“Oh?” Mr. Porist turned to look at his own shoulder as best he could. “And what manner is that?”
At Mr. Porist’s request, the Twist did leap up into the air, and perform a most magnificent spin before landing once more on the wooden deck of the barge. Darting about like a nervous frog, the Twist did tug at ropes and push at wheels, performing no end of complex navigation that was quite beyond my understanding.
I awoke to the sight of a childish face staring down at me. The face was small, kind, and unashamed. Wound about with colored cloth, the skin was covered with slanted parallel lines, a strange scar or tattoo I had never seen before.
I sat up, most uncomfortably, as my various limbs had chosen to become quite stiff and sore. The face moved backwards, and in motion were the scars made clear: they were no tattoos but breaks in the papery skin, shifting back and forth as the little thing danced away, half like a child and half like a dancing ribbon tied the end of a stick.
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. He is quiet, considerate, tidy, and above all, small. However, in spite of his relative restraint and reserverance, one cannot help but be aware of the man. His tan suits are forever being pulled and poked by his orange fingers. His long nose is forever audible, and the semi-regular snipping of his shears — a requirement if his ears are to remain under control — cannot help but distract.
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. I do so adore my jaunts, as there are truly few times that one can truly be surprised anymore, except when one finds oneself surrounded by all manner of beings in a cramped ship carrying one between one place and an entirely other.
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. It was perhaps a more verbose means of saying “the more things change, the more they stay the same,” and was therefore perfectly suited to the art of Scrivening.
