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169 » close your eyes, clear your heart
May. 5th, 2024 09:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rainjade[It's a beautiful day in Liyue Harbor. The last several days have been overshadowed by sheets of rain; nothing so overbearing or dramatic as a thunderstorm, just steady, relentless, soaking rain. So this morning, Baizhu opened the doors and shutters of Bubu Pharmacy with a smile, letting in the soft breeze and the sunlight.
It also promises to be a warm day, so he sends Qiqi and Changsheng together into the city, to handle a list of errands. As long as the morning stays cool, Qiqi should be fine. He can't very well go himself - a line is already forming. Patients who haven't been able to make the trip in the rain, perhaps.
He's thinking about stopping for a bite to eat, and some herbal tea, when a shadow falls across his doorstep. Baizhu hums, turning carefully in his chair, pushing his spectacles a bit higher on his nose.]
Ah! Aether, what a pleasant surprise.
[While he wasn't expecting a visit from the traveler today, he would have to be in dire straits indeed to greet Aether with anything but a warm welcome.]
I sincerely hope you are here cordially, and not because you've been feeling under the weather.
It also promises to be a warm day, so he sends Qiqi and Changsheng together into the city, to handle a list of errands. As long as the morning stays cool, Qiqi should be fine. He can't very well go himself - a line is already forming. Patients who haven't been able to make the trip in the rain, perhaps.
He's thinking about stopping for a bite to eat, and some herbal tea, when a shadow falls across his doorstep. Baizhu hums, turning carefully in his chair, pushing his spectacles a bit higher on his nose.]
Ah! Aether, what a pleasant surprise.
[While he wasn't expecting a visit from the traveler today, he would have to be in dire straits indeed to greet Aether with anything but a warm welcome.]
I sincerely hope you are here cordially, and not because you've been feeling under the weather.
165 » deeper than the ocean is
Nov. 22nd, 2023 06:21 pmironwind[ In the aftermath of the Narwhal's defeat, and Neuvillette's subsequent ascension, everyone had rushed out to begin the mass rescue of Fontaine's hapless populace.
The traveler hadn't joined them, because he'd stepped out from the Abyss, told everyone that everything would be alright, and then sank to his knees once they were all gone.
Where's Furina? Aether looks around, but he doesn't see the former "Archon" slumped over in her chair. Clorinde probably carried her out, moved by some lingering protectiveness — or perhaps mere professionalism — over her charge. The Fatui — that's Lyney and Lynette — took Childe for treatment at the House of the Hearth. Even Paimon flew out in a cloud of sparkles to help Fontaine's best rescue as many people as they could, which leaves Aether alone in the Opera Epiclese for the moment.
He's all alone. Just him and his naiveté, licking his wounds at the end of the world.
He's not visibly bleeding, that's why it was easy for him to pretend he was fine, but his arm is broken in one place and his leg is broken in two. The whale was heavy and the Abyssal warrior was brutal. He's not that worried about it; he closes his eyes. Someone like Barbara could set him right in a few hours. Maybe Sigewinne will drop by later, once Wriothesley undoubtedly shows up on his ship with rain in his hair and a storm in his eyes, glorious as Beidou at the bow of the Alcor.
For once, Aether thinks, with some smug satisfaction as he maneuvers himself enough to rest his back against a wall of the courthouse, he's really playing the part of the hero.
(In his own mind, the things in Inazuma didn't really count — he'd been nothing but an angry fool, then, and in Sumeru, he didn't do anything special besides stand against the Shouki no Kami. It was more just that Dehya and Cyno and Alhaitham had found it more convenient to put him in the role of the man who would take the final stand.)
This is it, this is the way things should be, or at least the way they usually are in Yae Miko's light novels. The lone swordsman, battered at the story's end. Aether doesn't have problems accepting help when he needs it, but there's something right about being the kind of fool who would hide the extent of his injuries so that the others would go ahead without him. He doesn't have to play the villain anymore, and he doesn't think he was very good at it, anyway.
He can just be himself. Just Aether, weary and wounded. ]
...The "executor of justice," huh? Prosecutor was enough for me.
[ He seems to be picking up titles in every nation of Teyvat. "The Executor" sounds a little too intimidating, though. Aether rather liked "the First Sage of Buer."
Absently, the traveler wonders where Neuvillette has gone. What the man must be talking about with Skirk in the depths of the Abyss. And then he thinks that he kind of liked being relied upon by someone who had no need to rely on him. ]
The traveler hadn't joined them, because he'd stepped out from the Abyss, told everyone that everything would be alright, and then sank to his knees once they were all gone.
Where's Furina? Aether looks around, but he doesn't see the former "Archon" slumped over in her chair. Clorinde probably carried her out, moved by some lingering protectiveness — or perhaps mere professionalism — over her charge. The Fatui — that's Lyney and Lynette — took Childe for treatment at the House of the Hearth. Even Paimon flew out in a cloud of sparkles to help Fontaine's best rescue as many people as they could, which leaves Aether alone in the Opera Epiclese for the moment.
He's all alone. Just him and his naiveté, licking his wounds at the end of the world.
He's not visibly bleeding, that's why it was easy for him to pretend he was fine, but his arm is broken in one place and his leg is broken in two. The whale was heavy and the Abyssal warrior was brutal. He's not that worried about it; he closes his eyes. Someone like Barbara could set him right in a few hours. Maybe Sigewinne will drop by later, once Wriothesley undoubtedly shows up on his ship with rain in his hair and a storm in his eyes, glorious as Beidou at the bow of the Alcor.
For once, Aether thinks, with some smug satisfaction as he maneuvers himself enough to rest his back against a wall of the courthouse, he's really playing the part of the hero.
(In his own mind, the things in Inazuma didn't really count — he'd been nothing but an angry fool, then, and in Sumeru, he didn't do anything special besides stand against the Shouki no Kami. It was more just that Dehya and Cyno and Alhaitham had found it more convenient to put him in the role of the man who would take the final stand.)
This is it, this is the way things should be, or at least the way they usually are in Yae Miko's light novels. The lone swordsman, battered at the story's end. Aether doesn't have problems accepting help when he needs it, but there's something right about being the kind of fool who would hide the extent of his injuries so that the others would go ahead without him. He doesn't have to play the villain anymore, and he doesn't think he was very good at it, anyway.
He can just be himself. Just Aether, weary and wounded. ]
...The "executor of justice," huh? Prosecutor was enough for me.
[ He seems to be picking up titles in every nation of Teyvat. "The Executor" sounds a little too intimidating, though. Aether rather liked "the First Sage of Buer."
Absently, the traveler wonders where Neuvillette has gone. What the man must be talking about with Skirk in the depths of the Abyss. And then he thinks that he kind of liked being relied upon by someone who had no need to rely on him. ]
164 » in the water we will sleep
Nov. 19th, 2023 08:14 pmoraison[It is early evening. The people of the Court of Fontaine go about their day as normally as they can; "regular life" doesn't feel like such a distant dream in the air anymore, now that time has passed since the flood and more efforts are focused on proper rebuilding and reinforcing of structures, rather than the temporary cleanup measures in the immediate wake of disaster. While the Gardes may seem a bit on edge as Aether makes his way back into the city...well. In the last while, when have they not? People don't stop being people for very long even in crisis. Tragedies large and small still play out on the various "stages" that permeate Fontainian society. He'll still get mainly cheerful hellos and good-evenings and waves as he makes his way to Cafe Lutece, to his usual out-of-the-way table. Arouet is sure to make quick work of his order.
Against the backdrop of cheerful voices at the outdoor cafe, the whir of the odd patrolling gardemek, and the distant splashes of the Court of Fontaine's main fountain, a letter finds its way to Aether's seat; the postwoman is polite but distant about it, clearly burdened with too many further deliveries to spend any length of time in pleasantries.
The official seal of Fontaine adorns the back of the envelope, pressed into blue wax. Inside is, naturally, a letter; what else might one expect, in a properly thin envelope of standard size and no interesting decoration? The letter itself seems just as unremarkable, at least until unfolded. It is written on official letterhead, and dated two days prior. Whatever else transpires, the penmanship of the sender lives somewhere above critique.
The traveler will find, written elegantly in blue ink:]
Aether,
Good day. I trust your time spent in Fontaine continues to see you in good health and adventurous spirits. To come to the point, I request your assistance regarding a recent, ongoing investigation. Your assessment and insight would be most welcome. Should you arrive outside of regular business hours, please speak with the Melusine at the desk regarding this invitation.
I await you at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Neuvillette
Iudex of Fontaine
[After everything, one might expect he would at least forgo the closing formalities. Perhaps he had a reason to keep them; perhaps it is simply a habit too difficult to break after all these years. There is, on the surface and for a measurable distance below it, no real reason for Aether to think anything more of it than Neuvillette writing him a note two days ago to ask for his help with something.
(Is it odd? What cause would he have to think Aether might arrive at all hours? That he could not simply walk into Neuvillette's office himself, or that someone not Sedene would take a prominent shift at the Maison Gestionnarie's main desk - to the point where he writes specifically to suggest solutions to these minor inconveniences if they present themselves?)
Yet no matter the hour Aether chooses to go through the Palais doors, Neuvillette's happenstance-allusions prove true: a different Melusine, lemon-yellow and prone to wringing her hands, waits in full uniform at the main desk, and there are multiple Gardes posted at the entrance and at the door to Neuvillette's office proper.]
Against the backdrop of cheerful voices at the outdoor cafe, the whir of the odd patrolling gardemek, and the distant splashes of the Court of Fontaine's main fountain, a letter finds its way to Aether's seat; the postwoman is polite but distant about it, clearly burdened with too many further deliveries to spend any length of time in pleasantries.
The official seal of Fontaine adorns the back of the envelope, pressed into blue wax. Inside is, naturally, a letter; what else might one expect, in a properly thin envelope of standard size and no interesting decoration? The letter itself seems just as unremarkable, at least until unfolded. It is written on official letterhead, and dated two days prior. Whatever else transpires, the penmanship of the sender lives somewhere above critique.
The traveler will find, written elegantly in blue ink:]
Aether,
Good day. I trust your time spent in Fontaine continues to see you in good health and adventurous spirits. To come to the point, I request your assistance regarding a recent, ongoing investigation. Your assessment and insight would be most welcome. Should you arrive outside of regular business hours, please speak with the Melusine at the desk regarding this invitation.
I await you at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Neuvillette
Iudex of Fontaine
[After everything, one might expect he would at least forgo the closing formalities. Perhaps he had a reason to keep them; perhaps it is simply a habit too difficult to break after all these years. There is, on the surface and for a measurable distance below it, no real reason for Aether to think anything more of it than Neuvillette writing him a note two days ago to ask for his help with something.
(Is it odd? What cause would he have to think Aether might arrive at all hours? That he could not simply walk into Neuvillette's office himself, or that someone not Sedene would take a prominent shift at the Maison Gestionnarie's main desk - to the point where he writes specifically to suggest solutions to these minor inconveniences if they present themselves?)
Yet no matter the hour Aether chooses to go through the Palais doors, Neuvillette's happenstance-allusions prove true: a different Melusine, lemon-yellow and prone to wringing her hands, waits in full uniform at the main desk, and there are multiple Gardes posted at the entrance and at the door to Neuvillette's office proper.]
163 » shout along with your fanfare
Nov. 12th, 2023 12:55 pmironwind[ Most prisoners don't notice him. There's so much chaos in the Fortress of Meropide, after all, day in and day out — the guards, shouting and disciplining their unruly "criminal" charges, stealing their profits, withholding their Coupons. Aether is old enough to remember when the Fortress used Mora and not Coupons, but a certain someone wanted the prison to be freed of the influence of the gods. So it goes. Battles for food and Coupons are now commonplace. Those who are weak, like women and children, either shuffle off unfed to starve and die on their own, or band up with others to ensure some degree of survival.
How cruel and unspeakable, Aether thinks, to throw those who have committed "crimes" into utter lawlessness. There is a kind of poetry in it, that those who break laws must have to do without them, but in his heart of hearts, he knows that it is cruel.
He, too, has broken the laws of this world, which is why he considers himself a prisoner, too. He is neither self-flagellating nor heroic about his position. Aether sometimes uses — or abuses — his powers, enough that he can ensure himself daily meals and a place to sleep. There are ways in which he could have influenced this fortress long ago, but that, he thinks, is not his right.
It's not his right to change what humans think of each other, either — but one day, something earns his sympathy. ]
How cruel and unspeakable, Aether thinks, to throw those who have committed "crimes" into utter lawlessness. There is a kind of poetry in it, that those who break laws must have to do without them, but in his heart of hearts, he knows that it is cruel.
He, too, has broken the laws of this world, which is why he considers himself a prisoner, too. He is neither self-flagellating nor heroic about his position. Aether sometimes uses — or abuses — his powers, enough that he can ensure himself daily meals and a place to sleep. There are ways in which he could have influenced this fortress long ago, but that, he thinks, is not his right.
It's not his right to change what humans think of each other, either — but one day, something earns his sympathy. ]
ironwind[ There are things that "sinners" learn very quickly, once they are accepted into the Fortress of Meropide. Keep your head down. Don't stick your neck out. Keep your nose out of other peoples' business. Things like that will make your time easier. And you're going to want your time to be easier, because life in the Fortress is unspeakably cruel.
Aether isn't most prisoners, but he's adopted most of these rules for himself all the same. He's different from the other prisoners, and he knows it. The guards rarely notice him; the ones that do have learned that he isn't moved by words or the whip, and those who have raised a hand against him usually wind up befallen by some sort of misfortune later down the line.
Most of the guardsmen don't notice him. But the ones that do say things like this: The kid in the backrooms? Stay away from him. Gods only know what he's in here for.
Usually, he is beyond the petty concerns, the squabbles, the troubles of men. The knife fights, the scuffles, the churn and boil of human suffering deep beneath the waves. This is his punishment; the Principles decreed it thus. This is Purgatory; this is but the first layer of the Hell to which he is condemned. He is to await the date of his execution. His sister will never soar through the skies again, and he — he is —
He is going through the motions, mechanically moving from the production zone to his quarters again, when a clattering from the hall rouses his attention.
"You fucking brat! Hand it over if you don't want to get hurt!"
"I reckon we should make him hurt."
"You lookin' at me? Hey! Kid! You lookin' at me?!"
"Answer when you're spoken to, boy!"
Despite his state of suffering, the curse of his mourning, there are times when Aether is moved to act. He is surrounded by injustice, very frequently and on all sides, but the injustice unfolding before him is more than he is willing to tolerate. Three prisoners have begun picking a fight with a dark-haired young man, who looks very nearly the age that Aether is often taken to be; the look in his eyes suggests that he is perhaps a little older than that, but he looks broad and big in a slightly malnourished way, as if he's grown into a frame that the Fortress's rationed meals are not able to balance.
Aether is no hero, and especially not the kind who always comes at the right moment, the right hour. One of the men swings a fist at the blue-eyed boy before Aether can intervene; to his surprise, it lands without so much as a counterblow from the young man.
What is the argument over? Food? Before the men can throw another blow, Aether has walked up to them, calm as anything, both hands clasped behind his back, as if to indicate that he is not a threat. ]
Gentlemen.
[ They're hardly gentlemen. But he seems aware. ]
Surely this is a problem that does not require violence to solve?
Aether isn't most prisoners, but he's adopted most of these rules for himself all the same. He's different from the other prisoners, and he knows it. The guards rarely notice him; the ones that do have learned that he isn't moved by words or the whip, and those who have raised a hand against him usually wind up befallen by some sort of misfortune later down the line.
Most of the guardsmen don't notice him. But the ones that do say things like this: The kid in the backrooms? Stay away from him. Gods only know what he's in here for.
Usually, he is beyond the petty concerns, the squabbles, the troubles of men. The knife fights, the scuffles, the churn and boil of human suffering deep beneath the waves. This is his punishment; the Principles decreed it thus. This is Purgatory; this is but the first layer of the Hell to which he is condemned. He is to await the date of his execution. His sister will never soar through the skies again, and he — he is —
He is going through the motions, mechanically moving from the production zone to his quarters again, when a clattering from the hall rouses his attention.
"You fucking brat! Hand it over if you don't want to get hurt!"
"I reckon we should make him hurt."
"You lookin' at me? Hey! Kid! You lookin' at me?!"
"Answer when you're spoken to, boy!"
Despite his state of suffering, the curse of his mourning, there are times when Aether is moved to act. He is surrounded by injustice, very frequently and on all sides, but the injustice unfolding before him is more than he is willing to tolerate. Three prisoners have begun picking a fight with a dark-haired young man, who looks very nearly the age that Aether is often taken to be; the look in his eyes suggests that he is perhaps a little older than that, but he looks broad and big in a slightly malnourished way, as if he's grown into a frame that the Fortress's rationed meals are not able to balance.
Aether is no hero, and especially not the kind who always comes at the right moment, the right hour. One of the men swings a fist at the blue-eyed boy before Aether can intervene; to his surprise, it lands without so much as a counterblow from the young man.
What is the argument over? Food? Before the men can throw another blow, Aether has walked up to them, calm as anything, both hands clasped behind his back, as if to indicate that he is not a threat. ]
Gentlemen.
[ They're hardly gentlemen. But he seems aware. ]
Surely this is a problem that does not require violence to solve?
ironwind[ I'll show you the world, Aether had promised, and then — because he'd thought it was a little funny — promptly brought Wriothesley to Dragonspine.
Okay, to his credit, it really wasn't straight to Dragonspine. After showing the Fortress administrator his Serenitea Pot, and talking briefly about the different nations of Teyvat, the traveler had let it slip that it was within his capabilities to teleport around the world with a single thought. It means a lot about his trust in Wriothesley, in truth. Aether doesn't often share the full extent of his powers and abilities with others, but he figured this one would be harmless for the Duke to know.
Through brief sojourns from the Fortress, he'd meant to show Wriothesley the sights around Teyvat. They started with Mondstadt first, largely because it had been easier for Aether to keep his wits about him when they were retracing his own journey through the seven nations. They stopped briefly at the Angel's Share for drinks and merriment (Diluc wasn't in, but Venti was, and the bard played a little ditty for Aether's new friend, one that sort of strangely settled in the bones, comforting, like the scent of dandelions on the wind).
Then Aether took Wriothesley to Dragonspine.
It was partly because the man seemed game for a dangerous challenge, particularly after their little idyllic joint through the City of Freedom, and partly because Aether himself had wanted to bully him — not in a serious way, of course, but as a kind of playful revenge for Wriothesley's having jerked his chain more than once during his time in prison. The mountain was bitterly cold, but Aether figured a Cryo wielder would be used to it, and anyway, it had all been very nostalgic. It's been a long time since Aether last walked through the halls of Sal Vindagnyr, reading ancient testaments on the deeds and misdeeds of Imunlaukr and Eberhart.
The mountain itself had seemed friendly, after everything that happened there. Outrageously beautiful, too, with the snow glittering like diamonds under the sun. When the threatening clouds overhead finally blotted out the light and burst into a spectacular blizzard, though, the traveler took swift action — he hadn't really meant to put Wriothesley at risk.
Aether tucks them into a little hideaway on the side of the mountain, the selfsame one Albedo often uses as a camp; the alchemist hasn't been using it in recent weeks, so everything is coated with a thin layer of snow, but Aether's familiar enough with the most basic uses of his equipment that he knows how to turn on some of the contraptions to keep them both warm. ]
Ah, good, he's still got everything here. There's this guy I know named Albedo, and this is his camp, but it looks like he hasn't been here in a while. He won't mind if we borrow some of the things here. Let me just...
[ In the short time that Wriothesley spent with Lynette, she might have talked about her power-saving mode — Aether, for his part, seems to have a sort of survival efficiency mode. He's busily and briskly making his way through the camp, dusting off the snow to switch on some of Albedo's little lanterns and space heaters. He seems — it's a thought from a lifetime ago — he's a little bit reminiscent of a housewife, automatically and mechanically going through the motions to make them both comfortable, and without really asking his charge if he needs the comfort.
Maybe he's thinking of Wriothesley as Paimon? Aether reaches into his little pocket of stars and produces two blankets, a large one and a small one meant for Paimon — this large one he throws around Wriothesley's shoulders, and it's still big enough to drag across the ground, but the small one... ]
There. Let's just hang tight until it stops snowing.
[ ...There's no way the small blanket is going to be of any use to Aether, though, not unless he just plans to wrap it around his exposed stomach. ]
Okay, to his credit, it really wasn't straight to Dragonspine. After showing the Fortress administrator his Serenitea Pot, and talking briefly about the different nations of Teyvat, the traveler had let it slip that it was within his capabilities to teleport around the world with a single thought. It means a lot about his trust in Wriothesley, in truth. Aether doesn't often share the full extent of his powers and abilities with others, but he figured this one would be harmless for the Duke to know.
Through brief sojourns from the Fortress, he'd meant to show Wriothesley the sights around Teyvat. They started with Mondstadt first, largely because it had been easier for Aether to keep his wits about him when they were retracing his own journey through the seven nations. They stopped briefly at the Angel's Share for drinks and merriment (Diluc wasn't in, but Venti was, and the bard played a little ditty for Aether's new friend, one that sort of strangely settled in the bones, comforting, like the scent of dandelions on the wind).
Then Aether took Wriothesley to Dragonspine.
It was partly because the man seemed game for a dangerous challenge, particularly after their little idyllic joint through the City of Freedom, and partly because Aether himself had wanted to bully him — not in a serious way, of course, but as a kind of playful revenge for Wriothesley's having jerked his chain more than once during his time in prison. The mountain was bitterly cold, but Aether figured a Cryo wielder would be used to it, and anyway, it had all been very nostalgic. It's been a long time since Aether last walked through the halls of Sal Vindagnyr, reading ancient testaments on the deeds and misdeeds of Imunlaukr and Eberhart.
The mountain itself had seemed friendly, after everything that happened there. Outrageously beautiful, too, with the snow glittering like diamonds under the sun. When the threatening clouds overhead finally blotted out the light and burst into a spectacular blizzard, though, the traveler took swift action — he hadn't really meant to put Wriothesley at risk.
Aether tucks them into a little hideaway on the side of the mountain, the selfsame one Albedo often uses as a camp; the alchemist hasn't been using it in recent weeks, so everything is coated with a thin layer of snow, but Aether's familiar enough with the most basic uses of his equipment that he knows how to turn on some of the contraptions to keep them both warm. ]
Ah, good, he's still got everything here. There's this guy I know named Albedo, and this is his camp, but it looks like he hasn't been here in a while. He won't mind if we borrow some of the things here. Let me just...
[ In the short time that Wriothesley spent with Lynette, she might have talked about her power-saving mode — Aether, for his part, seems to have a sort of survival efficiency mode. He's busily and briskly making his way through the camp, dusting off the snow to switch on some of Albedo's little lanterns and space heaters. He seems — it's a thought from a lifetime ago — he's a little bit reminiscent of a housewife, automatically and mechanically going through the motions to make them both comfortable, and without really asking his charge if he needs the comfort.
Maybe he's thinking of Wriothesley as Paimon? Aether reaches into his little pocket of stars and produces two blankets, a large one and a small one meant for Paimon — this large one he throws around Wriothesley's shoulders, and it's still big enough to drag across the ground, but the small one... ]
There. Let's just hang tight until it stops snowing.
[ ...There's no way the small blanket is going to be of any use to Aether, though, not unless he just plans to wrap it around his exposed stomach. ]
159 » everything i've seen twice
Oct. 6th, 2023 06:07 pmoraison[The world beneath the surface of Fontaine's great sea is an artist's dream, washed in soft light, smeared in brilliant color, fields and forests of sea plants that undulate with the tide rather than the wind. Much like the world above the waves, its caverns, thickets, valleys, and ruins hide a great many secrets, most entirely inaccessible to the humans who call dry land their primary domain. There are always whispers. Fish tales, they say, that grow with every telling, rumors of things that can't be found, can't be caught.
None of these things are on Neuvillette's mind as he pushes his way through a tight cluster of snaring sea grass. Deft, careful fingers disentangle a Bubbly Seahorse from the uncooperative stems and leaves. Its cohort waits warily nearby; Neuvillette has only a smile for them as he gently works their friend free and releases it into the water.
As he turns to leave, already probing the ripples of the nearby currents for a new destination, a flash of blue against the greens and oranges of the sea grass stops him. Soon enough the otter slows itself. At a respectable distance it turns in frantic circles, squeaking, combing over its own hands one after the other. Familiar as he is with the otter's signals of distress, Neuvillette lifts a hand in farewell to the seahorses - a gesture of the overworld - and swims slowly closer. Clever black eyes meet his.
You have my attention.
He cannot truly say whether the soft little creature understands, but it turns another few circles and swims away, stopping to look over its shoulder.
Neuvillette glances upward, gauging the light from the surface, the distance between himself and the place where water meets air. The next nod is for only himself, and he swims deeper down, to follow the otter at the level of the sand bed. If he loses the creature among the sea stalks, he trusts it will be able to find him again. After all, he cuts a noticeable figure, even as he tries his best to mar his silhouette with the natural distractions of the world below.
Soon enough they glide together over the sinking depths of the Elton Trench. Luminescent plants - and Neuvillette's softly-glowing blue fins - only enhance the darkness of its shadows. Down there are many wrecks, of overworld ships and special diving automata and research vessels and clockwork data collectors. Some of them he has dealt with personally. Neuvillette is all too aware of the less ethical practices the researchers from above employ in the farce of "environmental regulation".
He slowly trails after the otter, down into the depths. They are friendly, social creatures; he often sees them in small groups, sunning themselves on the surface or playing with shells in the shallows. Perhaps one of its companions is in trouble - ensnared, as the seahorse was.
It's murky, the deeper they go into the trench, and even his eyes take time to adjust to the change in light. He recognizes the faint red glow of human-laid clockwork traps. Often, they release nets or floating cages, the better to contain and note the wildlife underwater "without causing it undue harm". Yet - as he carefully avoids a piece of torn metal, the skeleton of an old long-dead ship - he knows that sometimes those nets are unusually large. Heavy. An otter would struggle to free itself of something so cumbersome, and they are rather deeper down than any prefer to venture-
Neuvillette stops. He draws back, there at the evidence of one such sprung trap.
For what is contained inside is, instead, a man.]
None of these things are on Neuvillette's mind as he pushes his way through a tight cluster of snaring sea grass. Deft, careful fingers disentangle a Bubbly Seahorse from the uncooperative stems and leaves. Its cohort waits warily nearby; Neuvillette has only a smile for them as he gently works their friend free and releases it into the water.
As he turns to leave, already probing the ripples of the nearby currents for a new destination, a flash of blue against the greens and oranges of the sea grass stops him. Soon enough the otter slows itself. At a respectable distance it turns in frantic circles, squeaking, combing over its own hands one after the other. Familiar as he is with the otter's signals of distress, Neuvillette lifts a hand in farewell to the seahorses - a gesture of the overworld - and swims slowly closer. Clever black eyes meet his.
You have my attention.
He cannot truly say whether the soft little creature understands, but it turns another few circles and swims away, stopping to look over its shoulder.
Neuvillette glances upward, gauging the light from the surface, the distance between himself and the place where water meets air. The next nod is for only himself, and he swims deeper down, to follow the otter at the level of the sand bed. If he loses the creature among the sea stalks, he trusts it will be able to find him again. After all, he cuts a noticeable figure, even as he tries his best to mar his silhouette with the natural distractions of the world below.
Soon enough they glide together over the sinking depths of the Elton Trench. Luminescent plants - and Neuvillette's softly-glowing blue fins - only enhance the darkness of its shadows. Down there are many wrecks, of overworld ships and special diving automata and research vessels and clockwork data collectors. Some of them he has dealt with personally. Neuvillette is all too aware of the less ethical practices the researchers from above employ in the farce of "environmental regulation".
He slowly trails after the otter, down into the depths. They are friendly, social creatures; he often sees them in small groups, sunning themselves on the surface or playing with shells in the shallows. Perhaps one of its companions is in trouble - ensnared, as the seahorse was.
It's murky, the deeper they go into the trench, and even his eyes take time to adjust to the change in light. He recognizes the faint red glow of human-laid clockwork traps. Often, they release nets or floating cages, the better to contain and note the wildlife underwater "without causing it undue harm". Yet - as he carefully avoids a piece of torn metal, the skeleton of an old long-dead ship - he knows that sometimes those nets are unusually large. Heavy. An otter would struggle to free itself of something so cumbersome, and they are rather deeper down than any prefer to venture-
Neuvillette stops. He draws back, there at the evidence of one such sprung trap.
For what is contained inside is, instead, a man.]
mehrakulous[It's a lovely afternoon in Sumeru City.
Ordinarily, the heat of the day hits its peak at a time like this. Vendors close up their stalls for a break from the sun and humidity; students hunker down in a dark corner of the Akademiya library or cluster together at a restaurant's table over cold drinks and something spicy, because an Akademiya student is always a little predisposed to inviting his own suffering. Sometimes, with the weather at its most contrary, a horrifically humid afternoon becomes a shower becomes a downpour, sending visitors and residents alike scuttling under awnings and into buildings.
Today that rain came early in the morning. Its passing gave the winding streets of the city (the roots of their edifice of knowledge, just as the Great Tree's roots support its trunk and branches) a fresh-washed shine and took enough heaviness from the air to make the afternoon pleasant. Anyone with a moment of free time would be a fool not to enjoy it.
So Kaveh's inside.
When he must be "home" at Alhaitham's - especially when Alhaitham himself is not home, when he is the only soul behind the door - he tries not to make a ruckus. Muttering to himself about his latest designs is fine, but loudly debating the merits of this roof line or that style of brick is not. Someone might overhear. And what business would a renowned architect have in the home of the Akademiya Scribe alone?
He's not even fighting with himself over architectural nuance today. In fact, anyone deliberately approaching the door (he is not. As a rule. Expecting anyone. No deliveries, no requests, no one even knows how to find him here, probably? Probably. Okay, some people know how to find him here, but he hates that and they don't bear thinking about) will hear...complaining. To Mehrak, theoretically, but who can say whether the automated case is really listening?
When someone knocks on the door?
He goes very, very still. Silent. Holding his breath.
Mehrak beeps in the worst possible friendly manner. Kaveh shouts and then puts a hand over his mouth. Thus kept from further incriminating noise, he sidles up to the door to peek out the window and hopefully miss the notice of ... whoever is out there.
(His heart is racing about it. Is it a student? Someone who was there this morning-? It's not Alhaitham, he has a key, but if someone else from the Akademiya followed him here or-)
Oh.
It's Aether.]
Uh.
[Well if that didn't give it away. Kaveh pulls the door open very slightly and peeks out.]
Alhaitham's not in.
[He sounds a little affronted by this. As if it's a personal insult.]
Ordinarily, the heat of the day hits its peak at a time like this. Vendors close up their stalls for a break from the sun and humidity; students hunker down in a dark corner of the Akademiya library or cluster together at a restaurant's table over cold drinks and something spicy, because an Akademiya student is always a little predisposed to inviting his own suffering. Sometimes, with the weather at its most contrary, a horrifically humid afternoon becomes a shower becomes a downpour, sending visitors and residents alike scuttling under awnings and into buildings.
Today that rain came early in the morning. Its passing gave the winding streets of the city (the roots of their edifice of knowledge, just as the Great Tree's roots support its trunk and branches) a fresh-washed shine and took enough heaviness from the air to make the afternoon pleasant. Anyone with a moment of free time would be a fool not to enjoy it.
So Kaveh's inside.
When he must be "home" at Alhaitham's - especially when Alhaitham himself is not home, when he is the only soul behind the door - he tries not to make a ruckus. Muttering to himself about his latest designs is fine, but loudly debating the merits of this roof line or that style of brick is not. Someone might overhear. And what business would a renowned architect have in the home of the Akademiya Scribe alone?
He's not even fighting with himself over architectural nuance today. In fact, anyone deliberately approaching the door (he is not. As a rule. Expecting anyone. No deliveries, no requests, no one even knows how to find him here, probably? Probably. Okay, some people know how to find him here, but he hates that and they don't bear thinking about) will hear...complaining. To Mehrak, theoretically, but who can say whether the automated case is really listening?
When someone knocks on the door?
He goes very, very still. Silent. Holding his breath.
Mehrak beeps in the worst possible friendly manner. Kaveh shouts and then puts a hand over his mouth. Thus kept from further incriminating noise, he sidles up to the door to peek out the window and hopefully miss the notice of ... whoever is out there.
(His heart is racing about it. Is it a student? Someone who was there this morning-? It's not Alhaitham, he has a key, but if someone else from the Akademiya followed him here or-)
Oh.
It's Aether.]
Uh.
[Well if that didn't give it away. Kaveh pulls the door open very slightly and peeks out.]
Alhaitham's not in.
[He sounds a little affronted by this. As if it's a personal insult.]