The rest of the evening passed without notable event. Sir Juhrooz was, in fact, a rather dull dinner companion, of a kind with Mr. Porist. He ate very little, and spent most of his conversation speaking most shamefully about various bloody battles and bristling confrontations with any number of villainous and bestial foes. It might have indeed been a most interesting and delightful conversation, had I not heard similar from half of all the soldiers I had ever met.
We took dinner, Mr. Porist and I, on the outer deck; a favorite place of mine on every Golden Howdah. The Velvet is a romantic view for those who are not used to it, and so it is always the most interesting of characters who find themselves wandering the decks, staring out at the effervescent void, leaning with causal admiration against the braces, or pressing hard against the railing.
Of course, there are a great deal of interesting people who avoid the Velvet, but it was merely the first day of travel, and those who were adventurous enough in spirit to brave the outer decks were my particular taste that evening.
I am not particularly against Mr. Porist, and I find his pookay quite a dear. Nevertheless, there is a reason we of the Glorious Guild of Sensationalists try to keep ourselves separate from a particular personality of person. To be clean, clear, and open to the sensations that surround us, it is good to have, as it were, a clean palate.
Mr. Porist is a charming man, with a great many qualities that make him an excellent traveling companion.
Now of course, I didn’t believe a word of what my dear Captain said. The High on High never involved themselves with anything without the firm insistence that their busybodying would prevent, or at least hinder, some catastrophe to the Myriad Worlds themselves. I, of course, rarely believed their prattle, but to release the Torquates…well, let me just say that I had experienced their incessant intensity before, and I was not willing to brush off their involvement so casually as my dear Captain wanted me to.
I suppose, as it was the first thing that caught my eye when I entered the room, I must first describe the splatter of blood that covered the bone white flower petals of the potted plant as it rested on the sideboard.
It rather put me in mind of a particular pattern I had seen before: that of a curiously spotted animal that caught my eye over the edge of a Golden Howdah during one of my many jaunts.
After a goodly time, Raiselig sat on a rock. The rock was beside the road. It was a diversion Raiselig had not given themself in some time.
Nevertheless, the road and the rock.
Down and up the road lay in different directions than either down or up. Indeed, their only relation to each other was direct opposition. It had always bothered Raiselig, more-so that it didn’t seem to bother anyone else.
The Kingdom of Tyw stood tall and proud against the white hills. From atop the king’s tallest tower, the whole of the horizon was his to call his own. There were no other rulers who dared challenge his might, nor who chafed too harshly under his rule.
The people of Tyw were hearty and strong, and unified in their delight of the one thing that was their birthright; life itself.
Time passed, as it ever did.
It is a joke — or perhaps if not a joke, a shared understanding — between the Scriveners that the world was like a scale nested on by an indecisive bird. The seasons changed, the herds migrated, wars and festivals were held with equal amounts of enjoyment and obligation…
And then the bird hopped to the other side of the scale, and it all began again.
The letter was written on dry leather. It was written with black ink taken from the glands of a deep-sea monster. It was shaped with a pen carved from the finger-bone of a dead god. It was dusted with the sands made from ancient cities long since crumbled away. The wax of the seal was made from the blood of a man who had been hanged for killing his lover in fear of what she had birthed, and mixed with the rendered fat of a stillborn horse.
Raiselig was walking before they even felt the tug. Their feet were moving once more before they even knew which direction to go. It didn’t matter, their feet knew.
They had only felt such a pull some time before; a darker time in their life. They had hoped to never feel it again. A small piece of their mind was grateful they had not been studying some finer point in case law or researching important precedent, lest they had been forced to leave important documentation behind.
