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Day 1 ◈ Time: Evening ◈ Weather: Clear Skies, Breezy ◈Location: ??? ◈ Participants: ???, ??? @Aeolian
♫
Where this Lekëon tale begins, or rather, continues, few inhabitants of this realm would be able to identify this place. There is a heavy stench of burning from just beyond what appears to be a small village. It is a familiar smell, though it probably shouldn't be. From within the glades of the surrounding forest, tall trees adorned with leaves the shape of stars, a woman of graymalkin skin and two-toned hair slowly approaches the village. She looks around for a moment, strange tattoos embedded in the wrinkles of her skin just above and below eyes dyed with the ink of sea foam. Unassuming passerbys pay her no mind as she moves through, the burning smell that filled her senses fading the deeper she moves into the village core.
At last, the woman reaches the ancient structure that casts a shadow over the rest of the village. It looks crafted by the hands of something primordial and natural, the testament of a place left untouched by the mires of Royal and Parliament commonwealth. There is only one way in and one way out, it would seem. She enters cooly. No one makes a fuss at her presence; they know who she is. She passes through a room of stonewall, room after room she continues. Discussions can be heard from one, something more disturbing from another; perhaps it was the faintest of whimpers that drifted from under a locked door.
Far within, the woman goes until she reaches steps and descends a spiraling staircase, windowless and awashed in nothing but flickering candlelight. Her eyes glimmer as she passes each hanging fire. At the very end of what seems like an endless, bottomless pit, an unusual door sits queerly against a wall of weathered stone seen from above. The door is ornate and of lilac, the handle unnaturally gilded. This door, it does not seem to belong here. It doesn't fit, somehow. And yet here it stands, a juxtaposition against cracked stonework that would bewilder most others.
The woman can tell the door is locked. It's always locked, and there is no key. But that's okay, for very few things remain closed to her. In one breathless, barely audible motion, she leans forward and whispers to the door, "Open," and it obeys her command without hesitation. As she enters the room, the door closes behind her, and she is standing squarely in a room crafted for a child. A bedroom. It is just as queer as the door through which she entered. It is ornate and grand, royally Edwardian, like a prince's room from a palace or fairytale. No one else seems to know that this room exists and looks as it does. It does not fit the village that it hides beneath. There is a bed, and the room is filled with that unmistakable lilac. Windows exist here too, but they're engulfed in a film of glowing white. There is nothing to see, no world beyond to gaze upon longingly.
And at the small of the room, tucked away in a tiny alcove, is a young boy sitting in front of an easel, his nightgown covered in paint and his hair matted as though he had not awoken long before she arrived. "How is the painting coming along, Sparrow?" she whispered from behind him. Sparrow turned, and when his eyes met with hers, they beamed. "You've come back to visit me again," he says cheerfully, resting his paintbrush on the table beside him.
"Yes, Sparrow, I have." She gives the boy a look that's more expecting than the delighted expression he was hoping to see from her. The boy stutters, turning back around to look at his incomplete painting, and his lips subtly dip, "Ummm, it's not done yet. But I promise it will be soon, mam."
The woman cooes, "Oooh?"
Sparrow nods, thrilled that she returned his smile. "Yes yes!" he said, more excited now than before, "It's coming along quite nicely, I think." The woman comes closer and rests her hand on his shoulder, feeling his warmth. They share a gaze, and then both turn to look at the painting together. There are vestiges, specks, the starting of what looks like white tiny strokes cascading upon one another. The woman grins knowingly, her seafoam eyes filled with anticipation and witchlight.
"Wonderful."
Day 1 ◈ Time: Evening ◈ Weather: Light Rain ◈Location: Skyship [Lower Deck Passanger Compartment] ◈ Participants: Petyr@Aeolian, Tessa@Mirandae
♫
The world of Lekë, or at least in this hemisphere, had settled into a warm, temperate evening as the goldmoon (sun) began its somber descent behind the watery horizon of the Endless Ocean Below. This, of course, was no typical sunset; it heralded a night of festivities, costumes, dancing, and glamour. The topic of discussion for everyone at Harold's Academy was tonight's quarterly Moonlight Masquerade Ball, which, to be honest, Petyr was not keen on attending.
At present, he was lounging on a bench within a long-distance passenger skyship. This vessel was large and capable of seating hundreds of people. Petyr, naturally, looked for a room that was the least occupied, being sure to avoid one room in particular that housed a woman and her crying infant. His legs were crossed at the ankles and his head rested against the back-wall. Down below in this part of the skyship, there were no windows to admire the sunfall, much to his chagrin.
But he wasn't alone. Tessa was there too. In fact, she was the only reason he was even attending this quarter's Moonlight Masquerade Ball. He had skipped them year after year, but with Tessa's return to the Academy as the Mentor of Homeroom Class 20, well, she was a girl who knew how to be persuasive when she wanted to be. Now, they were in this skyship returning back to the Academy from the capital city (Great Locswald Rose, The Rose City) for a very specific purpose, a task assigned to Tessa by Headmistress Minerva, which then, Tessa cleverly dragged him along with her to help in the effort.
Petyr, was unimpressed, as he was with most things, despite the successful outcome of their, well, Tessa's assignment. He was just an unwilling accomplice.
"Yeah, remind me to, NEVER again, throw myself at a salacious 50-year-old opera singer well past her musical prime. Thank you for that experience, Tessa." Petyr began, his eyes closed firmly and his hands clasped behind his head in a nonchalant, but also weary kind of manner.
"Salacious? Oh, it wasn't that bad,"Tessa began with a shimmering smile after having taken in her student's words with wide eyes. "Penelope is kind of a big deal, you know. She is really going to give the Academy's image a nice bump, and you helped with that, so you should feel good about yourself--" Tessa's endless type of blabbering fired up. "--And she's not past her musical prime, silly, what are you on about?" She giggled, gently tapping Petyr's side with her hand.
"Penelope Upperton is an iconic figure not only for her ability to sing really well, but also for LITERALLY, SINGLE-HANDEDLY influencing Elara Lyra's Winter Collection this year. And, my cait is named Lyra -- are you saying that you don't like my cait, HMM?!" Tessa leaned closer to Petyr with a devious grin on her lips, clearly being sarcastic.
Unfamiliar with the latest fashion brands, Petyr opened one eye to see Tessa brimming with glee, warranting a disapproving headshake. "All that sounds like to me is just another one of your obsessions." He paused for a moment, grinning, "What was that other one called again? Aery Asma, or...something like that."
In the middle of the aisle, an old man sniveling and carrying a handkerchief, blew his nose with the violent intensity of a small bomb. This man was obviously sick, garnering a look of distaste from Petyr, who side-eyed him all the way down the open corridor. Petyr saw little sparks fly from the man's mouth and nose every time he sneezed, so he squinted as the old sickly passenger disappeared from sight into the next room. He turned back to Tessa, that mild look of disgust still plastered on his countenance.
"Anyways...she's no Percival Strange, so my interest for--" he briefly adorned a jokingly snooty tone of voice "Lady Penelope Upperton--" his voice went back to normal, "--runs VERY thin. Cute cait though."
"Obsessions?! Me? Never." Tessa leaned back into her proper sitting, folding her arms. She tried to suppress the little smirk on her lips, relishing teasing her students, but hiding it never worked well for her. "Yes, Airwave Asthma, that's the one." One of many of Tessa's little things was to distort names even further when someone got it wrong in the first place. The name of the fashion brand Petyr referred to was Aurum Astra, but it was all the same to most people. Tessa suddenly jumped in her seat at the sick fellow blowing his nose with the noise of a literal cannon. A silent "Oh my God..." escaped Tessa's breath as she stared at the man, returning to her banter with Petyr once the sick fellow was gone.
"Yes, caits are cuuuute." Tessa curled both her hands at her jawline for her signature pose at the thought of the fluffy little things, the corner of her eyes wrinkling in a smile, especially at her very own -- Lyra. "Well, you've got to admit that Penelope is at least talented even if, maybe, she isn't THE best--" Tessa continued off of her high thinking about caits, but she interrupted herself mid-sentence. "--It looked like that guy that just walked past us was sneezing fireballs, did you see that or am I going crazy?"
Half listening, Petyr nodded carelessly as Tessa went on and on, even giving her an amused grin when she did her 'I'm obsessed with this' pose. But, she was right, he admitted internally. Penelope was one of the greatest singers of the modern era AND it was a big deal that the Academy booked her for tonight's Masquerade Ball. According to Tessa, however, this booking invitation went out to Lady Upperton months in advance, and they were only now able to confirm her attendance. The singer was a notoriously famous diva with a penchant for cute men, which was why Tessa dragged him along in the first place, ostensibly. The kiss on his cheek, though, now THAT shook him to his core. He spent hours in the lavatory trying to wipe off her lipstick print on his cheek. After the deed was done, Lady Upperton casually admitted to him that she forgot to switch from the lipstick she wears when kissing autographs because she was so, as she put it, "--very enchanted" by his odd-colored eyes. Just his luck.
It was only when Tessa mentioned the sick passenger did Petyr finally respond, shaken from his brief revelry about Lady Upperton, "No, I saw it too. He must be a Mystic, like us."
Petyr turned back to the threshold where the sick man had disappeared through earlier before, staring with a reinvigorated and, admittedly, concerned curiosity.
Day 1 ◈ Time: Evening ◈ Weather: Light Rain ◈Location: Harold's Academy [Headmistress's Office] ◈ Participants: Headmistress Minerva@Aeolian, Professor Magus Babalu @Aeolian, Kaspaan Mustaven (Mentioned) @Deja
♫
At Harold's Academy, the light rainfall patterned against Minerva's stained glass windows. Most classes would have already ended at this point, so the Headmistress understood that she would need to check on things regarding the upcoming Masquerade Ball tonight.
The drapes in front of her desk were pulled back from the morning, which Minerva had spent the better part of 10 hours, as a matter of fact, looking over scroll after scroll -- for what, though, that was to the disclosed. Before she began whatever she had set out to do in her office, she'd explicitly warned everyone not to disrupt her focus unless someone died or fell through a portal. With a pair of monocles nearly hanging off her nose, Minerva began the long, arduous task, even skipping breakfast and lunch, waving away an Academy handmaiden on both occasions when they tried to bring her something to eat directly from the kitchen.
It was only now that she heard the etching of ink upon her Ollivander Parchment III laid at the corner of her desk. It was the third model, which guaranteed a faster transfer of messages. This was the work of someone on the other end with their own Ollivander Parchment, writing to her. A person would use their vitesse as ink and then write using a quill directly onto the parchment. After writing the recipient's name at the bottom of the parchment, it would appear on the recipient's parchment, no matter where they were. As it worked, words were magically appearing on Minerva's parchment as though the object were writing a letter to itself. This quiet reading went on for some time, a look of urgency growing on her face, brows furrowed, and eyes maddening. It seemed as though she'd just become privy to some really serious information, though not wholly clear.
Minerva started when she heard a soft knocking on her door. There was an ambiance to her room thanks to the fireplace and candlelight; it saturated the room with a warm glow. But she felt cold inside from what she had just read on the parchment. She tucked it out of sight before walking up to her door and flinging it open.
She was on edge, not giving her guest a moment to speak, "I've already told Mr. Grisvögel to handle the arrangements for Lady Upperton at the Guest House. My time today is very preci--"
Minvera was interrupted by the deep, male voice that escaped from the lips of the figure that stood before her. The person standing in the threshold was none other than Professor Magnus Babalu, one of her closet confidants and the professor of the Gifts class. His face was equally as stern as hers, but he always had a resting bitch face, so this was just another day for him. Magnus stepped into her room, shutting the door behind himself. "It's not that," he said calmly.
Minerva had returned to her desk as the bald man with the perpetually severe expression sat in an empty chair adjacent to her. He crossed his leg, one over the other, and clasped his hands together on his knee, waiting patiently. "Well, don't just sit there silent, Magnus. You've already disturbed me, so what is it? Has Mr. Mustaven been caught joy flying again? I swear to the heavens, I don't want to hear another complaint about that boy." Minerva always addressed her students as Mr. and Miss., plus their last names, regardless of their age.
Magnus cleared his throat, stirring in his seat feebly, "Err, no, it's not that either, Madam." Minerva kept silent, just giving him a look implying that she wanted him to spit it out already. Professor Babalu continued, "I imagine it probably has to do with that Ollivander parchment you were reading."
Minerva looked at him coldly, "Don't play with me, Magnus," she said.
He responded in jest, "When do I ever, Madam?"
She took a moment to think, "Make sure there's no one around that can hear us."
Magnus nodded, understanding what Minerva wanted him to do. He closed his eyes, and after a moment of silence and stillness, a third eye, identical to his original two, fluttered open on his forehead. It magically grew right out of his skin. It was not an appealing sight to behold. Magnus's third eye was looking around the room, but was seeing far beyond that limited space. Through this third eye, he could see, in his mind, the other side of Minvera's office, down the hallways, through the corridors, and even much farther beyond that. But he didn't need to check that far. He scanned the surrounding areas that were relevant to where they were, and when he finished, he opened up his normal eyes, causing his third eye to close, disappearing back into the flesh of his forehead skin, not a trace that it was ever there at all. He nodded reassuringly that all was clear.
Minerva nodded, understanding the urgency, "Now, tell me what you know."
