faderift | [OPEN] You were my direction and my roots.

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[OPEN] You were my direction and my roots.

WHO: (open) Myr and everyone; (closed) Myr, Vandelin, and Kit
WHAT: Some days in the life of a busy blind mage as he settles in.
WHEN: First part of August
WHERE: All around the Gallows.
NOTES: no one here but us elves

i.

Myrobalan had hardly put his request in to Casoferrazza before the harried seneschal had given him his approval and chased him off again. The man's haste to get the mage out of his hair had been a little alarming, but Myr isn't about to question what small blessings the Maker dealt out to him.

He places the first of his glyphs on the door to his double room and builds outward, weaving a network of sound and magic he can follow like a spider does the strands of its web. One glyph by every room he needs to know, a matching pair at the end of every major hallway. They're only active when he's close, glowing green and chiming softly in an assortment of different tones; otherwise, they fade to near-transparency and fall silent.

Still, they're a fairly obvious indicator of where he's been and where he hasn't in the three days it takes him to map the length and breadth of the Gallows, measuring his steps and marking what he needs to find again.

[OOC: Myr will be everywhere but the inside of the templar quarters and the upper levels of the mage quarters; feel free to encounter him anywhere but the dungeon.]

ii.

It's been no more than two weeks since the Hasmal contingent arrived and Myr's already out of sync with the waking life of the Gallows.

It isn't something that troubles him much any longer. His gutted Circle had grown used to him being awake all hours of the night and asleep much of the day, or elsewise--he contributed as much as they all did to their survival, so what of it?--so there had been little reason try and repair his schedule.

Besides, it's afforded him certain opportunities for peace and quiet he couldn't have otherwise. He'd marked how some of the more dedicated templars (and at least one knight-enchanter) were up well before dawn to attend to their own conditioning in the courtyard; how it rang with blades or hurried activity at all other hours of the day and into the torchlit evening.

The second hour after midnight, however, sees it standing empty, and Myr slips out into the darkness as gladly as a man going to meet a lover. He takes a moment to stand without the door of the mage tower, muting the glyph there so he can enjoy the velvet silence of the night. Then he begins to pace the courtyard in a regular grid, marking obstructions as he finds them. It isn't so hard like that to locate the space others have cleared for their own practice and bound it in his mind.

Only once he's sure it will be large enough for his own needs does he strip to the waist, folding up his light robe and laying it aside outside one corner of the practice area. Then he retreats back across cleared space, staff in-hand, counting his steps to the center where he stops and crisply salutes an imaginary opponent. The ritual gesture flows easily into the first of the forms, the patterns of attack graven into his muscle-memory.

Out here, unwatched, in the predawn darkness, he becomes for a little while the creature he was meant to be.

iii. (closed)

While they're harder to notice when Myr's not nearby, the locator glyphs aren't invisible at rest. They won't be so hard to follow back to their source at his room in the mage tower, where the glyph on the door gleams faintly in mute indication of the mage's presence.

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The Inquisition, lightly staffed though the Kirkwall outpost is, does not actually require its templars to do patrol duty, let alone the graveyard shift. But it's strange to live in an empty room for the first time in his life, just off-kilter enough to make him feel like the old barracks are too damn quiet even if Cade's presence hadn't made them much louder when he was there--and as long as he can't quite get himself to sleep, he thinks he might as well ride the high of the Venatori capture by making himself feel useful for a little longer.

How useful he'll actually be without armor or sword is debatable, but he leaves them behind anyway, willing to risk the roving nocturnal gangs. Inquisition space is safe enough, or should be.

Should be. He isn't expecting any other wanderers, nor sounds of combat, nor the unearthly swish of a spirit blade slicing the air, and he zeroes in on it promptly, though he ought to be more careful without his breastplate--

Oh. It's only the blind elf from the forest, displaying skills Simon certainly would never have expected of him (and a physique he might not have imagined either, were he inclined to imagine such things of tangential mage acquaintances.) He watches for a moment, eyebrows raised, analyzing Myr's form as he practices. It's clear he's anything but a novice, blind or no.

He doesn't have a reason to ambush him this time, nor does he want to. He calls out from a safe distance. "You've really got to stop doing suspicious-looking things, mate. It's not always going to be me who finds you at it."

Edited 2017-08-02 07:49 (UTC)

So all-consuming is Myr's focus that he doesn't notice that someone's walked up on him, and that's his first mistake.

His second is startling when Simon opens his mouth and calls out; he puts a foot wrong in the midst of a tricky passage, stumbles, recovers--and grounds his staff to catch himself, breathing heavily. The spirit blade in his other hand winks out and he secures the hilt to his belt without thinking. Then he straightens and turns toward the templar--and cringes, a little physically, mostly mentally, to think that someone saw him pretending at something better left dead.

Thankfully, he's winded enough that the momentary mental stagger looks like he's simply getting breath enough to speak. "You want me to take this somewhere else instead?" he retorts. "Or quit doing things altogether to avoid being suspicious."

He hadn't meant to trip Myr up, and feels momentarily bad for it--more so, at that snappish reply. There's nowhere else that would be better for him to take it, and no reason he should be forbidden from practicing where the others do during the day--it would hardly be ideal for him to try and share the courtyard with anyone.

"I was going for the second one, really," he says, "but it would be a shame. You had some nice form there, from what I can tell. I haven't seen many knight-enchanters at work." It had been a bit high-and-mighty a field for the humble mages of Ansburg, though a few had tried.

"I suppose you could handle yourself all right if anyone did take issue, then. I just thought I ought to investigate."

Edited 2017-08-02 08:37 (UTC)

He'd never tell Myr this lest he hurt his new friend's feelings, but the glyphs are creepy, and they weird him out. For that reason, Kit is more than happy to let Vandelin take the lead in navigating from the Gallows' library back to the mages' quarters, so that he doesn't have to look at the glyphs longer than necessary.

Once they reach the closed door with the final glyph on it, he glances at Vandelin. "I'm guessing this is it?" he asks, and starts forward to knock unless he's stopped.

Myr, in turn, hadn't meant to snap. It's scarcely Simon's fault they've only run into each other while Myr was, in fact, behaving strangely and like he had something to hide. But getting caught in the midst of acting out a dead dream hardly leaves him at his best.

And being complimented for how well he's pretending to be what he's not only makes it worse. "I'm not," he says, quietly, "a knight-enchanter. Just trained for it, once."

Not only is it a matter of veracity to correct Simon's assumption, but maybe if Myr says it aloud often enough he'll convince himself of the truth of it and leave off all this idiocy. He swallows back the lump in his throat, wrapping his other hand around his staff and leaning in to rest his forehead against it. Even in the summer, nights are cold here in Kirkwall, and now that he's stopped moving and the sweat of exertion has begun to dry, he's getting a little uncomfortable. He shivers suddenly, knocking himself out of his temporary black funk.

"...Got your sword on you?" No, Myr, come on, that's stupid. No matter how miserable you are, you don't spar with live steel. "Or a practice blade. A branch. Something."

Edited 2017-08-02 19:08 (UTC)

The glyphs don't bother Vandelin by nature, exactly. Devoid of any context, he'd think they were an interesting and really clever use of magic, and would probably be fascinated by them and want to pick his cousin's brain about how exactly he invented them and tell him what a cool idea they were.

Knowing exactly why they're necessary, though, and still squirming internally with dread and unfamiliar guilt, he keeps his eyes mostly averted from them as well. He has not called Myr ahead of time about any of this. He'd considered it, because it would have been only sensible, but he'd been swarmed by visions of being hung up on without ceremony and having to tell Kit there was nothing to be done, and he'd lost his nerve. Now, at least, Kit can make his own case to someone who bears no grudge against him.

To that end, he lets Kit do the knocking. "I assume," he says, standing back. He'll announce his presence eventually, if Kit doesn't first, but he'll let their mutual friend soften Myr up before he does.

There's no response to the first knock for nearly a minute.

Then a muted thump, a muffled noise that might be a yawn, and a sleepy, "Coming. One minute."

It's actually somewhat more than a minute by the time Myr gets to the door and opens it, clad in that breed of generally shapeless clothing most suited to sleep. His hair's more disheveled than usual, and he looks tired beneath the blindfold.

Not quite so tired he can't manage to be pleasant, though. "Can I help you?"

He chokes a little bit with audible--not laughter; he wouldn't laugh at Myr, certainly not to his face, but slight incredulity at the idea of being asked to whip out a greatsword and use it to spar with a man who can't see.

"Maker's bits, you don't play around, do you? That wouldn't end well for either one of us. I don't have it on me anyway. I could do a branch, though, or..." He casts around for something suitably blunt and harmless, and finds a headless polearm that someone's discarded. It's not ideal, but at least it can't lop off anyone's arm, as long as he's not rejecting the offer out of hand. (Why he isn't, he's not sure. The guy is just so...determined.)

"All right. Stick with the staff, would you? I'm not looking to get stabbed through the gut with a magic blade. I wouldn't feel any differently if you could see."

There does appear to be something a little bit off about Vandelin's demeanor during their walk from the library, but Kit has decided that if Vandelin wanted to discuss whatever is eating at him, he would have brought it up by now. Kit knows when to leave well enough alone, and suspects that this is one of those times.

At the lengthy silence that follows his knock, however, he glances back at Vandelin with a dubious look on his face. "Maybe he's out?"

But then: "Coming. One minute."

And, after rather a longer wait than a minute, the door opens to reveal Myr, sleep-mussed and a little bit groggy, but nonetheless doing his best to put on a kind face for the guests he can't see.

"I hope so, salroka," he replies, smiling, and hopes Myr can recognize his voice. He gestures back to Vandelin, then adds, "Your cousin said I could come talk to you about, um, healing magic."

Myr was never given to napping in the middle of the day before, in all the years they lived together in close Circle quarters, and it's just one more off-kilter thing that makes Van feel like something is very, very wrong. If he'd known they would be disturbing Myr from sleep, he would have suggested another time, or maybe bitten the bullet and made plans ahead, but how could he have known?

He hasn't laid eyes on his cousin in three years, not since the day they'd found themselves on opposite sides of the uprising, and his stomach churns at the sight of the blindfold. It's one thing to know in the abstract how he came to be blinded; worlds different to see the evidence of it, the scarring just visible under the edges of the fabric, forcing him to think of the physical detail of the act, to wonder how Myr did it--

He can't trust himself to keep his voice steady if he says anything, and when Vandelin can't trust that, he stays silent as the grave. He stands statue-still and impassive just outside the door and makes a valiant attempt to collect himself.

Edited 2017-08-02 21:42 (UTC)

It's a ridiculous proposal and Myr knows it; he's not expecting to win or even show particularly well against a templar who's got a foot of reach on him, never mind the blindness. So even if Simon had actually laughed he'd scarcely be offended--now that he's gotten past that initial moment of shame. "Not ever in my life, Ser Ashlock," he replies, breaking into a grin. "Go hard or go home."

(It helps more than he'd believed to find someone who takes him seriously; the templars of his own Circle evinced a kind of pity for him that had kept him from ever making such an offer. He knew it would've been turned down, to his shame.)

Myr uses the time it takes for Simon to find a suitable weapon to pace out the edges of the clear space again, reminding himself of the boundaries. "Do I really look like I'd do that to you?" His tone is mock-hurt. "I don't have enough sparring partners I can afford to go through them like that."

One is definitely not enough that he could afford to be stabbing them, if it were even in his nature to do so, which it's not. Still--given that he hasn't sparred with anything other than phantasms for the past three years... As he passes close to where he left his robes, Myr takes the hilt from his belt and sets it on top of the pile of cloth. Better safe than sorry.

Thus prepared, he steps back toward the middle of the space and settles into a loose defensive stance with a little more flourish than is strictly necessary. Or--perhaps exactly enough as is necessary, given the air around him flickers and distorts into a knight-enchanter's barrier. "Ready when you are," he calls to Simon, still smiling.

This is going to be a disaster. And that's all right.

There's no mistaking Kit's voice for anything else, and Myr brightens visibly to hear it. It's one thing to be pulled out of bed for strangers; another for the firmest friend he's so far made here in the Gallows. He opens his mouth to invite the dwarf--and whoever it is standing over there being so quiet behind him--in, when Kit clarifies exactly who sent him. "...Oh," is all he manages at first. And, "Is that him with you?"

There's a certain trepidation in his tone that he'd've been able to hide, to swallow, if he weren't so sleep-fogged. Van's conspicuous silence--if it is Van back there--isn't helping it any; it makes him feel a little like he's opened his door to find an ambush waiting. (It's both irritating and heartening to learn that Van's already on good terms with Kit besides.) Though--and here the machinery of his mind finally clicks into motion--it's damned unlikely that Van would have told Kit anything about the state of things between them, which means Kit--dear sweet creature he is--had no idea the sort of potential disaster he was engineering by bringing Van along.

That still leaves the mystery of why Vandelin would have come along at all only to play statue. It doesn't fit well into what Myr knows of his cousin--but then they're in uncharted territory between them now, aren't they?

Seconds tick past as all this considering goes on, and Myr's own instincts for politeness take over the instant his pause has gone on long enough to be really rude. "--Though if it is, I'm glad to hear you two are getting along that well. Come in, the both of you, and tell me what it is you need to know about healing magic."

He steps back from the door, gesturing them inside. There's his chair by the desk and his absent roommate's chair, and his bed unmade and rumpled from restless sleep. Enough for all of them to find somewhere to sit.

That initial pause, coupled with Vandelin's ashen-faced silence, communicates much, and Kit feels like he's just stumbled right into the midst of something he has no right to be involved in. He shoots Vandelin a questioning look; why, why did he offer this, if this was clearly the last place in Thedas he wanted to be?

"Yeah, he is," he answers Myr, and tries to keep his tone light for the benefit of everyone, but it's kind of a hollow attempt. The nug is out of the bag now, as the saying goes.

"Come in, the both of you, and tell me what it is you need to know about healing magic."

He hesitates before following, glancing back at Vandelin one more time, but Myr has already gestured them both into his room. Kit presses his lips into a thin line and limps across the threshold, and seats himself in one of the vacant chairs. "It's, uh," he begins again, almost having forgotten the reason for their visit. "It's about my leg."

This was all a terrible miscalculation. He'd weighed his options and thought it would be preferable to be here to defend himself against whatever side of the story Myr might want to advance, though Van would be on the defensive and at a disadvantage either way--but he hadn't accounted for how it would actually feel to see him again.

He's got to snap out of it. He'd been trying to put Kit at ease, damn it, and he might as well have tied him up and tossed him into the captive magister's cell for all the chance he's got of that now. He clears his throat, pulling his usual air of nonchalance around him like a cloak, and focuses on the wall over Myr's shoulder in the hopes that it'll appear to Kit as if he can actually look at him.

"I should have asked ahead of time, I know," he says, in a tone that implies that he simply forgot to, or some such. "And I didn't mean to wake you up, I'm sorry. I just thought that if Kit wanted an alternative to spirit healing, you'd be the best one to ask. I know it's not exactly your specialty, but he doesn't need much--just a little boost to the mending."

Inessa's out and about with her mabari when the chiming gets her attention. She glances around as Garahel inspects something glowing and green, coming to stand beside him. "Ah, the marker glyphs...." She's only passed them when they were near-transparent and silent, so of course she has to take a moment to inspect it as is right now. Upon spotting the one responsible, she turns to face him better. "I see someone's been busy. Hello, serah."

Garahel pads over, sniffing and curious. "This is my mabari, Garahel. Garahel, be nice." There's a soft whine in response. He's always nice.

Simon's not at so much of a loss for other templars to spar with, and he's friendly enough with most of them, but a mage partner is quite another matter. Whenever he's found himself up against one of those, the stakes have been gravely real. Were magic not involved, he could pretend for a few minutes that no history or baggage exists here--

--but were magic not involved, this would just be so unfair as to be embarrassing. The barrier makes things interesting. And this guy's got some tricks up his sleeve, such as it is. The rules don't need to be observed right now, really. They're not even rules anymore; it's only that they're both happy enough to cling to the old ways for tradition's sake.

He sizes Myr up for a while, pondering how to account for the blindness. There's no feinting that will really work, no psyching him out. He knows how to use his staff far better than Simon can handle his, even when Simon measures the length of the pole and decides it'll serve all right as a greatsword after all. It would be a dirty trick to try and get through the barrier with anything but clean physical force, so he won't, but how best to start?

Finally, he strikes out, coming at the barrier from a sharp side angle where it looks potentially vulnerable.

"So the limp's recent," Myr notes aloud, closing the door and returning to his bed to settle on the edge of it. He'd certainly heard Kit's uneven gait, but had assumed it an old injury not worth remarking upon.

He's about to ask after the nature of the wound--aaaand there's Van jumping into the breach to take up the burden of the explanation. Myr turns his face toward his cousin to show he's listening, schooling his own expression into something faintly cheerful. This...is the Vandelin he knows, for all the world as if the years apart haven't changed a thing about his cousin. So they're playing it this way--though of course they would, before company--and acting as if neither of them hesitated on being confronted with the other. As he has so many times in the past, Myr defers to Van on this one.

...Mostly. "It's fine," he replies, lightly. "You wouldn't've known I'm sleeping odd hours lately." He hasn't had a chance to get his temporal bearings yet, but it can't be so late in the day either of them would reasonably have thought he'd been asleep. On that thought, he runs a hand through his tousled hair, trying to restore it to a semblance of order.

"And I can likely manage that, though how much I can do depends on the nature of the injury." He considers pursuing that odd little thread about needing an alternative, but thinks better of it; now is not the time to be digging into anything anyone finds better left unsaid. (Even if it would satisfy a small vindictive part of him to hear there's a downside to spirit healing; he'd heard its praises sung enough to get sick of it back in Hasmal, along with the spirit healers' subtle condescension that creation magic wasn't as good as what they did because it didn't heal so effortlessly.)

He dismisses all that maundering with a shake of his head, turning to address Kit. "So. Tell me a little more about what happened to your leg, and I'll see what can be done to fix it."

Edited 2017-08-03 03:40 (UTC)

Without magic, there really would be no contest: Simple physics dictates Simon would win the ensuing fight. Even with magic, Myr's limited to a defensive posture, unable to watch his opponent for openings he might attack. The best he can do is wait for Simon to make a mistake in close enough quarters he can capitalize on it--and do everything in his power to increase the chances of such a mistake occurring.

The barrier serves him in good stead there, blunting the speed and force of Simon's initial strike--and telegraphing its position to Myr. He knocks it away easily enough, converts his momentum to a warning swipe in Simon's direction, and retreats back to his defensive posture all in the spam of a breath. One, he counts silently, marking off how long he's got before his barrier is completely depleted--and not liking his quick mental figuring on the matter. Simon's a lot stronger than the last live opponent he faced; if this struggle were in earnest, he'd have very little time to find his opening and take advantage of it.

That first contact sets the shape of the whole match: Simon on relentless offense, chipping away at his opponent's defenses or all-too-often sneaking blows through them; Myr stubbornly standing his ground, blocking what he can, enduring what he can't, and retaliating with bruising force when a rare weakness presents itself. He fights like he's long accustomed to opponents who're larger than he is; no surprise, given he's small even for an elf.

None of those openings are the opportunity he's been waiting for, none until his barrier finally flickers and dies, and Simon rightly drives in to finish the fight. Myr binds up the templar's "blade" with his staff and steps in under the larger man's guard, miming drawing his spirit blade and skewering Simon through the gut.

"Got you." It's not a "fatal" blow and he's out of moves, but it's something. He'll take whatever comes after this with grace.

Edited 2017-08-03 06:57 (UTC)

"Warden Serra!" No disguising Myr's delight at encountering in the flesh one of the friends he so lately made over the communication crystals. (And what a strange way to make friends that is, though he's hardly about to complain about their utility.)

He marks his place along the wall he's been following with a different sort of glyph before turning toward Inessa and Garahel. The latter is cause for some mild internal consternation on Myr's part; he's read about mabari but certainly never thought to encounter one in the flesh. Uh... "Hello, Garahel," he says, feeling a little strange to be greeting a dog. "It's good to meet you, as well. I hope we'll get along."

While most of him's dead certain the stories exaggerated the famed mabari intelligence, a tiny part argues convincingly he ought to err on the side of caution. They're big dogs, after all, and who knows what an unhappy one could do to a small elf.

On paper, Simon ought to be embarrassed to have been taken for such a ride by a small, blind mage. In practice, somehow, he doesn't find himself with any regrets. It's a good match, for all Myr's handicaps, strong offense versus steady defense, and the training Myr draws upon is something Simon's never had to counter before, not with a mage or another templar or anyone else. The bruises he'll have tomorrow will be well earned. He'll relish them, in a way he doesn't feel like he often does anymore.

In most of his experience, when a templar gets this close to anyone fighting with a staff, it's already over--but when that barrier finally winks out, and he thinks he's closing in for victory, he doesn't anticipate that deft disarming, and the surprise leaves him vulnerable to what he thinks, for one silly irrational heart-jolting moment, is an actual attack. It could be, if he'd somehow misjudged this mage. He could be dead for letting his guard down around someone who needs neither staff nor actual blade to be dangerous.

But he's not; the hand on his stomach is nothing but a hand, and the last move is still his to claim, using the elf's surprisingly substantial weight against him and flipping him to the ground to pin him lightly with the reclaimed polearm.

"So you did," he says, mildly surprised and audibly impressed.

Someone didn't get the message.

Wren stands stock-still in place, staring at the glyph with an expression of utter puzzlement — really, it's a lucky thing Myr can't see it, it's pretty stupid.

She'd thought to be imagining them at first, these little marks so easy to miss among all the rest, but they'd been placed far too methodically for that. An unfamiliar make: Perhaps some project of the researchers? She leans in to inspect,

It chimes at her in a flash of green noise, and despite herself, she startles. Instinct draws her back sharply and suddenly into Myr's path.

It's not tackling the blind, but it sure is close.

Edited 2017-08-03 08:19 (UTC)

Even though Myr's anticipating the throw and the fall, letting himself relax so it's less of a bruising jolt when he hits the ground, it still knocks the breath out of him. He's content to lie there defeated until he can regain it, and the first thing out of him when he does is a laugh. "Oughta do that again sometime," he manages at length. "That was fun."

He's sweaty and exhausted and mana-drained and bruised all over, but right now that feels marvelous because he outdid his own expectations--against a templar, to boot. (A templar in rather fine condition, at that; he didn't miss the opportunity to feel what he could with his hand against Simon's belly.) Maybe there's some hope for him after all; maybe he doesn't have to feel so guilty and worthless about struggling to keep his skills sharp, about holding on to what he can't have any longer.

Maybe all that will go away once the adrenaline fades.

But maybe not.

He pats Simon's makeshift sword with one hand. "All right, I yield. Let me up before I get any colder down here."

In spite of himself, he grins. He tells himself it's only because the mage can't see it anyway, but he can't entirely erase it from his voice.

"I can't promise I'll make a habit of being awake at arse o'clock in the morning," he says, "but if I happen to be, I'll bring a proper practice blade along and make you really work for it."

He's aware that any stronger trash talk might be ill-advised, no matter how jesting the intent. It's no mystery why Myr might be self-conscious about his hard-learned skills, reluctant to keep honing them for a goal that Simon knows as well as anyone is likely impossible. But professions like theirs don't have to be an all-or-nothing deal; he's learning that slowly. One isn't simply a templar or not, a knight-enchanter or not, as if the title is everything and the training inconsequential.

He tosses the pole lightly aside and reaches down to help Myr up, though it takes a second's thought before he realizes what little good it will do if Myr can't see him doing it. "Here, give me your hand."

It wouldn't be quite right to describe Kit's posture or demeanor as surly; there's not enough irritation or anger in his expression to make that word fit. But he's very quiet and still while Vandelin and Myr exchange their words with each other, and he looks between them as though he's trying to figure out a puzzle with most of the pieces missing.

There's still some affection there between them, at least, but sometimes that can just make things worse.

"So. Tell me a little more about what happened to your leg, and I'll see what can be done to fix it."

"Got gored by an ogre in the Deep Roads," he says, his tone weirdly light considering the subject matter. He starts to roll up his pants leg, hitching it up just past the mid-point of his thigh to where the bandages are secured around the injury. There's plenty of other scar tissue there to be seen by Vandelin, though Myr wouldn't be able to; a life spent in the Legion is a life spent courting death daily, and it's so commonplace to Kit now that he doesn't think to find anything about his collection of battle scars unusual. "The physickers stitched it up, and I've been keeping poultices on it the last few weeks. I'm good to get around for most tasks, but I'm going down to the Kocari Wilds with that arcane advisor and the last thing I need is to get caught in combat unable to move my leg."

He glances quickly at Vandelin, and then away. ...Yeah, maybe he should've mentioned that to his friend. Oops.

"Fear not, outside battle he's just a big friendly puppy. Belly rubs and treats are all he wants in life." The mabari huffs in agreement, happy with his goal as an affection sponge. Satisfied with the sniffing, Garahel licks his hand before returning to his mistress.

"Have you completed your project, or are there more glyphs yet to place?"

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[OPEN] You were my direction and my roots.

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