Music to the soul (Finn)

[Lyra]

63rd of Ash, 120 AS

The soft light of autumn spilled in from the upper windows of Ale'Ephirum. Most of this light was obstructed by the bookshelves that ran along the walls of the corridor like a shop. A combination of candle and lantern glow provided most of the illumination, giving the snug space an almost homey feel if one enjoyed that sort of cozy atmosphere. The shop itself was like one long hallway. When one entered the front door one was immediately faced with a desk. Turning right the shop continued down as one long hallway before branching off to the left and right at the end. These branching pathways lead to simple reading areas where one can sit and examine scrolls or tomes by candlelight.

The shelves themselves had a rough organization to them. The ones nearest the front desk are filled with inks and quills of a variety of styles and colors. Those of magical nature is held in a glass case covered in pictographs near the desk itself. As one travels farther into the shop the instruments give way to other supplies such as inkwells, charcoals, and other instruments of writing or painting, and finally to paper and parchment of different types and quality. Nearly halfway down was a door on the left wall, closed and locked. At this point, the pedestals begin. Upon them are several books of a seemingly random nature. Some cover topics of the history of the city of Kalzasi, while others are simple language tomes or provide lessons on the languages most common in the city. Most of the books are of average or lesser quality, and most only hold the most basic knowledge on what topics they discuss. Perhaps most noticeable is that as one moves farther down the number of books and scrolls begin to dwindle until one reaches the branching path to the reading area, where there are several shelves completely empty. These shelves are covered in glyphs from top to bottom, and each shelf possesses the same symbol carved somewhere on it. A snake with no eyes coiled in on itself.

Lyra idly flipped the pages of the book that was in front of her where she sat at the front desk. In her hand was a writing quill with a long feather of gold, blue and red. From time to time she would dip her quill in the inkwell next to her, scribbling a few notes before softly blowing on the ink to help it dry. The shop had been rather slow this day. Few in the city knew of her, that was certain, yet somehow the old elf thought she would have garnered at least a modicum of attention from the general populous.

"Uneducated." she sighed, setting the quill down and rubbing the bridge of her nose, pushing her glasses up slightly as she did. She wore her common clothes. Dark robes that were of good quality which tied at the waist and button dup to the neck. Her dark brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, revealing the lines of connected dots that extended from the corners of her eyes, nose, and mouth and trailed down her neck before circling her collar bone to her chest. The sleeves of the robes were loose, and she had them pushed up, showing the same pattern of tattoos covered her arms down to the ends of each finger, and even along with her palms.

She glanced around the empty shop, looking primarily at the still empty shelves at the end. Through the aura glasses, she could see the flow of aether as it was pulled there from some of the few lanterns that actually held dragonshards for light. This aether was guided to themselves. traveling along the path of the scripts and collecting in several places before moving down to the next shelf, and the next. Though not obvious, the glyph actually connected all of these shelves together, and this flowing network of magic created something similar to a cage in that small area. It would not be obvious to most, but the aether there was just a bit denser than the rest of the shop.

I will need to finish that schema before the next shipment arrives. Lyra thought idly. There was quite a bit left to do. The shop, though serving primarily as a place to hide her true work, still needed to be set up correctly. Her eyes scanned the aether in the rest of the room which moved slowly, stagnant and so thin she had to focus to notice any movement at all. It made her frown as she looked at the dead air, grimacing with a shake of her head as she looked back down at the book before her. There would be time enough. There was always time.

[Finn]

The well-oiled hinges of the door made only a soft noise as it opened, and the aether likely responded as it would, though the customer who stepped inside wouldn't see it. His step was a touch hesitant; he was out of his league and he knew it, but given a bit of largesse or leeway, he could usually suss out how to approach people without giving offense. Of course, there were many among the Jeweled Arches who were offended by just about everyone. Then, one required luck.

When Finn took to the more affluent parts of town, he went shined up brightly as a newly minted copper coin. His hair was tidy, his face washed, his hands clean. His clothes were clean, as well; not rich, but well-made and well-maintained. A thin burgundy scarf was coiled about his neck to ward off the growing chill in the air. He might have managed a rakish air if his face wasn't so openly curious; that role was easier to play in a musical venue. The lute slung across his back gave some indication of his station in life. It was a serviceable thing. It had character if it wasn't fine.

As the door shut carefully behind him, he spared himself one bemused moment to take in what could be seen: warm light as well as the cooler natural light streaming in from on high; shelves; corridors leading to who knew what; a woman at the desk.

Finn smiled—a sudden, sincere reaction to the place. Despite his more mundane reasons for coming, one could almost hear the stories echoing here. And collecting stories was as much his passion as retelling them in verse. It was a privilege to be one of the world's storytellers. At least, he thought so.

"Good day, ma'am," he said. "I've come for supplies, but might I take a look at the place before I trouble you?"

[Lyra]

There were several inkwells sitting on the desk near Lyra's hand. The book itself was blank, simply pages bound together with string and a simple cloth cover. Using a cloth next to her hand Lyra cleaned the tip of the quill, removing all of the ink before dipping it into another well and writing a few lines. After blowing softly she adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her nose, studying the lines curiously. Through the lenses, the markings seemed to glow soft reddish light, the aether within moving ever so slightly like a trickle of sparks. Each of the inks was of a different kind. Some were spell rights ink of different properties. The rest were infused inks of basic elements. Fire, earth, water, and a few more interesting combinations of herbs and minerals. Each time she traced lines with the ink the aether within would stir and shift, flowing as if searching for a purpose before settling into whatever design she had created.

Infused and spellwright ink, though similar, have unique properties from one another. Setting the quill aside Lyra took up another pen and made a few notes in a smaller book to the side, noting down her observations, Though it is obvious on reflection, infused ink possess much more flexible properties. It accepts new elements even after its creation, whereas Spellwrights ink is set and close to immutable. Perhaps it would be best to use the spellwrights for a more permanent and controlled schema that needs greater stability.

As the door opened Lyra glanced up, eyeing the man that walked through with interest. Well-groomed and tidy, handsome if a bit plain, he was the picture of the face in the crowd, one who did not stand out in the slightest. She might have discounted him completely had she not noticed the lute strapped to his back. Her golden eyes lingered on the instrument for a moment before her eyes looked down once more.

"You are welcome to look as you wish." she spoke in common, though her accent and dialect were a bit off. Her words were slightly lilting as if she were half humming as she formed the phrases. She pointed down the hall with the end of her quill, "Ink and general supplies are here at the front. As you travel down the hall you will find paper, parchment, scrolls, and finally books before reaching the end." Here Lyra paused, setting her quill down before snapping her fingers. A series of glyphs shimmered to life along the walls, several more dragonshard lanterns flickering to life to provide more light that did not flicker or waver.

Giving Finn a pointed look she continued, "You may browse whatever books are on the shelves, but be you certain not to touch the empty shelves at the end."

With that Lyra waved the man on, looking back down at the book and her notes, dipping the quill and scribbling once more.

[Finn]

Finn was about to respond when she snapped her fingers and the aether responded. Well, some of the rumors were true, then. She wouldn't see his nodding head as she had already returned her attention to her work and so he followed her directions on soft treads, his hands held carefully behind his back so he wouldn't touch anything without some forethought.

A quick but thorough examination of the shelves with the items he came for allowed for certain tentative decisions to be made and then he went to explore all that was more interesting. If the book had a title on its binding, he read it. If not, he just took in the fine craftsmanship, wondering what might lie within, what stories were woven into each thing's creation—who had crafted them, who had loved them, and any number of flights of fancy.

His nose was tickled by the scents of paper, parchment, vellum, ink, leather, and cloth. The quality of light was now altered by the addition of the magical. If he had grown up with trinkets and hedgewitchery feeling commonplace, the presence of high magics still felt strange and new. The former felt natural; the latter, more profound. True to his acknowledgment of her warnings, he only looked at the empty shelves, curious what they meant, though his mere mortal senses could detect nothing definitive.

A snatch of a daydream toyed with him as he collected a large, leatherbound journal full of blank pages that he could easily fill with musical notation, preserving his better works and keep them safe from weather and entropy. Could he perhaps save up a nest egg by working as a scribe during the day? He had decent handwriting, he thought. Well, with his luck, it wouldn't pay enough to sacrifice the time practicing and hustling. With his luck, he wouldn't be transcribing interesting things, but rather copying out trade manifests. Oh, well.

The minstrel brought his purchase back around to the front where he waited patiently for the woman to come to a point where she could conveniently pause her work and help him with his transaction. He was going to need ink, as well. Resources of a higher quality would perhaps lend a bit of respectability for his work, even if it was only in his own mind. Though curious as to what she was writing, he was careful to keep his eyes averted. The smallest things could offend people and that was certainly not his intention.

[Lyra]

Lyra chewed on her lip as she stared at the minor pictographs she had sketched. She had created the same pictograph several times in a row on this page, each with a different type of ink. Through the lenses of her aura glasses, she could see that something peculiar was happening. The pictograph itself was a simple one. A swirling spiral encased in a circle, a traditional depiction of an aether well intended to pull in aether from the environment. The details and flourishes of the design did not matter overly much, so long as one included the proper intent along with an overall spirling design. What she had not expected, however, was that depending on the properties of the ink the aether that was drawn toward the design was slightly different.

In the upper right corner of the page was a pictograph made using infused fire ink. As Lyra watched she could see that tendrils of red and orange were slowly collecting, being pulled from the direction of her candle toward the design in a slow and rhythmic way. Beside it was infused earth ink, or perhaps soil ink was a more apt description. It was the ink that emphasized generalized minerals found in the most common types of soil in the area. Though she stared at it for several minutes Lyra found she could not see it drawing in any aether at all, and the aether of the ink itself was nearly stagnant. Glancing back to the fire infused ink she could see that the aether within almost seemed to vibrate as it moved as if filled with an energy that its counterpart simply lacked. However, should she move one of her stone bookends toward the page the earth infused ink almost... pulsed? It wasn't drawing on the aether, but it did seem to respond in some way.

The more she stared the more she frowned. So enraptured was she that when she glanced up and saw Finn standing before her Lyra jumped slightly, pressing a hand to her chest and closing her eyes briefly as if startled. Breathing out slowly she shook her head, removing her glasses and setting them aside.

"Perhaps we should tie a bell to your collar." the words were said sardonically and twinged just a bit with irritation. Lyra looked over what Finn had brought up to the desk, eyes lingering on the book before looking for his eyes, "Is this all you require this day?"

[Finn]

When she didn't look up immediately, he was patient. When she didn't look up after a while because she was so absorbed in her work, his mind began to wander. For a minstrel, he was rather good at being silent. His eyes took in more details of the front area of the shop, duly impressed and perhaps redefining how he might decorate his space if coin were not an issue. Perhaps if he were minding the desk here, he would be writing as well, a poem or a song that nobody would want to read or listen to because it just meditated on the nature of light or the cozy feeling of a warm, book-lined room when the weather outside was cooling. If she offered him a mug of tea and a corner to sit in, he might do just that. But really...

She spoke and broke whatever spell of reverie he had been under. Finn's smile was both apologetic and rueful.

"Pardon," he begged. "I didn't want to disturb you."

After all, she had offered him the largesse of taking his time around the place and it was certainly a place he would spend time, though he could only afford to spend money on occasion. A little longer in the stillness, listening to her pen scratch and the susurration of her breathing was no waste of his time. Wait, was that creepy? He wasn't listening to her breathe like... anyway.

"This and a bottle of black ink, please. Suitable for archival work." He was, after all, going to archive what he deemed his best work, worthy of elevation beyond scrap paper and his memory. Songs that were finished as much as anything was ever finished, and those that had been tested with audiences and not found wanting.

As he had clearly irked her, he wanted to smooth things over so he could be a repeat customer. It occurred to him that shops should desire return customers, but he was always keenly aware that his best clothes were barely passable in many places in the city.

[Lyra]

Shifting slightly in her seat Lyra settled her agitated thoughts. While the man responded she relaxed her shoulders, sitting back slightly and resting her cheek on one hand, adopting a neutral expression as she continued to look at the book he held.

"Archival?" Her eyes flicked to meet his, examining them for a moment before she looked to the side where inks were stored on a shelf. For a moment she sat in thought and allowed herself to slip back into herself. The magic of her rune rose to the surface, a ringing hump of power in her veins as she felt her senses open up. The soft noises of the world dimmed somewhat as Lyra focused, calling upon the man's symphony, seeking his melody and studying it as she examined her wares.

"That is an odd request. Most give little thought to their ink, much less the other items which they use." She listened, eyes closing slightly as she caught the soft rhythm of peace. It was a gentle sound this one carried, light trills of flutes, and many stringed instruments which played in near-perfect harmony. It would have been beautiful, were it not so soft. Hesitancy, uncertainty... Perhaps a bit of fear, deep down from a time long past that made him unsure of how others would react? It was difficult to tell.

"If you simply wish an ink which can dry quickly and keep from chipping or fading over time I would suggest this one." She reached forward, picking up a small vial of simple black ink. On it was a label which read 'D', "This is a dye-based ink, heavy and quick-drying which is why it is often used by harbormasters or those who must make notes in places where speed and efficiency trumps all else. The ink itself is not refined, however, and does not lend itself well to detailed work."

Setting the vial down Lyra reached for the book, opening it and rubbing one of the pages between her fingers, "This is a simple paper made of common stock. It is, however, too thin for this sort of ink and you risk bleeding through should you apply too heavy a hand in your notations." Flipping a few more pages Lyra closed the book and handed it back to Finn, tilting her head slightly, "What sort of archival work did you have in mind? Have you given thought to the sort of writing instrument you will require? Or if you plan to use these items for simple notes, or if you wish a more professional look when you have finished filling the pages?"

[Finn]

The man nodded slowly at her question, knowing it was rhetorical, but trained to respond in such a way as to keep a conversation flowing without bumps or hiccoughs. Following her over to the inks, he listened attentively, his hand coming up to rub the short hair of his undercut. Had he been paying closer attention, perhaps he would have noticed that it was his Rune tingling. Were he wiser, he might have asked his mentor to teach him how to recognize and counter Mesmerism worked upon him, but alas, Finn was not so canny. In any case, who would want to Mesmerize him? He was nobody, though he was trying to change that.

"Perhaps you can help me decide," he ventured after the information she shared made him second guess the ream of leatherbound paper. He dug a scrap of cheap paper out of his pocket and offered it to her. Upon it was scrawled a line of melody in the musical notation most common in Kalzasi, along with harmonic notation, and all. It was sloppy work, not because he didn't care, but because he was trying to manifest something that was in his head before it disappeared.

"This is the sort of work I do when I'm having a creative spell. Most music, my hands remember. Or my ear remembers. And I can recall it. But someone who might know more than me about such things suggested I petition House Zatrian to be my patron at the Academy... Well, I am certain I would need to present them with compositional work as well as an audition of my skills, so I want to create a... a portfolio is the word, I suppose... to showcase the best of the music I have written over the years. So I'll have to go through all my scraps of paper like this, recall all that my hands and my ear can recall, and make it as clean and easy to read as possible. To put my best foot forward, so to speak. I know the work should speak for itself and I'm confident in my work, but I want to present it well. Just... to see..."

His emotions bloomed like a flower to her inner eye. His soul sang of a tremulous hope, a weathered pride, and a determination. Perhaps she needn't have keyed into her power at all; he seemed perfectly willing to be vulnerable with a stranger offering her expertise for his hard-earned coin.

"I'm just a village boy trying to make good in the city, Mistress. I can play and sing and carry myself properly for an interview, but I want the solid thing I offer them to be fine as well if you take my meaning."

[Lyra]

Lyra accepted the scrap of paper, unfolding it and flattening it out carefully on the desk. She then drew a candle closer, examining the writing there. It wasn't script, or words, or runes of any kind. It was the musical notation, a form of writing that the old elf had no true experience with. Frowning she traced a few of the lines with a finger, noticing how the shapes, though rough, were sweeping and graceful in nature.

"Music..." Lyra mumbled under her breath, eyes raising and looking down the hall at the wares that lined the walls. She tapped her chin, a thoughtful expression coming over her features, "I have known a few who pursued these arts, and fewer still who could take symphony in their minds and capture them on paper." That was an interesting thought. Mesmer, that ancient form of magic could hear the melodies of the heart and soul, and often this was presented in the form of music similar to what one would find a bard to practice. Was it possible, then, to capture the state of one's very soul on paper with such notation?

Despite herself, Lyra smiled but shook her head to focus on what Finn was saying. Carefully refolding the paper she handed it back to the bard, standing and bending to blow out her candle. As she walked around the desk she listened, tuning to the man's melody once more and catching the fragile notes of hope as they drifted, lingering in the air over undertones of pride and resolve. It was a curious mix, somehow hesitant and sure all at once, and made Lyra look at Finn with more interest. He seemed to be made of several contradictions.

"Lyra." the words were said tersely, the small smile fading away suddenly as she looked back down the hallway, waving for Finn to follow, "Know I well of what you speak. Though skill and drive shall carry you far, you must also meet the expectations of those who mean to pass judgment upon you."

As they walked Lyra thought about what Finn had said. The Academy, sponsorships, a petition to one of the great houses... All seemed to fall into a familiar rhythm, not unlike the steps she herself had to take to open the shop they now found themselves in. Being a newcomer to the city Lyra herself had needed the backing of a greater organization to get a foothold, in this case, it was the circle of spells, though her dealings with the one known as Talon seemed to have opened a number of unexpected doors. This house Zatrian, however, was one she was unfamiliar with and was it truly necessary to receive backing to attend the academy, or was this for purely financial reasons?

They stopped before a shelf halfway down the hallway, where many of the larger bound books were located. She spent a short time examining the spines of the books there before reaching up and pulling one off the shelf. It was wider than it was tall, it's cover a strong wood with metallic rings binding the covers together with the pages. Turning the book over in her hands several times Lyra opened it, flipping through a few pages and nodding as she felt its texture. Lyra handed this book to Finn, turning to walk back toward the front.

"It is not uncommon for one to possess two copies of their work. One the unrefined, filled with notations and edits, scratch marks and signs of creative epiphany and tragic failings. The second is what one might call the refined work, or proposal. It contains only those things which have been fully completed and refined, and are the highest that the maker has to offer." They stopped before the ink and writing instruments. Here Lyra stood, taking down one pen, quill, and stylus after another, turning them over in her fingers and shaking her head before returning them to their resting place.

"You are from the countryside, beyond the walls of the city correct? What gives you such desire to attend the academy, and why must you receive the backing of House Zatrian?"

[Finn]

"Finn," he replied. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

But she was moving on and as he figured she was an expert in her field, he tried to soak up everything she said. Having not attended the Academy, he took every opportunity to learn a new thing as just that—an opportunity. If she was willing to share what she knew, even an inkling, he would attend.

"A tutor taught me the notation," he explained. "Sometimes there is a disconnect between what I hear in my head, what I play with my hands, and what I try to write down for posterity. Well, for myself when I try to remember the various iterations of a thing before I find just the right combination of things." But he didn't respond to everything she said. Some of it seemed rhetorical, more thinking aloud than speaking to him, though he could have misread her intentions. Sometimes he was such a keen student of human nature; other times people surprised the hell out of him. It was a reminder to be humble, he supposed.

Accepting the wood and metal bound book, he examined it much as she had, looking for what she might have seen that differentiated it from what he had selected himself, wanting to know the minutiae of her practice. It certainly seemed fine. He wondered if it would make a better impression on possible patrons, on future, more august instructors.

"Yes," he replied, "well, I probably ought to keep all my works in progress in one place as well..." She wasn't wrong, but now a part of his mind was trying to tally how much money he was about to drop in here, which would sting even with the hope that it was an investment that would pay dividends when the time came.

Watching her peruse the inks and writing implements, he answered her direct questions.

"From a village about a day's cart's ride along the lake from here," he explained. "Doesn't even have a name. Just another stop along the road. I never thought to attend the Academy, really. I spent time in the city with my uncle as a boy, learning from teachers. Otherwise I was practicing at home when I wasn't helping my mother at the forge or helping my father take care of my siblings. Or looking after my grandmother." The last might have sounded tacked on, but his symphony sang of that missing connection, the magical woman who lived on the outskirts, who sold mysticism and cures, who had always believed in him and pushed him when he had made a decision about his life.

"I have been supporting myself for several years now, but I want... more. I was playing at a venue much nicer than most where I work and a noble told me I ought to make a pitch to House Zatrian. They are responsible for the education of the city. They support scholars and artists. So I suppose I'm gathering myself to make a calculated gamble. I won't get anywhere doing the same old thing. I might fail, but if I don't try..."