Curiosity

You read what is written on barely illuminated indigo stationery:
[The writing on this paper is carefree and flowing, written in a
casually elegant cursive that is both easy to read and almost adorably
embellished.]

Rhalkyr,

In the passing weeks since our meeting at the Aetherplex, you have been
increasingly on my mind. I've so many questions, and until chancing upon
the idea of a letter, had all but despaired for answers. You are a
singularly fascinating person, and I find myself compelled to know more
about you.

Would you care to join me for tea? Perhaps a hunt? If nothing else, I
will happily settle for the 'Plex again.

I extend to you an offer, oh pensive one. I supply the drinks and
snacks, and you tell me from whence came your intriguing way of speech.
[Several lines have been heavily marked out here, smeared purposefully
into illegibility.] Please- ignore those mark-outs. I fear I got rather
ahead of myself as my curiosity took the reins, and began to pour out my
questions on paper when I intend instead to ask them in person.

In the time since our meeting, I have learned that the world is more
mixed up than I could ever have imagined. We are enemies, I suppose, but
I feel no emnity to you or yours. Should I?

Yours (well. not really!),
Illyria no-last-name



[The penmanship of this missive is rough and heavily imprinted upon the sheet, giving the impression that the writer takes great, deliberate care when creating each letter - or is simply inelegant with their writing utensil.]

Illyria no-last-name,

Curiosity is ever a hunger that I am inclined to encourage, and the pursuit of answers to whet such an appetite should be rewarded. It is a very dull soul that lacks in a desire to know, is it not?

I would be most amenable to such a meeting. I believe you have a marked degree of potential and - If nothing else - it would behoove us to have some form of connection, being so close in age, and so freshly having been baptised in the Portal of Fate. It feels, at times, that all the world is old, and we are the only young things within it. As for where, I would prefer somewhere quieter than the Aetherplex, for it is a noisesome locale, and I am ever of the habit of having discussions take place where they are unlikely to be disturbed.

I accept your offer, with the caveat that you will tell me something of yourself - Of lesser value than what you ask of me, of course, considering that you will be offering nourishment in exchange as it is. What that tidbit might be is entirely up to your discretion.

Fear not - An inquisitive nature should be encouraged. Far better, I think, than being possessed of a closed mind, and blinkered eyes.

The world is indeed vast, and convoluted, like a great skein of spidersilk, tangled and snarled. There is much history that we are ignorant of, given our youth, but my forays into the libraries are working to undo such a blindness, piece by piece. Our communes are enemies, yes - But that need not mean you and I should be foes. The Glomdoring is not beyond extending a hand to one that seeks to know it, in all its darkling glory and hidden truths.

The Glomdoring's,
Rhalkyr


You read what is written on twinkling cerulean stationery inked with butterfly wings:
[The delicate, whimsical cursive is a touch more sloppy than before, as
if the reply was penned swiftly and with great eagerness.]


Rhalkyr,

Well. I didn't think it was possible, but I am more intrigued by you
than ever. I am not entirely certain what sort of reply I expected, but
it was not that.

I have been devoting a great deal of my time to exploring the world,
having no memory of anywhere I may have visited before stepping through
the Portal and an endless desire to seek and discover the quiet places
of the world, where you can hear the whisperings of earth and star.
Fortuitously, this has led me also to the discovery of several highly
appropriate places in which two should-be enemies [the penmanship is
shaky here, as if the hand inking the words was shaking with mirth,
anger, or some other strong sentiment] may share a meal in relative
peace on neutral grounds.

I agree to your terms. You shall hear something of myself, although in
fairness, that would likely have occurred regardless. When shall this
meeting occur? I am pleasantly free most of the next few weeks, although
as the next week passes, my studies shall weigh further upon me.

Eagerly awaiting,
Illyria



Illyria tells you, "." A passing sensation like a strand of gossamer from a
torn web trails across your mind, leaving behind the coordinate '36236'."

You tell Illyria, "." The distinct sense of attention awakening, snagged
upon the shimmering line of silk, and drawn onwards, fueled by a hungry
curiosity.""

A shadowed seating arrangement.
Void of any light source, this table setting relies solely on light filtering in from beyond, the
distant flicker of candles providing a dim glow to this otherwise dark space. Murky silhouettes
dance upon beams of illumination as they filter into the room, blackened outlines of figures moving
in the distance. Beneath the plush seating placed here, a shaggy rug blankets the cold wood of the
floors, the alabaster colour of the pile barely visible within the shadows of the furniture that
rises upon it. Centered within the room is a heavy table of wrought iron. A patient diner makes idle
conversation as she waits to be served here. There are 2 bountiful harvest platters here. Illyria is
here.
You see exits leading northeast, east, southeast, and south.

Seated not at the table, but rather on the shaggy rug on the floor, Illyria arranges two platters
carefully.

The thick, velvety texture of the dense shadows grows thicker still, filled with
the sudden presence of something watchful, something hungry. A low, rumbling sound shivers forth
from the darkness, a bestial sound plucked straight from primal nightmares as Rhalkyr steps forward,
dappled in stripes of flaking black, vivid green eyes made almost lambent in the faint candlelight.
Placing a foot upon the rug, he flexes his toes within the plush blanket experimentally, then
grunts, abruptly collapsing into a cross-legged seated position opposite Illyria. Only then, head
cocked in Illyria's direction, but with his eyes fixed elsewhere, does he offer greeting. "Illyria."

A strange, slow ripple seizes Illyria's back as she freezes and straightens in turn, startled deeply
by an instinctual awareness of something dangerous close at hand. Before she can process the
feeling, the sound whips her head around as her hand reaches instinctually for some weapon not at
hand. She blinks, both at the empty space where a sword might have been and the presence of you and
not some carnivorous animal. Exhaling deeply, she tracks you as you moves to the space across her, a
bright smile filtering back onto her face. "Rhalkyr," she greets in turn.

Attention flitting to the apparently endless parade of ever-smiling waiters,
Rhalkyr's fingers ripple in a short, sharp rhythm upon the massively muscled expanse of his right
thigh, his eyes thinning to slits. Distractedly, he runs his left hand through the fluffy pile of
the rug, the cottony wisps caressing the battered, mountainous appendage like contrails of fine
cirrus clouds. "Curious. Why, here?"

Illyria tilts her head and fixes the passing men with a highly irritated stare. "Well. When I came
before, it was quiet peaceful and secluded," she says ruefully, letting her own fingers explore the
soft tufts beneath her in an unconscious echo of the other. She lifts a shoulder in a little shrug,
pulling her feet under her and to the side as the other hand moves to rest on her thigh. There, it
taps idly, sounding out some almost-rhythm as she considers. "As for why I picked it then.. it is a
comforting sort of place. Like an embrace, or an oasis."

The rumble that vibrates Rhalkyr's throat is, this time, unmistakably born from
amusement as his gaze tracks the men and their bright, endless beaming. "Stirred, to action, by
rival, perhaps." The comment is dry, rasping forth like the crisp, crackling sound of dead leaves
crushed underfoot. Drawn, perhaps, by Illyria's motion, his masked face turns slowly towards her,
wide, glittering green eyes agleam with some inner fervor as he stares, unblinking. "Like, shadows."

Startled by the dry wit of the suggestion, Illyria bursts into laughter, an airy and oddly quiet
thing for all its exuberance. Letting her fingers abandon their half-formed tempo, she lifts her
hand to rest her knuckles against one cheek. "Rival? I was unaware there was any sort of competition
occurring," she says breezily, a deadpan look fitting her face into a mask broken only by a naked
twinkle in her eyes. She lets the silence linger a while before answering the second, picking apart
the two words to determine the proper interpretation. Finally, the reply comes. "I suppose so. I've
always enjoyed the deepest parts of the forest, the dead of the night.. the dark rain clouds. Like I
said. They're comforting."

The diffuse light that provides what meager illumination the room has to offer is
poor enough that it casts significant doubt as to whether the subtle shift about Rhalkyr's eyes is a
creasing of good humour, shrouded within shadow as they are. "Often, is so," he remarks calmly, his
gaze dropping to settle upon the atramentous manifestation of Divine favour that cling to Illyria's
form with such affection. "Would enjoy, the Glomdoring. Much, shrouded, enfolded, by Night." A
slight adjustment of the angle of his head, a curious tilt as he asks, "Mutual, fondness. Silent
One, has visited?"

Letting the side exchange pass by with a faintly perplexed blink and quirk of her lips, Illyria's
eyes track downward to linger on the fleeting yet clinging bits of shadow. As they pool and flit
along her silvered skin like the dapples of a forest canopy backlit by a full moon, the faeling
smiles. "I'd like to visit, but I don't think it's permitted," she says quietly, letting the hand
fall. "The Silent One," she muses, her head tilting to the other side of your. "If these are a mark
of his presence, then yes. Though briefly. A passing interest, I'd suppose."

Shifting slightly, Rhalkyr leans to one side, grasping his ankles with their
opposite hands, and using them as an anchor to counteract his weight. The angle at which he tilts
his head grows steeper still, until his mask is almost horizontal, and the motion of his peculiar
balancing act sends the painted stripes of his form to rippling, like the shadows of naked branches
upon a quiescent pool, bestirred by a gentle breeze. "Exceptions, possible." A minute lift of his
chin, in the direction of the shadows. "Not mark, of presence. Mark, of favour. Significant."

As your head drifts off to one side, Illyria's falls slowly down to the other, only to jerk back
upwards when it reaches horizontal, returning to a slight cant. Her gauzy white wings are hardly
visible in the shade of the room, ghostly wraiths that trail their tips along the wooden planks
behind the rug. "His.. favour?" she asks, visibly puzzled. "I did nothing to earn such." She leans
forward suddenly, catching herself on her palms as she hovers over her platter in her study of you.
"Tell me. Why is the speech of your letters so different from the speech of your tongue?" she
inquires plainly, though without a trace of malice in her bright eyes.

The abrupt motion, in tandem with the suddenly increased proximity, sends a cascade
of twitching spasms rippling down Rhalkyr's dense slabs of muscle, the fingers about his ankles
coiling so tightly about them that the craggy knuckles grow white with suppressed violence. Despite
this, and the mistakable air of barely restrained ferocity, his voice is as calm and reasonable as
ever. "Expect, is reward, for curiosity," he offers with a slight lift of a mountainous shoulder. At
the query, he expels a short, snorting breath of amusement. "Learned, different."

Illyria sits back on her heels, then settles into her former position, reaching forward to snag a
piece of chicken from the neatly arranged food along the way. Tucking it into her mouth, she chews
with clear relish as she takes each word and considers it carefully, fitting them together to create
new contexts and studying those as well. Finally, she swallows the bite, nodding. "Does He usually?
Reward curiosity, that is," she amends, then moves to the next topic as quickly as a deer bounding
between trees. "Where did you learn? Do you remember?"

Rather than answer immediately, Rhalkyr sways back to a more centered position,
releasing his hold upon his crossed ankles as he hunches over, though his immense bulk is
undiminished by the posture. Plucking a choice cut of chicken from his own plate, he twists about at
the waist, so that his face is turned away from Illyria, and slides his mask up just enough to,
presumably, expose his mouth. With quick, snapping motions, he devours the meat in seconds, the
muscles of his jaw flexing as he chews the large mouthful. Slipping the toothsome mask back into
place, he turns back to face Illyria, though he still does not allow his gaze to linger upon Illyria
for more than a restless beat. Slouching, he leans his forearms upon his calves, and responds, "Ask,
Him. Pray, in Fulcrux. Tell, Rhalkyr, sent." A brief, unconcerned jerk of a shoulder, swollen with
muscle, sends the stripes undulating in sinuous motions, the occasional dried flake drifting down to
flutter onto the rug. "Do not. Maybe, someday. Now, you."

Within the shadows of the dining nook, the airy faeling is an unlikely fit. The soft pastels of her palette are muted here, yet somehow fitting- night flowers blossomed in the shade of a midnight grove. With an unlikely speed, the slender girl vanishes the food on her platter as once more she takes what might be considered an impolite amount of time to answer, letting her hand drift in endless tiny patterns through the cloudy threads of the plush rug. "The Fulcrux is the place with that lovely tree, right?" she asks, eyes thoughtful, but with no other indication as to whether the suggestion would be acted upon. With a little hum, she turns her attention to the other words, letting her mind cradle the inquiry with careful attention. "Now me..." she repeats in a murmur. "There's little enough to tell in truth. It's odd.. I remember nothing in specifics, yet I still know myself. Things I love and always have, things I despise. I don't know where I learned anything either, if that's what you're asking. I imagine some commune- perhaps even Serenwilde. I've no idea. It feels familiar there, but then, so do many unlikely places." The words fall in a gentle trickle, a soft meandering of thought. Turning her eyes to study Rhalkyr's averted ones, her lips part to ask yet another question, then split into an enormous yawn unbidden. "Oh.." she murmurs instead, unhappiness weaving into her gaze as she drops it to his unfinished platter and contemplates the equally unfinished conversation. "I've been cautioned not to sleep just anywhere, and I find myself stricken with exhaustion." Nibbing her lip, the sylphen girl rolls backward and stand far more slowly than her previous movement- an unconscious adjustment to a subconscious perception of his reaction. "My deepest apologies, Rhalkyr. Another time." With that and a ruelful smile, she turns and slips away in an odd oblique that never leaves her back fully open.

While the wait might be a cause for disgruntlement for some, it evidently effects Rhalkyr not at all. Content, it seems, to watch the endless waiters and their conveyance of dishes, to and fro, to and fro, the huge man sits with the endless patience of a hunter in the brush, unmoving and unperturbed. "Blackthorn," he confirms tersely. "Perhaps, the Glomdoring. Should see, if feels, like home." The cavernous yawn draws his attention with an intensity that fairly crackles with predatory intent, the thick, brutal arcs of his fingers twitching minutely, as if with the urge to grasp. "Yes. Will see, again." Though he does not look her way as she turns to leave, there is the unmistakable weight of his eyes upon her as she makes her way out, so enshrouded by murk that the vivid green discs seem almost to float, disembodied - were it not for the faint, starkly carved outline of white, grinning teeth.