Music to the soul (Finn)

[Lyra]

So it is House Zatrian that oversees this city's academy... Lyra mused to herself. She selected a stylus with a long wooden handle. Its tip was metal with a fine point. The word was smooth, yet somewhat heavy. Lyra fingered it in her hand for a few moments before passing it to Finn.

"Take this," she said, and pointed to the front desk, "And carry everything to the counter."

Her eyes returned to the writing instruments, and she selected three others. One a simple quill that was light and somewhat fragile, another stylus that was made entirely of metal, and finally another one made of wood but that was a bit lighter. These she passed to Finn to be taken to the table as well.

"Yours seems a common story, Finn." There was a slight hesitation as Lyra remembered to use the man's name. Her gaze had turned to the inks now, reading the labels as she picked the vials up and examined their contents, "Your life was well enough, but you wish for more and so you seek to better yourself. On the surface, it is quite commendable." There was no judgment in her tone. For her part, Lyra felt nothing in particular to the man's story, though there was a growing curiosity around this academy. She had not yet attempted to make contact with the scholars of Kalzasi, mostly because she had not known whom to speak with. Perhaps there was something to be gained here.

Selecting one vial of dark liquid Lyra returned to her desk, motioning for Finn to join her on the other side. Lyra carefully placed both books to the side and brought out several pages of paper of differing thicknesses. These she ordered in a row in front of Finn. She then placed each of the writing instruments before him, uncorking the vial of ink and waving a hand over the entire display.

"Try each of these quills on the papers here. Different instruments feel and act differently depending on the paper they are used. Much of this is a personal preference, which is important when one has to do much scribe work." To demonstrate Lyra took up the feathered quill, dipping it in the ink and scratching a very simplified depiction of Finn himself. Just vague lines and ovals where his eyes should be. When she was finished she wiped off the tip with a cloth sitting next to the inkwell, "It does not matter what you write. Just do what comes naturally."

She would watch for a short time, but when a moment of silence came Lyra would ask, "What is it you wish to study at the academy?"

[Finn]

Finn accepted the stylus and was about to do as she bade him, except she kept looking and before long, she was handing him more things: a quill and two more styluses. Perhaps he ought not have waited and made for the desk like she had said. Every moment was more money he was going to spend, but it was an investment in his future, he kept telling himself. And then she was talking to him again, so he couldn't go to the desk to make his purchases. That would be rude. He idled there, listening, then nodding along. He stopped, though. He might not be the best educated, but words were as much his life as music was. They were intertwined in his mind.

On the surface implied that his goals weren't commendable on a more profound level, or perhaps she was being imprecise with her words. That didn't seem likely, though, considering what little he knew of her. Lyra seemed quite careful with everything. Or perhaps he had been imprecise. His life wasn't well enough. He had nothing of value except a sword and a lute, and neither was of the highest quality. Then again, perhaps he had been unclear. When telling people his life, he did tend to spin the yarn in a positive light. He wasn't desperately unhappy. His childhood had been good insofar as those things went. He was grateful for the support he had enjoyed from parents, grandmother, uncle... but he lived in the Low-City. He knew how close destitution was; hunger, want.

Perplexed, he didn't know whether he ought to feel angry or offended, or if he was just reading too much into her idle words. In any case, he tried to sweep it aside. Whatever she thought of his goals and motivations bore no great weight upon them. She was helping him along regardless. And then they finally did return to the desk with ink, as well. He watched her sketch out a man, then realized at some point, it might have been him.

Finn tried each one in turn, writing a his name with one, House Zatrian with another, the Academy of Kalzasi, and finally musical notation for a brief melodic line.

"In a word: music. I'm not sure how that will play out, but hopefully my course of study would be a bit broader. Technical music, of course. Composition. Languages, literature, and history. I think a breadth of knowledge and experience would add depth to my composition and performance." And because he was more curious about other people than himself, he asked, "What about you? What would you study if a Great House was patronizing your education at the Academy?"

[Lyra]

Lyra watched carefully as Finn wrote, noting which instrument seemed to fit best. Most seemed to think that the writing utensil had little to no part to play in a final product, but that could not be farther from the truth. The way the stylus rested in the hand, its weight, how it moved across the paper, all of that was a factor. If one was doing long hours of script work one should use a lighter instrument, preferably of wood or some other smooth material but with enough width to sit comfortably in the hand. Scribes in this day had taken to using long feathered quills, an odd choice as Lyra only saw a use for such instruments in minor notations when a few scratches were all that was required. The tip was also something to consider. A brush would create delicate lines and could be versatile depending on the type, size, and length of the brush itself. It was rare to see brushes used outside of art, however, as the ink it used was ill-suited for notation.

"A metalhead." Lyra said to herself, eyeing the designs Finn was placed on the paper, "Medium weight perhaps, wooden preferably so it would be less likely to break." Based on what the man had said he had little in the way of the coin, so he should seek to purchase materials that would last and could be reused. That gave Lyra the glimmer of an idea, which she filed away for the time being.

"I doubt any House would sponsor me." she said simply, pulling one of the scribbled on sheets for a closer inspection, "Though even if that were not the case, there is little the Academy can offer me." That was an unfortunate truth. She had already visited the Academy earlier that season. While they held quite a vast store of knowledge-centered around the history and works of Kalzasi, they gave Lyra herself little insight into what happened in the world at large. So many things had changed, and the questions were simply piling up one upon the other.

Setting aside the paper Lyra eyed the book she had selected for Finn, a thoughtful expression coming over her features. Without a word she corked the ink, and collected the writing instruments, moving and returning them to their shelves.

"History is a curious thing. It shifts and changes, twisting to fit the narrative of the society it currently resides in. I suppose in a way it is similar in that way to the music itself, which can be interpreted differently depending on who hears the melodies." When everything was back in place Lyra would return to her spot, motioning at the book Finn had selected, "As I said that journal is of common stock. You may have it for 1 gold."

There was a pause as Lyra seemed to consider something, sitting and resting a cheek on her hand as she continued, "Tell me... have you ever heard of the Leh'anafel?"

[Finn]

Finn nodded suddenly, rather more energetically than he had responded to much. He was acting on his best behavior here among the city's elite, after all. But she had struck a nerve.

"It is true. There are various narratives about the same people, the same events, and you can get a sense of who wrote them or who they were writing them for in the subtle and not so subtle ways they phrase things that say one thing and mean another, or say one thing and mean a hundred little things... And, of course, history is written by the winners. That is why I want to study history as well... I want to be more... sophisticated in how I understand history, both to better read between the lines and to better craft my own narratives, to leave my own legacy in hearts and minds..."

Even with the Rune etched into the skin of his scalp, his goal was still to mesmerize people with his art. What his art would say, he wasn't sure yet. He wasn't sure if he was one of history's winners or just a part of the fleshly clockwork that supported elites.

"How much for the journal and everything else you suggested? I might as well fund this moonshot endeavor." His smile had become less tremulous, more jaunty. He was going to take a risk, but it was calculated, and he was doing what he could to ensure the best chance of success.

"Leh'anafel...?" He said it slowly, carefully, imperfect but closer than one might expect to the proper inflection. He had an ear, at least. "Is that... Eldhan?" While his musical education had been uneven, there had been enough pedagogy focused on learning how to shape the mouth around different languages, pronouncing them correctly even if one didn't speak them fluently. There were plenty of songs he had learned phonetically, having an idea of what they meant, but not word-for-word. It was another reason he wanted to study languages while at the Academy, if luck would have him at the Academy after all this.

[Lyra]

Raising an eyebrow Lyra answered Finn's second question, "Older. It comes from the time before the Sundering, before the Age before that, and the Age before that. From a time when the Gods still walked the world, and the mortals knew the deeper truths of aether and the world."

Lyra tapped her finger on the desk idly, looking down at the materials she had gathered. It would be so simple to let this man purchase what he wished for and leave. That was, perhaps, what she should do. Yet something gave her pause, and after a bit too long of a silence Lyra continued.

"This language is... ill equipped to describe the true meaning of things. In the roughest sense, Leh'anafel means 'those who sing to the soul', or simply 'the Singers'. They were an order that predates the most of the legends one might here in the taverns and inns." For the briefest instant Lyra's eyes grew distant, clouded as her expression fell ever so slightly. The smirk faded, replaced with a slight pained expression. Her melodies hummed with regret, old longings and grudging acceptance of what simply was. Shaking her head the melodies quieted and Lyra's smile returned once more, "It is said they could hear the symphonies of a person's true heart, and through their arts they sought to draw out a person's soul. Artist, performers, musicians, storytellers. Their order held many types, but all were unified in a singular purpose. To listen for the songs of the people, and help those people realize that song as well."

With a wave her hand Lyra sighed, "It seems they have faded even from myth. A shame..."

She eyed Finn for a moment, looking to read his expression before looking down at the other materials. She picked up the journal she had picked out for Finn, holding it up and looking at it critically.

"What you seek to accomplish shall not be easy." She said carefully, lowering the book to look over it's cover to meet Finn's eyes, "Even with preparation there will be those that will seek to impede you. The words of nobility, in any region, can rarely be trusted as well. Mind you that you do not find yourself in greater debt than you can properly pay back."

Again Lyra paused, pretending to think for a moment before she sighed dramatically, setting the book down and placing her hand over it. She then waved a hand at Finn, a dismissing gesture.

"Be you gone, Be'lafel. Take the journal you hold. As for this..." she indicated the other journal she still hand her hand over, "Come back in 4 days time. I will have something prepared for you that will serve you better than anything on these shelves currently." Lyra spoke as if she fully expected Finn to completely, then leaned down and opened a drawer, pulling out a small flat bottomed vial and put it before Finn, along with a knife with a sharp edge.

"Leave me a bit of your blood as well."

[Finn]

The woman's voice lulled him and for a moment, he wondered if coming here had been fate and she was to be a muse for him. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, the timbre of her voice, but he was certain there were stories she could tell. He wasn't certain whether she would feel like telling them to him. He was certainly glad that he hadn't engaged that mote of magic within him when she started describing it to him. It gave him momentary pause, but he smiled softly all the same.

"Well, if the Academy takes me, if House Zatrian or someone patronizes my education, I will research these Singers of Soul. Or, perhaps, you could tell me more about them sometime." It occurred to him as soon as he said it that she might read that as an invitation to go out together. While not the smoothest with the ladies, he had the wherewithal not to blush at the thought.

"Leh'anafel," he repeated, again with a fairly deft mimicry of the minutiae of a language not his own. Then, "Bel'afel. Perhaps I ought to learn history and languages from you rather than from the Academy." It was a deflection of sorts. She offered gifts and requested blood. What he knew of magic was what little he knew about wilding things from his grandmother, what any minstrel or appreciateur of music learned from songs, and the classical but infrequent tutelage of a certain red-robed wizard.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," he said carefully, "but I would rather pay in coin than in blood." Perhaps it was a little bit of everything from this experience that had the hairs on the back of his neck standing up at atavistic attention. Empty shelves that were dangerous to touch, a woman with knowledge of ages past, and errant demands for primal payments. "I don't mean to cast aspersions upon your character, but that almost sounds like the exposition of a predictable tale about a naive boy in the woods..."

It occurred to him then that she might need his blood for some magically imbued book, magical ink, or somesuch, but he had no way of knowing that she had no ulterior motives, especially given she had just warned him about nobility and debts impossible to repay. Of course, he hoped he had not spoiled whatever rapport they had developed, but he knew better than to embroil himself in mysteries beyond his ken.

[Lyra]

Lyra stared at Finn for a moment, at a loss for what to say. She looked down at the vial before unintentionally laughing. It was a light thing, foreign to her now. In fact, Lyra could not remember the last time she had truly laughed for the sake of humor and not for the effect it had on others. SHaking her head Lyra contained herself, waving a hand still smiling with amusement.

"I think, little one, that you have come to an odd conclusion." She tapped the vial, "This is not your payment. It is merely an ingredient that will help me prepare an item that will be of use to you in your studies."

Children these days, so suspicious... Though really she could not blame him. After all, she would have refused as well, "If you do not wish to provide it that is your choice. I can still do much without the blood, though it adds a layer of personalization that cannot be mimicked with just the scripts."

With a shrug Lyra sat back, opening the journal and flipping a few pages. It really was no concern to her if he accepted or not, though there was something about Finn that was just a little endearing. Like a puppy lost from its mother, or a snake freshly hatched.

"I know little of politics or the great houses. I know even less about the relevant histories of this world. That, in part, is why I own this shop." Lyra looked up at Finn, "Ale'Epherium. In my tongue, it means 'that which was lost' or 'the old ways'. I have met a few like you Be'afel, little singer, who has shown even the smallest glimmer of interest in the things that were forgotten."

Here Lyra paused, closing the book and sighing, "You will pay in gold, as one would expect. For the item I am preparing, however, I would also ask for something else. "

She had not planned for this, but the more she considered the more Lyra realized how utterly uninformed she was. Her own efforts had been fruitless, but perhaps one of the children of this age would be able to uncover what she could not.

"While you study at this academy, and as you seek your goal, I would also like for you to look for something for me." She kept her voice neutral, resting her cheek on her head and adopting a relaxed posture, "Look for Leh'anafel and the other orders that existed with them. What happened to them, and where are they now? Were they lost to time, or are there still those that follow the old ways? What existed before this 'Sundering', after which all seemed to forget their own histories. Find these things, and when you learn a new story, come to me so that I might record it properly."

And find out, little one, if there are any more like me who still remember those ages past. Lyra thought to herself, though she kept that musing locked firmly in her mind.

[Finn]

Her response surprised him, then made him look and feel sheepish. His cheeks did color slightly and then he chuckled at his own expense. His grandmother had told him about compacts, though—deals with spirits and those immersed in the aether. He didn't know if her wisdom was based on true knowledge, but Lyra's reaction made him feel like perhaps he could trust her with a bit of his blood. They were in Kalzasi, after all, and not the wilds. If she needed blood to enchant something for him and he was paying in gold, he supposed there were magical authorities within the city who would ensure she broke no law.

"Aye, all right. Gold for writing materials, ensorcelled and otherwise." He took up the vial, examining it as he pulled up his sleeve. "Stories for stories. My our exchanges enlighten us both."

It wasn't quite a prayer, but it was certainly couched in the form of a request—to whom (or to Whom) was unclear.

"Ale'Epherium," he murmured to himself, tasting words possibly older than his race. "Leh'afanel. Be'afel." Words were power to a poet as much as they were to certain types of magi.

In the end, he held out the vial and his wrist to her that she might collect the blood she needed. His belt pouch would surely be lighter when the transaction was complete, as well. It didn't occur to him that he might someday become Leh'afanel if such a thing were possible, but he was a maker of music, a dreamer of dreams. It would occur to him. An education at the Academy and with a historian like Lyra would only serve to broaden his horizons, give context and fodder for his fertile imagination.

He had music and he had the Rune of Mesmer. As his skill grew with both, he would have some of the building blocks for her old story, at least. History had an odd way of repeating itself, especially when its lessons were forgotten.

[Lyra]

An innocent one, how unexpected. The blush that colored the man's cheeks only made Lyra's smile broaden, though she hid this behind her hand. No sense in torturing the child more than was strictly necessary.

"May it be so." She agreed. He was an odd one, through and through. She did not dislike that about him though.

Lyra took up the knife, wrapping fingers around Finn's wrist and gently pulling him closer. The blade was sharp, along its edge a set of scripts that had it keep its edge. With quick strokes, Lyra made three cuts on the underside of Finn's forearm, two curving lines, and a straight line in the center. It looked a bit like a serpent's eye if one were to have enough of an imagination to see it. She brought the vial up then, pressing it close to Finn's skin as she pressed on the edges of the small wound, making a trickle of blood begin to flow out and run down Finn's arm to collect in the vial. She held him there until the vial was almost full. Setting the vial aside Lyra motioned for Finn to stay as he was, arm extended.

Leaning down once more Lyra rifled through another drawer, pulling out a roll of bandages, some cloth, and two vials. One vial contained a grey substance, while the other was a cream-colored paste. First Lyra used the cloth to dab at the would, wiping the blood away though it still continued to flow. She then took the jar of grey substance, a faint mist falling from it as she opened the top. She used her own finger to take a bit of the substance, which was cold to the touch, and rub it over Finn's would. As she rubbed it mixed with the blood, sinking into Finn's skin after a few seconds.

"This," Lyra said as she worked, "Will keep the plagues away from the cut while it heals."

After this, she took the next substance, the cream-colored salve, and rubbed it onto the skin. It would sting, but left behind a tingling sensation. Lyra took in a breath, slowly releasing it as a thin tendril of black smoke flowed out. It wrapped both Lyra and Finn's arm, flowing over the cut and causing it to shimmer. It was a simple thing, the pictograph. Cut into the flesh, awoken to her aether through the infused ichor she had used previously, and now Lyra set a spell into it. A simple one. Curiosity, interest. She wanted Finn to remember their deal, to return as promised. She set a small compulsion. Find the stories, look for the forgotten histories, and bring them back. Simple, with next to no power. Likely he would have done it without her direct intervention, but it always paid to be safe.

The cut stopped bleeding within moments after the black smoke dissipated. Nodding Lyra pressed more cloth over the wound, binding it with the bandages before corking the vial of blood.

"The cut should heal by tomorrow. I have warded it against infections, and given it a salve that will increase the rate of recovery." She raised a finger, looking pointedly at Finn, "Do not get it wet, and change the bandages every day until you return to pick up the items. You will pay for them when you return."

With that, the transaction was done. Lyra would offer a final wave to Finn as he left, though she would quickly return to her work, scribbling as if their conversation had never happened.

[Finn]

The minstrel watched her arcane surgery with quiet interest. He wasn't the sort who delighted in carving his own flesh, but the bite of her little blade wasn't enough to make him blanch. Perhaps she was a chirurgeon, in fact. She had her medicines and was deft with her instruments. He wondered if her pen were as sharp as her knife.

He listened to her explanations and her instructions. Of course, he would remember. Memorization was something he had mastered long ago. A part of him was affronted that she would bind him to his word as if it were worth less than the air it rode into being. At least, he thought the little sigil was a binding. He wasn't an expert. He would ask his red-robed tutor when next they met.

There were many questions itching behind his teeth, but she had clearly dismissed him and so he would have to ponder until the time came for him to return.

"As you say," was all he said, and that quietly, observing the shapes on her page without really trying to understand them. Carefully stowing his purchases in his rucksack, he turned to leave. There was a chill bite to the air in his lungs when he was once more outside, and what had just passed seemed almost dreamlike in his memory. This was not what he had anticipated when he walked in. He could only hope that what followed would be good.

He had his writing supplies, though, and so he could begin compiling his best work to show to whomever he could speak to within House Zatrian and within the Academy of Kalzasi. It was a step toward his future, but perhaps he would have to take future steps with more care. In his youth, his grandmother's wyrding ways had been a mystery. Here in the city, magic was alive and afoot. Perhaps he could not afford to be ignorant of how it worked, how everything worked. A minstrel sang songs in taverns and brothels. A bard entertained courts.

Intrigue awaited and he was ill-prepared. He did not want to be its victim.