislyn followed the mystery man, who had by now gained quite a lead on her. In her hands, a surprisingly unperturbed blue chicken, and in her mind, a determination fueled by curiosity and just a hint of spite.

She’d show him just what illusions could do.

little secrets grow up to be big lies

[Boo Beckett]

"So you think she'll come tonight?" Boo asked with more than a hint of excitement in his voice. It did not seem to matter how many times before the pair had met with the denizens of the afterlife. He still felt that pang of adrenaline, as if this was his addiction that could never be quelled. Their ghostly encounters had in fact been quite numerous, some of which ended in the sought after conclusion of sending a ghost on to their final rest, while some were not so amicable.

Perhaps the really telling fact though was how Boo had never fallen foul of an evil spirit. That was testament to Uncle Varin's abilities as a spiritist, having never once let down his guard or skimped on the necessary preparation required for any encounter. It was really this preparedness that had served Varin so well, a fact that he had constantly drilled into Boo at every given opportunity. It served to dramatically reduce the odds of injury, death, or even worse.

Of course the real trick with ghosts was trying to figure them out. These days, after so much practice, Boo could give a rather accurate assessment of a ghost's character after just a couple of meetings. Unlike the living, ghosts tended to be more focused on one particular thing - the source of their staying in the realm of the yet to be dead. It was this very reason that made figuring them out a little easier than say, a human who was alive and kicking. Or any race for that matter. The living were far more devious and versatile, so it seemed, since self-preservation was certainly a driving force for how one conducted themselves. But without the fear of death, ghosts had little time for games.

That was not to suggest there were not some tricksters in the afterlife of course. Usually these types were far older, having clung onto the mortal realm for so long that they had lost their grip on the reasons why, instead cursed to blink and glide around without much of a purpose. These very lost souls were a sad story indeed, especially to young, aspiring spiritists who found themselves incapable of helping them. Varin had commented on those older types many times before, hinting to Boo over the seasons that he had preferred to steer clear of those when he could. It was "bad for business" as he had put it.

Their current ghost though was by no means a veteran, though her story was by no means any less sad. The job had come courtesy of Varin's various contacts within the city. Usually it started with some complaints from a homeowner or tenant, or perhaps a businessman who had been unfortunate enough to find a spirit haunting their establishment. In Alvadas there always seemed to be an initial lull in those complaints, since more often than not the spirit turned out to be an illusion. But once that grace period expired, the wheels were set in motion, people contacted other people, who in turn asked the right questions of yet others, when eventually a letter was drawn up and sent off to whichever city Varin was known to be in at the time. Such was his attention to detail and consistency, Varin's contacts had a firm grasp on his itinerary, making him not that difficult at all to contact.

Upon arriving in the city for the work, Varin and Boo had started the mission the same as any other. The first order of business was to meet with the initial maker of the complaint, gathering all the information they could before visiting the location in question. In most cases contact was not made on that first visit, since most ghosts were shy has Varin liked to put it. Only the really angry ones stuck around, and their presence was immediately felt thanks to the sensing abilities of any spiritist worth his salt.

The more elusive of spirits took some coaxing before they would reveal themselves. Good quality soulmist was of course the way to go, proving to be a most delectable treat for any ghost. Other measures could and would be taken of course, such as ghost beads to ensure the safety of the spiritist, as well as a small arsenal of other tools and weapons. But once a ghost had decided to materialize, it was from that point that Varin and Boo could begin their true assessment of the situation. Some were talkative from the get go, while others needed the right questions to access their answers. Some were so caught up in a maelstrom of emotion that it took several meetings before any real progress could be made. It was a strategical game most of the time, moving pieces of the conversation to gain advantage, before moving in towards victory.

As for her, she had not proven to be the most talkative ghost at first. But there was something to be said for her consistency. She always appeared at the same time every night, and with each meeting had revealed more of her story. In fact she had not yet quite grasped the concept of what she was, so caught up in the range of feelings that had engulfed her. But piece by piece they had bridged the gap, forging a bond of trust and slowly steering her towards the final rest.

So it was indeed a huge twist in the story that she had not shown up the night before. Not completely uncommon of course, since even ghosts could have a change of heart on the eve of their deliverance. But it did lead to the disappointment and frustration that Boo and Varin had been forced to swallow. Boo's question had been laced with excitement, but underneath he had to silently admit to himself that there was also a degree of fear; fear that their ghost might not return.

"I suppose we'll find out soon enough," Varin replied in his blank tone, giving no hint of either optimism or defeat. Soon enough meanwhile was not that soon at all. She came by night, and the pair of spiritists still found themselves inhabiting the morning. Indeed, as Varin marched past their tavern without breaking stride, Boo realized of course they were headed off somewhere else entirely. He had come this way before in fact, noting the familiar surroundings as they turned left into an alley, then right back onto a thoroughfair where merchant carts and traders jostled for position on the narrow street.

The pair continued to snake through the streets. For one section they found the houses on one side standing on stilts, seeming to sway like giant oak trees. A woman was leaning out of a window, shouting down to who, Boo presumed, was her husband standing in the street, something about needing a fistful of parsley or else "the chicken is ruined." Apparently stilted houses were the least of the woman's worries. Her words did remind Boo though of the azure chicken from earlier. He smirked to himself for a moment, calling up an image of Harold in his mind.

Around the next corner Boo almost tripped over himself, coming face to face with a man whose head was a perfectly round orb, devoid of all color other than the deepest, darkest black. It was not even black as a color, at least to his eyes, but rather it appeared as though the orb was simply just a ball of nothingness. Despite the lack of any discernible features, the orb headed fellow bid Boo a good morning as they passed one another. Onwards went the pair of spiritists, finally arriving at what seemed to be an innocent looking building, the outsides of which did little to reveal what lurked beyond a plain looking door. The windows seemed like they had not been cleaned in a great number of seasons, while inside was too dark and gloomy to make out anything within.

Varin pulled an iron key from one of his pockets, the tool clanking heavily as he inserted it in the door's lock. The building also had an alleyway on the right side, down which were a collection of old crates and other miscellaneous trash that had apparently long been forgotten about. There were smaller windows on the side, though they seemed ill-placed in an alleyway had the owner wished to score any light from them. Perhaps their use was simply for ventilation for the building within. Just passed the windows hung a rather disused looking ladder, climbing up to a second story balcony upon which sat another doorway to the building. The balcony held a selection of different sized pot plants, though their innards had long since wilted away.

By now Boo and Varin had been swallowed by the ground floor entrance, the door closing behind them with a resounding thud.